Perfect Justice (22 page)

Vick looked away. “I’m new to the club. Relatively. Takes a while to make friends.”

Ben suspected Vick could have been in this club for decades and never made any friends. He just didn’t belong. It was as if ASP was a gigantic “What’s wrong with this picture?” puzzle, and the answer was
Donald Vick.
“You wouldn’t have fallen in with these people if not for your father, right?”

Vick didn’t answer him.

“Donald, there comes a time when you have to shake loose of the person your parents want you to be. You have to be yourself.” Ben stopped and listened to his own words. Good advice, Ben. Good advice.

“Donald,” Ben said, “your father is dead. If this ASP crap isn’t for you, shake loose of it.”

Vick’s head turned up slowly. His face was almost smiling. “A little too late, isn’t it?”

Ben only hoped Vick was wrong.

O
N HIS WAY OUT
of the jailhouse, Ben was greeted by the sound of tinny, blaring music. It seemed to be coming from the north end of Main Street.

Ben saw something moving his way, but he couldn’t make out what it was. A field of green, creating a strange shimmering sensation just over the pavement.

He felt a chill creep down his spine.

As they approached, Ben determined that the music was martial—a John Philip Sousa flag-waving special. And then he saw the camouflage uniforms, and the wooden cross towering over them.

Dozens of them, six across, several rows deep.

ASP was on the march.

They were in full regalia: green fatigues with the burning-cross emblem over their breasts. Several marchers were carrying placards,
RELEASE DONNY VICK
read one;
JUSTICE FOR ALL
read another. A large banner was emblazoned with
AN ENEMY OF ONE IS AN ENEMY OF ALL.

No doubt about it—this was a pretrial protest parade. A public demonstration designed to inform all prospective jurors that a guilty verdict could bring the wrath of ASP down on their heads.

Ben noticed that Jones and Loving were standing near him on the sidewalk. Jones was taping the event with his video camera.

“What are you doing here?” Ben asked.

“Recording this for posterity,” Jones said. “I love a parade.”

“Been hearing about this for days at the Bluebell,” Loving said. “Supposed to be quite a show.”

Ben ground his teeth together. “I can’t believe Judge Tyler denied my request for a change of venue. This is outrageous.”

“What are you complaining about?” Jones asked. “If they scare all the jurors to death, that’s got to work in your favor at trial.”

“I wonder,” Ben said. “I think this town is sick and tired of being bullied.”

The ASP rally marched down Main Street at a slow, steady pace. They were ensuring that everyone had an opportunity to see them. As they crested the hill Ben saw there was more to the procession than just the marchers and the cross. A gigantic gallows on wheels was being pushed along behind the procession. On the platform several figures in effigy swung from nooses. A large sign nailed to the gallows identified the figures as
THE ENEMY.

Ben was able to identify three of the figures almost immediately. They were the Hatewatch volunteers, Demon Carroll and Demon Pfeiffer. And of course, next to them, a slender brunette figure in a stylish blue dress.

“Darn. I knew I shouldn’t have worn that dress.” Ben turned to see Belinda standing behind him, watching the parade. “I look much better in red, don’t you agree?”

Ben took her hand. Any woman who could make jokes while being hung in effigy was his kind of woman.

“You realize they’re trying to screw the trial?”

Ben nodded.

“Think it’ll work?”

“I doubt it. The DA will use voir dire to—”

Ben was startled by the sound of music—different music—coming from the other end of Main Street. This wasn’t coming out of any boom box, though. This was being sung, or chanted. Live.

Ben and Belinda pushed forward to see what was happening. There was another assemblage on the other end of the street, marching head-on toward the ASP group. And they were all Vietnamese.

Ben spotted Dan Pham at the head of the group, chanting and shouting at the top of his lungs. His group was carrying placards, too. They all said
RESISTANCE.

The ASP marchers spotted them. At first they slowed; then a figure at the front waved everyone ahead. It was Grand Dragon Dunagan. And he wasn’t backing down.

The two groups advanced on a collision course. Ben now saw that the Pham contingent had visual aids, too.

Theirs was a tank.

A paper tank, to be sure. It had been constructed around a broken-down Oldsmobile, Coi Than Tien’s last remaining vehicle. The tank was made of napkins and chicken wire, like a homecoming float. From an artistic standpoint, pretty sorry. But from the standpoint of conveying a message, not bad at all.

