A Ghost of Justice (3 page)

5

The
cemetery so completely matched her mood under the heavy gray sky.  Alone now, still standing next to the graves of her brother and his wife, Emily dabbed at tears with the sleeve of her sweater.   Another wind came slicing through her clothes, making her shivering come harder, spasm-like, the air pushing away the odor of freshly turned earth, carrying the scents peculiar to winter: icy cleanness, wet of a coming cold rain, a hint of wood smoke.  Finally she turned to walk back to where her father and uncle waited, talking.  In a moment she was close enough to hear them.

"I didn't know they'd be in on Saturdays," Eric said.  He took another long look at the double mounds.

The statement made no sense to her.

Bob Sheafer stood next to the Jaguar.  It occurred to Emily that normally he'd be remarking on Ed's fine new car.  Things, however, were never to be normal again.

"They do things they didn't used to.  Plus, with that damned law, they don't any more do many of the things they should."  Bob opened the driver's door.  "I just don't understand how it ever came up, let alone got passed.  Phil said it was the climate in Washington.  Disastrous.  That's the only word for it.  Disastrous last three decades.  No one trying to get anything done.  Just all out for their own damned party.  Now this guy Futrell in the White House.  Seems intent on political suicide, but the news keeps saying he's popular.  Chopped up Social Security, most of Medicare.  Ended Homeland Security and reduced the FBI, Marshalls and the military.  The nut has cut back so much to reduce the Debt that justice at the fed level doesn't really exist anymore.  It's a mockery."  He stood by the car, looked at the pair of mounds.  Then he shrugged.  "Goddamn mess, it is," he added, sliding behind the wheel.

By now she figured out they had been referring to the clerk-of-court's office as being 'open on Saturday.'  She reached out and opened the back door.  Her father slid in next to his brother and she behind him.

Bob resumed talking as he drove, ignoring the wobbling and bouncing caused by the potholed and buckled pavement.  "Andrea is going to put that student - the one who's staying at your place - in a motel or something.  But, until then, we thought you might want to stay with us.  That okay with you?"

"Yeah," Eric said.

"Phil is supposed to be at the house.  Maybe he'll have some news."  Bob switched the heater on high.  "Did you read the Court Summary?  Phil told us he sent that, too."

  "On the sub-orbiter."

Emily recalled the phrases in the document, how it spared nothing: Frank, the last to leave them both alive that night; the autopsy findings.  In the latter she learned her wedding gift to Steve and Kelly had been the murder weapon.  It seemed so wrong, so unreal, reading those plain words describing the wounds and saying how they were done with that graceful pewter vase.

God, Emily thought, it's so unfair.  Backlit by gray sky, the pines and bare trees drifted swiftly by, the car bobbing as if it were a boat on a large lake. 
I feel as though I were a part of the murder myself
.

She saw they had crossed Higgins Lake, whipping by the yellow hazard tape. 

Bob remarked that they had finally started replacing the guardrail.  Her father said something about getting the road repaved and Bob made a single, disgusted noise.  "Maybe in another two years.  Maybe never," he said.

Barely noticing what he said, she found the feelings of guilt were mixing with those of loss.  By the time they turned off Lewiston Road she was crying softly again, not stopping until they were driving down Andrea and Bob's road.

Bob swung into the driveway as a light rain began.  "I don't see Phil's car," he said.  They got out under the carport.  "They predict this weather to last all week."  He opened the trunk as Eric and Emily entered the house without comment.

She wiped at the dampness on her face and looked around the large kitchen.  Contrasting to the chill gray outside, this place modeled warmth.  She felt none of it, retaining the cold, felt she would forever.  Emily sat at the breakfast table, wanting to be alone and talk to no one.  Her head felt heavy and ached behind the eyes, so she rested it in her hands.

She didn't get to be alone.  Andrea swept in to sit next to her.  She put a hand lightly on Emily's arm, but at least she didn't speak.

Eric took station by the stove.  Ed and Frank appeared from somewhere and the three were talking.  Bob brushed by and disappeared into the house with their luggage.  Andrea got up, finally, and poured tea for everyone.

Emily was beginning to sip hers when a car eased up to the house.

Bob strode back through the kitchen to the side door.  Peering out, he said, "That's him.  He looks…pissed."

He opened the door and stepped out.  The scent of rain wafted in, but not any words the two men might have said.  Bob was swearing under his breath when he and Mr. Lindley came in.  The lawyer bore a grim expression.

He pulled off his overcoat and shook hands with Eric.  With a fleeting smile Lindley said, "Good to see you again, Eric.  And you, Emily.  Sorry for why, though."

