Above the Law (61 page)

Before he could answer, I gave my own: “It wouldn’t take half a million. You would have killed Juarez for nothing. Fifty thousand would have been more than enough. Isn’t that right!” I hollered. “You could’ve been had cheap, and everybody knows it!”

As John Q. was crying “Objection!” Jerome was lunging out of his seat, coming at me.

He didn’t get far. You don’t easily jump out of the witness box, there’s a railing right in front of you. By the time he’d gotten to his feet and was making his first move, the courtroom deputies had grabbed him, each by an arm, and flung him backward.

I wasn’t worried—to the contrary, I was elated. I’d broken through his brittle barrier, as I had hoped I would.

Judge McBee called for a thirty-minute recess. John Q. and I met with him in chambers.

“He’s baiting the witness,” John Q. complained.

“Give me a break,” I shot back. “I’m handling this asshole with kid gloves, considering the bullshit he’s spewing in there.”

McBee was livid. “Jungle conduct will not be abided in my courtroom. I’m talking to you, sir,” he said, pointing a trembling finger at John Q. “I don’t care how famous you are or how many big trials you’ve done. I respect you, and you and your client had better respect me. Don’t think you can treat me or my courtroom with disrespect because we’re small-time here. I will hold you and your client in contempt of court if anything like this ever happens again. Do you understand me, Mr. Jones?”

John Q. was both contrite and pissed-off. “I
do
understand you, Your Honor, and I apologize for that outburst. Believe me, that’s the last thing I want to see happen. That doesn’t help my client, or me.”

McBee straightened his robes. “Okay.” He turned to me. “Can we cut down on the theatrics, Mr. Prosecutor?”

I gave him one of my better sincere smiles. “Yes, Your Honor. I’ll tone it down.”

“Your sister, Diane Richards, testified against you. You were here, you heard her.”

Jerome was in the witness chair again. He had been handcuffed and hustled out of the courtroom following his outburst, but the cuffs were off now. I didn’t want them on—he wasn’t going to come after me again, he knew the damage that had done. And I didn’t want him to have any advantage of pity. I had gotten what I wanted, in spades.

“She testified under oath that you and your brothers kidnapped Mr. Juarez. That the reason was not to talk to him, but to teach him a lesson. To make sure he never came near her, ever again.”

“That isn’t true.”

“You stand by your version.”

“It’s true.”

I stared at him. “So she lied. Under oath.”

He stared back at me. He was under control now; it was hard for him, I could see his body tensing, but he wasn’t going to blow again. John Q. had read the riot act to him, after our session with Judge McBee.

“What I said was the truth,” was his response.

“And the abortion. She did that of her own free will, you didn’t force it on her. That’s the truth as well?”

“Yes.”

“And years later, when you went after Reynaldo Juarez with a single-minded passion that bordered on obsession, that had nothing to do with your sister. You were merely doing your job.”

One more “Yes.”

I gathered up my papers. “I’m done with him,” I said disdainfully. “Take him away.”

John O. was finished. Jerome was his final witness, his parting shot. He stood in place at the defense table, his wilted client slumped in the chair next to him. I’d cut Jerome to ribbons, and they knew it.

“The defense rests, Your Honor,” the old man said, his voice even lower and gravelier than usual. There was no end-of-presentation enthusiasm in him.

Judge McBee looked at the clock behind him, made a note on his calendar. “Are there going to be any rebuttal witnesses from your side?” he asked me.

“No, Your Honor.”

“Then we will stand adjourned until tomorrow at nine o’clock, when you will begin your closing arguments.”

With that, he gaveled the session to a close.

I
T WAS LATE NOW
, well after dark. I was in my office. I had gone over my closing argument until I had it down pat. Now, for perhaps the final time, I went over all the documents, transcripts, interviews, grand jury testimony. Everything that had a bearing on this case.

I was still dissatisfied. Kate’s and my recent trip to the compound, to the spot where Juarez had been killed, kept rattling around inside my head.

The autopsy report was buried deep in my files. I fished it out and read it. Nine-millimeter bullet entered the right temple, exited the left temple. Full-metal-jacket bullet entered the right temple, exited the left temple.