Dunagan kept motioning for his men to march on, but the procession was definitely slowing. The ASPers had probably been expecting a pleasant walk in the noonday sun, not a head-on confrontation with their sworn enemies.

The ASP parade ground to a halt. A few seconds later the Vietnamese group also stopped. They were barely twenty feet apart, on opposite sides of the street.

“We don’t want any trouble!” Dunagan shouted.

“Neither do we!” Pham shouted back.
“Ever.”

There was a silence. The sidewalks were now filled with bystanders. Everyone waited to see what would happen next. The tension was palpable.

“We have a permit to march today,” Dunagan said finally. “Do you?”

“How like you,” Pham replied, “to hide behind laws. And lawyers.”

Ben noticed numerous heads on both sides of the street turning to look at him. In most of their minds, Ben realized, he might as well have been standing with the rest of ASP in a green uniform. Only he knew about their falling-out the day before.

“Our permit allows us to march down Main, then turn east on Maple and march to the city limits. So get out of our way.

“I care nothing for your permit!” Pham shouted back.

At that moment a tremendous boom sent tremors through the crowd. Ben wasn’t sure where it came from. But he was certain of the result.

The ASP gallows was ablaze.

“Fire!” Dunagan shouted. His men rushed back toward the wooden gallows. One of his men, who was standing too close when the fire erupted, hit the pavement, trying to extinguish the flames that had caught on his shirt.

Another firebomb, Ben thought. Like the one that hit the ASP munitions building a few days before.

Since there was nothing they could do to quell the fire, the ASP men turned their attention to the other end of the street. They surged toward the ranks of the Vietnamese. The Vietnamese stood ready, wielding sticks and knives and anything else that was available.

“Someone stop them!” Ben shouted, but no one heard. The deathly stillness of a few moments before was now replaced by chaos. Screams. Running. Clenched fists. Terror. What they had all dreaded was actually happening. The race war was upon them.

The front lines of ASP met Pham’s group and fists began to fly. Ben saw two Vietnamese collapse; he also saw Pham duck under someone’s swing and rush at Dunagan.

Main Street became a combat zone. Smoke from the fire filled the air, obscuring vision, making the scene even more confused. Ben heard shouts of fear and howls of pain splitting the thick sooty smoke. Sticks and rocks flew through the air. A billy club rose above the billowing black cloud, then descended with a sickening thud.

Bodies crumbled to the pavement. Through the haze, Ben saw a two-by-four smash into the base of a Vietnamese skull. A few locals ran in from the street to try to break it up, only to be rewarded by a punch in the gut or a club to the head. Ben recognized Dr. Patterson trying to tend to some of the fallen. The impact of a brick to the back of the doctor’s head brought a premature end to his relief efforts. He fell on top of the man he was tending. Two ASP men ran over him, trampling his body underfoot. A group of six or seven young men on the other side of the street charged into the fray. Ben recognized Garth Amick and some of his chums. Apparently they weren’t going to let this riot pass without busting some heads themselves.

Several more Vietnamese men were knocked to the pavement. A young man Ben remembered from the bucket-brigade line ran out from under the tank float. He was carrying a baseball bat. He ran up behind a green-fatigued figure and swung the bat across his back. Ben could hear the man’s piercing cry as clearly as if he were standing right beside him.

Ben was watching the riot so intently he didn’t see the man who tackled him. All he knew was his feet were not beneath him anymore. He fell butt-first onto the pavement.

“Son of a bitch. I got a bone to pick with you.”

It was Garth, of course. Ben tried to be sympathetic; after all, under different circumstances it might’ve been him trying to defend his friends in this misguided manner. On the other hand, he wasn’t going to just sit there while Garth took potshots at his face.

Garth’s fist came torpedoing toward Ben. Ben grabbed it in midswing. He held Garth’s fist with both hands, pushing back as hard as he could. Garth pushed, too. And Garth had leverage on his side.

In a few seconds Ben was flat on the sidewalk and Garth was hovering over him. Bystanders were all around, but no one came to Ben’s aid. He continued to grapple with Garth’s left hand, and as a result, he didn’t see Garth’s right coming.