Eric nodded.  Emily couldn't manage any sort of response.

Phil Lindley then stood next to the kitchen bar so that everyone could see him.  He looked down at the floor and said, "I regret with all my heart that I must tell you they released John Hardy last night under the provisions of the NC Jail Capacity Rule of '31."

Emily parted her lips, but no sound came out.  She couldn't even
think
of anything to say.  She looked around the room.  Eric was leaning forward a bit, eyes wide.  Everyone registered some form of surprise.

She met eyes with Ed, who could only mouth silently, "How?"

As though he heard the unspoken question, Lindley went on.  "The Act was passed because North Carolina requires a balanced budget and vast amounts of federal funds were no longer coming in.  Rather than a costly expansion of facilities, the state opted to put a new absolute cap on jail occupancy.  That figure is 130 percent.  If a jail is more than that for three days running, then the jail director, the sheriff in Guilford County, is legally bound to release prisoners until below 120 percent.  They must select who is let loose by a prescribed list.  Vigilante Justice prisoners are at the top, just above traffic and ordinance violators.  He had to let Hardy go.  They were supposed to let me know beforehand, but some clerical thing got screwed up.  I found out only an hour ago."

Emily's father tried to speak, but he could only mutter, "How…what are we…to…?"

"To do?" Lindley finished for him.

Emily found a sudden anger.  She gave it voice.  "Right.  What
are
we supposed to do?  They try this bastard, convict him, and then they just open the door and let him walk out.  Is that justice?  They call it 'Vigilante Justice.'  Just what the hell does
that
mean?"

Lindley turned his head slowly to face her, his face no longer bland, but deeply sad, with a trace of anger.

She knew he was a decent, good man and, like most lawyers, completely contrary to the old jokes about lawyers.  It made her feel a micron better to see that anger.

Then he said, "You're right, Emily.  Exactly right.  I agree with you completely.  But I can't change it one bit.  It truly will take another act of Congress to do so.  But, for now, that is not even a possibility.  The issue now…"  Lindley seemed to choke on his words.  "The reality is that Hardy is free.  Not really
free
.  Anyone can kill him in the name of the law.  It's just that the government isn't going to do it, nor will they lock him up.  It's up to your father to see that the sentence is carried out."

"God!" Emily said in a loud moan.  Her shoulders slumped and she let her head rest on the chair's high back.  Staring up at Andrea's crystal ceiling light, she said, "What you mean is that he's got to go find him and kill him."

"Yes.  That's what I mean," he said with a sigh.  "You read the Court Summary.  It explains the law."

Emily sat upright, glaring at Lindley.  "Well tell me again.  Tell me about the goddamn law every time I want.  You're Granddad's on-demand lawyer.  It's what you're paid so crushin' much for, isn't it? 
Isn't it?
"  She paused for breath.  Everyone in the room was silent, staring at her.  She glanced swiftly about, taking it all in.  Only her father wasn't looking at her.  He just stared out in space, oblivious.  At that instant she loved, hated and pitied him, all at once.  Angrily she turned back onto Lindley.  "At least we once could count on murderers spending
some
time in prison before they'd get paroled.  Now they don't even
need
parole.  They don't
get
prison.  They just go fucking loose to murder again!"

Frank gasped.  "Emily!"

"Shut it, Frank!  You know I'm right.  Everybody knows I'm right.  If the goddamn Congress was here, they'd know I was right," she shouted, stabbing the air with a finger.  "What I want to know is: if I'm so damn
right
, why is it the way it is?"

Emily felt tears coming.  She didn't want to cry here, in front of them all.  And she was too angry to control it.  "Oh… Hell with it," she blurted and hurriedly left the kitchen.

Dimly she heard her father's voice, but she couldn't catch the words.  Lindley's voice followed.  She didn't care what he had to say.  It held no importance anymore.

The tears streamed as she reached the first guest room.  She fell on the bed and the sobbing came.

6

About
mid-afternoon Eric came into the room.  Emily heard the door open quietly as she lay on her side, gazing out at the rain without seeing it.  She was too drained to turn and see him.

The mattress shifted as he sat on the bed, a spurt of detergent smell wafting up through the bedclothes.  She felt his hand on her arm.

Softly he said, "We've got to go, now, Em.  Phil…ah…We have an appointment with a clerk of the court in an hour."

"What for?" she murmured.

"There're some things we need to know."

"What?"

"I don't know."  His hand lifted from her and the bed shifted again.  "If this John Hardy killed Steve and Kelly, I want him to pay for it, Em."