I looked at the date on the report: April 20, 1995. Two days after Dennis Ray had killed himself. Shot himself in the right temple with an automatic. The owner of the gun was listed, along with some other physical details.

I flashed back to law school. Dennis and I used to play tennis together. I was the better athlete, but he was a terrier, he never gave up. We nicknamed him Laver, after the great Aussie pro. They had two things in common, Dennis and Rod Laver. They both chased after everything. And they were both left-handed.

I looked down at the report once again. Deceased’s wife found husband in their bedroom, when she came home from work. Shot in the right temple.

Dennis was a southpaw. Logically, he would have held the gun in his left hand. And shot himself in the
left
temple, not the right.

My hunch was not evidence that Dennis’s death was anything other than suicide, but God, did this realization shake me. I picked through my papers and found the other autopsy report, the one on Juarez. Shot in the right temple. Nine-millimeter bullet. Full-metal jacket. The same caliber and type that killed Dennis.

I had to do something. What, I wasn’t sure. But I had to act.

Riva had waited dinner on me. I picked at my food, but it tasted like cardboard. I was too jumbled inside to eat.

I told her about Dennis’s autopsy report, how similar his suicide was to the way Juarez had been killed. She listened somberly.

“That’s…pretty heavy,” she commented when I was finished.

“Yeah.” I felt heavy myself, heavy and tired, as if I were carrying hundred-pound sacks of cement on my shoulders.

From the living room could be heard the sounds of a
Seinfeld
rerun on television, coupled with girlish giggling. Joan had a friend over, another girl from her tribe, Maria. Maria was a few years older than Joan—cute, slender, a mane of black hair down her back to her waist. The two girls were lying on their stomachs on the floor, feet sticking up in the air, eating popcorn and talking back to the screen. I’d said a quick hello when I came in—they were already absorbed in the tube.

“What are you going to do?” Riva asked.

“Nothing, for now.” God, I felt tired. “We’re about to go into closing arguments.” I pushed my plate away, took a healthy swallow of chardonnay.

“One thing’s sure,” she said. “Jerome didn’t kill Dennis Ray.”

“No.”

“It could be suicide.” She was trying to take some of the load off me. “Dennis could have used his right hand. Was there any consideration of foul play at the time?”

I shook my head. “Everyone knew how depressed Dennis was. It was open and shut.” I got up and refilled my wineglass. “This is more than I can handle now. I’m going to put everything aside until the trial’s over. It’s just a couple more days. Than I’ll figure out what I want to do.” I pounded my forehead with my knuckles. “Have to do.”

“This isn’t your fight,” she reminded me.

“That’s what I’m hoping.” I looked into the living room, at the girls on the floor watching television. “Dreading.”

She started clearing the table. I usually help her, but I needed to veg out. I went into the living room and flopped on the couch, looking stupidly over the girls’ backs at the television screen.

Joan sat up. Her friend followed suit. “This is Maria Waters,” Joan said, introducing us. “This is Mr. Garrison, Bucky’s father.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. I wasn’t paying attention to them, or the television. My thoughts were inward.

“Your little boy’s a dreamboat,” Maria said.

“Thanks.” I smiled weakly.

“Mr. Garrison is the lawyer in the trial downtown,” Joan pronounced proudly, my esteem rubbing off on her. “You know all about that, don’t you?” she said, poking her friend in the ribs.

Maria yelped, pinning her arms to her sides. Joan poked her again.

“Don’t.” Maria giggled, pushing Joan’s hand away. She looked up at me, almost blushing.

“Maria knows a lot about that, don’t you?” Joan said again, giving another rib-tickle.

“Stop it already!” Maria squealed, grabbing the offending hand.

“Maria used to go with Wayne Bearpaw,” Joan said as if divulging a juicy secret.

“The deputy?” I perked up a little.

Maria nodded. “We don’t go together anymore.” She frowned. “He broke it off, last month.”

“Wayne’s had a million girlfriends.” Joan laughed. “Him and Maria went together for a whole year, though. That’s a world record for Wayne.”

“He’s too wired to settle down,” Maria said. “That’s what makes him a good deputy. He loves action. He’s an action junkie.”

