The first letter arrived three weeks after my return to Atlanta.
It was addressed to my chambers.
The envelope was brown, and the handwriting was uneven.
Inside was a photograph of an old farmhouse.
A woman stood on the porch.
She was holding a small dog.
On the back, someone had written:
This was my home before Sheriff Voss took it.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I turned the photograph over again.
The woman's name was Margaret Ellis.
She was seventy-three years old.
She had lived in Pell County all her life.
And she had lost her house after a traffic stop.
I had never met her.
I had never heard her name during the trial.
But she had been one of the people who wrote to my aunt.
The letter explained that Margaret's husband had died six years earlier.
She had inherited the farmhouse.
She had paid the property taxes every year.
She had never been arrested.
Then, one afternoon, a deputy stopped her on the road.
He claimed her taillight was broken.
She argued that it wasn't.
The deputy searched her car.
He found an old prescription bottle.
The prescription was hers.
But the label had faded.
The deputy arrested her for possessing medication without a valid prescription.
The charge was eventually dismissed.
By then, Margaret had missed three mortgage payments.
The county had seized her property.
Pinecrest Holdings had purchased it.
I sat at my desk.
The photograph lay beside my coffee.
I thought about Hattie Greene.
I thought about the forty-two acres.
Then I called Chief Judge Brennan.
"Do you remember the letters from Pell County?"
"Of course."
"Another one arrived."
He was quiet.
"Is it connected to the investigation?"
"I don't know yet."
"Then don't investigate it yourself."
"I know."
I looked at the photograph.
"But somebody needs to help her."
Brennan sighed.
"Amara, you know the rules."
"I do."
"You're a judge. You cannot become a private investigator."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good."
He paused.
"Send the letter to the appropriate office. Document the referral. Then step away."
I agreed.
I scanned the letter.
I sent it to the United States Attorney's Office.
I included the photograph.
I included a note explaining that I had no personal knowledge of the allegations.
Then I closed the file.
I thought that would be the end of it.
It wasn't.
The next letter arrived two days later.
Then another.
Then another.
Some were written by people who had lost property.
Others came from relatives of people who had been arrested.
A few were written by people who had witnessed something and had never reported it.
I sent every letter to the appropriate authorities.
I did not investigate.
I did not contact witnesses.
I did not make promises.
But I began to understand how many people had been waiting.
They had waited because they were afraid.
They had waited because they believed nobody would listen.
And they had waited because the sheriff had made them believe that speaking up would only make things worse.
One letter came from a man named Walter Price.
He had been arrested outside his own garage.
The charge was disorderly conduct.
He had spent four nights in jail.
When he returned home, his tools were gone.
His garage had been sold.
He had lost his business.
He wrote that he had never told his children what happened.
He was ashamed.
I read the letter.
Then I placed it in the referral folder.
I did not know what would happen to Walter.
I only knew that his name had finally been written down.
And somebody would have to answer for what had happened.
Source: kaylestore.net
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: I Met Margaret Ellis at the Courthouse, and Her Photograph Showed Me What the Sheriff Had Taken From Her
I Thought Keeping Quiet Would Protect Me, Until a Sheriff Decided My Silence Meant I Had Something to Hide
Part 9 of 13