She turned her head, then rolled over to see her father.  He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the wall as he spoke.

"You can come with me, if you want.  I'd like that, Em."

Emily slid her legs off the bed to sit next to him.  "You know how I feel, Dad," she said, her own voice sounding to her like a dry papery whisper.

"Yeah.  But you
must
promise me."  He locked eyes with her.  "You've got to be very,
very
careful.  I don't want to lose you."

"Same here," she assured him.

Eric stood and held out his hand.  She took it and they went out of the room.

7

Eric
accelerated the Jaguar down onto south-bound Bryan Boulevard, its EuroMax turbine emitting a powerful whine.  It rocked into a long gouge in the asphalt, bouncing out at the end.  "Handles a lot like the Volvo."

"I'd rather be in your car.  This is too big," she said sullenly.

"That old thing?  This is nice.  Smooth ride, even on these roads."

"Yours is friendlier."

He sighed.  "I suppose."

She thought of her earlier behavior, felt embarrassed.  "Dad, could you tell Mr. Lindley I didn't mean anything against him.  I know he's only doing his job.  He's a good man, trying to help."

"I already have, Em."

She smiled weakly.  "Thanks."

"Yeah."

The rest of the ride to the Courthouse Complex was quiet except for the slapping wipers and the rumbling in and out of rough pavement.  Traffic was light for a Saturday.  The cold rain must have kept people in.  A damaged bridge forced them to exit the Boulevard early.  Eric took Fleming to New Garden Road.

She gazed unfocused out the window until she recognized the grounds of New Garden Friends Meeting.  She'd always admired the way they had built such an elegantly simple building and kept so many beautiful trees, both pines and shades.

They then headed downtown on Friendly Avenue, still arriving in time for the appointment.  With only some of the directions on the walls inside the courthouse vandalized, they had little trouble finding the right office.

Clerk-of-Court, Post-Sentencing, turned out to be assistants of the same, populating a large room of many cubicles.  A reception desk sat unmanned at the entrance to the room.  At a loss for what to do at the moment, she and Eric sat at the few small waiting rooms.  After a moment, one head popped up above the sea of cubicle panels, held there for a second, then dropped back out of sight.

Father and daughter exchanged puzzled glances.

Then a hasty swishing could be heard from the same direction.  The sound quickly shifted to one of fast walking and in another instant a stout young woman came into the reception area.  A photo ID hanging from her neck gave her name as Darlene Jacobs. "May I help you?" she said.

Eric stood.  "Maybe so.  I am Eric Sheafer, and this is my daughter, Emily.  We had an appointment to see someone here at this time."

Wordless, the woman seemed to take in Eric's explanation, then leaned over the reception nanoputer.  Instantly a translucent field materialized and she looked at it from her side.  Emily could see nothing on it, but the clerk seemed to be studying it.  A privacy holograph, she realized.

Then Ms Jacobs touched the pseudo-screen twice and it dissolved.

"Yes.  I see," she said as she straightened.  "Come with me, please," she beckoned without warmth.

Must feel jerked 'cause she's working the weekend, Emily thought.  Could at least
try
to be a little friendly.  And how is this kid going to explain an entire law to them, Emily wondered.  She couldn't be over twenty-two.

Taking them to her cubicle, Ms Jacobs sat behind her desk and gave them no time to settle in.  She went straight to the point.  "Mr. Lindley has informed me that you have been introduced to the basic concept of the Vigilante Act.  Some of what I tell you will be a repeat of what he has told you.  But we are here to acquaint you with how the law applies directly to you and your case."

"I understand," Emily heard her father say.  She didn't trust herself to speak to the woman in a civil way.  Instead she concentrated on listening.

"Dr Sheafer, Ms Sheafer, the spirit of the law is expressed in its statement.  Details are covered in its sections.  A guilty verdict under the Act is essentially a death penalty.  But, in the past, when the convicted was kept in prison, there was a lengthy and expensive appeals process and then counsel would seek additional costly stays of execution.  The Act automatically accelerates the appeals process greatly in the event of a guilty verdict.  In your case, this has already transpired.  Conviction is absolute except in the light of significant new evidence.  From the moment appeals have ended, the state releases pertinent facts, descriptions and images to the media for comprehensive distribution.  In other words, it is certain that John Hardy is well known to a significant percentage of the population.  All before he could be released.  Do you follow me so far?"

Of course he does, Emily thought acidly.  He's not an idiot.

Eric simply nodded.