She gobbled a handful of popcorn. “That night? The raid? He was bouncing off the walls, talking about all the shooting, the blood all over the place, all the guns and stuff, finding that Juarez guy hiding out in the freezer, like half-froze. It was like in a war, the way he described it, everything blowing up. Like when the ammunition inside blew, it was like bombs over Kosovo, you know?”

“He talked to you about it?” I asked.

She nodded, her eyes wide, excited. “Like, he was electric, it was like he had his finger in a light socket, he couldn’t stop moving, like he was bouncing up and down in bed, drinking whiskey straight out of the bottle, then like…” She blushed furiously.

“Like what?” I asked, my curiosity aroused, but not over her sex life.

“Well, we were like, you know…” Her blush deepened.

“Yes.” I smiled, to put her at ease. “Go on,” I urged her, trying not to show my impatience.

“So, like, he couldn’t stop talking about it, until the middle of the morning practically. Especially about how that Juarez dude escaped, and they went chasing after him. I finally had to kick him out, because I had to be at work at eleven o’clock.”

I gripped the edges of the couch for support. “Eleven in the morning?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So you saw Bearpaw the night of the raid? After the raid? It wasn’t another night?” I was questioning her as calmly as I could, but my mind was reeling.

“It was that night.” Another blush. “I remember ’cause nobody was home at my house that night. My family had all driven up to Klamath Falls, to supply up. They were spending the night there, so I was alone in the house. Which Wayne knew, that’s how come he came over. He couldn’t stay over when my father was home, my father’s old-fashioned that way.”

“I know,” I said understandingly. “Fathers are like that.”

I called Bill Fishell at home. I could hear the shock in his voice as I gave him the bad news about my recent discoveries.

“You’re running the show. What do you want to do?” he asked.

“You better get out here.”

“As soon as I can.”

Fishell’s chartered airplane landed on the compound tarmac at five in the morning. I was there to greet him. I hadn’t slept—I’d spent the rest of the night reviewing everything again. Bits and pieces of information that had seemed irrelevant and immaterial to the case suddenly took on new meaning, now that the picture had changed shape.

Fishell had brought four state marshals with him, one of them a woman. We stopped off to pick up a second vehicle. The marshals drove it, following me—we would need a second car. As we headed in the direction of the reservation, I filled Bill in on how the trial was progressing.

“Sounds like you’ve got a win.” He took a hard look at me. “You look pretty ragged, boyo.”

“I hope it’s the right win,” I answered. “And you’re right, I’m beat. I didn’t sleep last night. A lot of reading to plow through. Yet again.”

“The evidence still points to Jerome—doesn’t it?”

Bill’s a prosecutor, he wants to win cases. I hadn’t disrupted my life for a hollow victory.

“We’ll find out pretty soon, one way or the other.”

We reached the reservation at first light. Fishell looked out the windows as we bounced over the bleak terrain. The car jostled on the hard-baked bare-dirt ruts. Six in the morning and we could already feel the heat rising.

Louisa Bearpaw’s house was dark, one light on over the porch. A sheriff’s department Pathfinder was parked in the front yard next to a dusty Dodge Caravan. I pulled up next to the station wagon, the marshals right behind me. We all got out of our cars and walked to the front door. Down the street, unseen, dogs started barking, and farther off, a rooster answered with a raucous crow.

I knocked on the door, three hard raps. For a moment, it was silent within. Then a woman’s voice, heavy with sleep, called out, “Who’s there?”

“Luke Garrison, Mrs. Bearpaw,” I announced through the closed door. “The special prosecutor.”

I heard some fumbling around inside; then the door opened. She was wearing a light cotton robe, wrapped tight around her. Her hair was unbraided, she was barefoot, wore no makeup.

“What’s up?” she asked, peering through slit eyes at the six of us, four in uniform.

“Is your son Wayne here?” I asked, looking into the house over her shoulder.

“He’s sleeping. He worked late last night.”

“Can we come in?”

She could tell from my look and tone that no was not an option. “Okay,” she said, stepping aside so we could enter her small living room. “I’ll put coffee on.”

“Don’t bother.” This from Fishell. “Would you wake your son up, please?”

She stared at him, hands on hips. “Who are you?” She turned to me. “Who’s he?”

“He’s the attorney general of California. Now would you wake up Wayne and tell him to come in here?”