Garth’s right fist, the one encased in brass knuckles, smashed into Ben’s chin. Ben felt as if his jaw had been separated from his skull. The back of his head thudded against the concrete, leaving him dazed and disoriented. He was just able to perceive Garth swooping around for another blow.

And then, as if by magic, Garth rose off the ground. His fists swung at empty air.

Ben pushed himself up. What on earth …?

It was Loving. He had hoisted Garth up by his belt and flopped him onto the sidewalk. Garth squirmed, arms and legs flailing, but Loving pinned him down like a bug.

“Want me to put ’im outta commission, Skipper?” Loving growled.

“No.” Ben rubbed his jaw. It was probably still connected, but it hurt like hell to talk. Precisely what he needed on the first day of a big trial. “Just tie him up or dump him in a trash can.

“Got it.” Loving hauled Garth back into the air and started down the sidewalk.

By the time he was back on his feet, Ben was relieved to see that Sheriff Collier and four of his deputies had arrived. Collier fired his revolver several times into the air. Many combatants from both camps scattered. A few isolated fistfights remained, but the peace officers were gradually breaking them up. The man who had wielded the baseball bat was cuffed to a street lamp. The crowd was dispersing.

There were over a dozen figures lying motionless in the street, two in green, ten from Pham’s group. A few bystanders. They lay in twisted, unnatural positions. Many of them were bleeding profusely. Ben hoped to God everyone was still breathing. But it was hard to tell.

The fire on the ASP gallows had burned itself out. There was nothing left but a charred post and a platform bearing the stuffed remains of the figures in effigy. John and Frank. Belinda. Several Vietnamese. And—what?

Ben advanced slowly toward the platform. There was another figure there, one that had been blocked from his view before by the others.

It wasn’t of Madame Tussaud’s quality, but it was good enough. Medium height, brown hair, on the slender side. Like looking in the mirror.

Ben brushed away the soot on the singed sign below the figure.

DEMON KINCAID.

W
HEN BEN REACHED THE
courtroom, it was a madhouse. The gallery was filled to twice its capacity; people were standing in the back and sitting in the aisle. At first, he thought some people must have taken refuge from the parade and the resultant brawl, but there was no sign that anyone was leaving. They were here for the show.

Ben struggled past the squatters and tried not to be concerned. Silver Springs hadn’t had a murder in—what did Judge Tyler say?—twelve years. It was only natural that this trial would be a major event.

Just as Ben reached the front of the courtroom, a flashbulb exploded in his face. Ben covered his eyes. Was that a reporter from
The Silver Springs Herald?
Because if it was …

The face behind the camera belonged to a small boy aged, perhaps, ten. “A souvenir for your scrapbook?” Ben asked.

The boy blanched, then turned and skittered away.

Great, Ben thought. Now I’ve acquired the ability to strike terror in the hearts of ten-year-olds. He wondered if that was the result of what
The Herald
was saying about him, or what the boy’s parents were saying about him. Or both. What a wonderful vacation this had turned out to be. He hadn’t caught any fish, but he had managed to become the Silver Springs bogeyman.

Swain came in the back door and made his way to the prosecution table. He was wearing a sport coat and slacks, suspenders, and a bolo tie. A sharp contrast to Ben’s three-piece suit (flown in courtesy of Jones). Which was probably exactly what Swain wanted. I’m one of you, Swain was subliminally telling the jury; Kincaid isn’t.

Ben went to the defendant’s table and began preparing his notes. To his surprise, Swain walked over to talk to him.

“Got a deal for you, Kincaid.”

“Bit late, isn’t it?” Ben gazed out at the audience. “I think the good citizens of Silver Springs have come to see a trial.”

“It’s not a trial they want, Kincaid. It’s a hanging. That’s my whole point. I saw what happened on the street today and it scared me to death. If I can, I want to keep this town from coming unglued.” He poked a finger beneath his tie and unfastened the top button. “Also, I’m having a hell of a time finding a baby-sitter.”

“What is it you had in mind?”

“You plead guilty; the judge gives you life imprisonment.”

“Life! You call that a deal?”

“It’s a hell of an improvement over death, that’s for damn sure. With good behavior and all that rot, your man could be out in nine years.”