"Another facet of the law is that anyone, anywhere, can lawfully execute Mr. Hardy.  But the law does not intend the survivors of victims to just stand by and wait for someone else to carry out what is essentially their duty.  The penalty for failure to perform is two-hundred thousand."

Emily was amazed at how the girl could calmly discuss these things.  She could have been explaining parking rules for the way she sounded.

"The state will provide the following assistance to you, Dr Sheafer."  Jacobs pulled opened a drawer and laid a card on the desk top.  Picking it up, she said, "This is a waver allowing immediate purchase of a hand gun.  It is also a permit for concealed carry,  and for using it as the executioner-of-record in a vigilante case.  Do you need training for using a gun, Dr Sheafer?"

A few seconds dragged out.  "No," he finally said, sounding reluctant.

The word and the tone in which it was said grabbed Emily's attention.  "What?" she said, speaking for the first time since they arrived.  "You don't…When did you--"

Jacobs offered an explanation.  "Apparently your father never told you about his service record."

Emily kept staring at Eric.  He turned to look back, but said nothing.  "But mom said you just put in three years and that was it.  Said you were at Camp Lejeune," she said.  "Logistics service."

He finally spoke, a huskiness flavoring his voice.  "I was in Iraq.  2003."

Jacobs cut off further discussion for now.  "I think we can assume your father knows how to use a firearm, Ms Sheafer."

She brought her holo screen back up.  "The next thing we must do is set up communications.  Do you have a personal data base management device?"

Emily started to hold up her wrist.  She got her first InTouch PDM when she was fourteen.  But Eric spoke before she did.  "I have a Hiro Perdatum Oh-Nine," he said, showing her the device on his wrist.

"Very good.  That will do fine."  Jacobs worked on the keyboard image for a few seconds.  "Please place it on the desk and activate it, sir."

Eric abruptly stretched his arm enough to free his wrist watch.  He removed it and pressed the button on its left side.  A green mist appeared above it, then formed into a keyboard and screen much like the clerk's.

"Thank you.  I am going to send to your PDM a program for two-way communication."  She typed as she talked.  "It will then be able to receive any and all reports and information on Mr. Hardy.  It will work like any application you already have, with interactive ability so you can manage files and make simple inquiries.  Use it often.  It has been shown to be highly useful in over 80 percent of the cases where a citizen has successfully searched out a vigilante criminal."

She drew a breath.  "This next piece of information is secret, for reasons that will be apparent.  To aid in being certain you have the right person, Mr. Hardy has been tattooed twice with the notation 'JH-16.'  This was done under an anesthetic drug and is on the upper back of his left bicep and behind his left knee.  He should be completely unaware of it.  These are areas almost impossible to see, even with a mirror.  He also has a chip embedded in his left axilla that can be detected within a hundred meters by a program your PDM now has.  You can set it to alert you.  Instructions are in the program.

"The penalty for removal of either tattoos or the chip is quite severe enough to dissuade anyone from doing so.

"The last form of assistance the state will provide is pro-rated compensation for reasonable expenses.  I'm required to inform you that this is based on a 'minimum cost' schedule and will be about 25 percent.  Do you understand everything I have covered?"

Eric nodded.

"Good.  Now.  If you kill someone who is not John Hardy, then you are subject to the charge of involuntary manslaughter.  If someone other than yourself does this, they will be charged with
voluntary
manslaughter."

"Is my daughter under the designation of executioner-of-record?"

Ms Jacobs looked hard at Emily for a moment.  "No.  But she will be covered by a rider.  Look for confirmation on your n-com access."  Another breath and she went on.  "I must also stress that you are required to check in with law enforcement headquarters in any area where you go searching.  It may save some unpleasantness with them.  And they may be able to help in some ways.  Such assistance varies locally.  You may get lucky.  I understand that recently the police in Wilmington virtually handed a VF over to the EOR.  That's 'vigilante fugitive' and 'executioner-of-record.'  And the last is how you should identify yourself to the police.  That is proscribed by the law."

Eric shifted his weight in the chair.  "Is that everything, Ms Jacobs?"

"There is one more thing.  You are expected to carry out this duty yourself.  Do not hire anyone else to execute John Hardy.  That is considered a contract killing and the penalty is twice that for failure to perform."  She stood and finally performed an act of civility, shaking hands with them both.  At the same time she offered justification for the meeting.  "It's a good thing you came.  Every now and then some skip these interviews.  They invariably encounter trouble."  Then she actually smiled.  "Good luck, doctor.  Check in with the Sheriff's office on your way out.  They may have something for you."