Badwater (14 page)

I moved the pan to the side and pushed Mungo away when she tried to swipe the fish. Then I hit the button to answer the call.

“Yo, Ant,” my brother said in his soft, slurry voice. “How you doing,
che
?”

“I’m doing okay.” I couldn’t bring myself to ask him how he was. “Just making some dinner for me and Mungo. What’s going on? I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

“You haven’t called, Ant.”

I didn’t say anything. Mungo grinned at me in the firelight and made another lunge for the pan. I grinned back as I pushed her away again. This was one of her favorite games, waiting for me to be distracted, then stealing the food she knew I’d eventually share with her anyway. I allowed it because it kept me on my toes. Plus I liked seeing the wolf in her.

“Rebecca said you stood her up the other night. The little ankle biter, too. Both of them sounded kind of pissed off about it. Moriah howled like a banshee when I dropped her off—I think she’s got me confused with her dad.”

“Work,” I said too quickly. “It’s gotten a little hairy up here lately.”

“Yeah? Still hooking and booking,
che
? Been catching those nasty ol’ druggies?”

“Something like that. Speaking of druggies, what are you on these days?”

He laughed. “I’m high on life, Ant. You know that.”

There was no resentment in his laugh or his comment. That was something that never stopped amazing me. I’d detected absolutely zero bitterness in him since the incident in a Wind River mine that had taken away most of the use of his legs. On the rare occasions I saw him, I would look into his glacier-blue eyes—so out of place with his black hair and high-cheeked Indio features—and see no lit fuse, no impending explosion. The only rage that lingered there, I discovered to my alarm, was the reflection of my own eyes.

“You might not believe it,” he went on, “but I’ve been staying pretty clean. See, lately I’ve been hanging out at this zendo with these Tibetan dudes. Chanting and praying and all that shit. Can’t say I understand any of it, but I like it. It just empties your head, kind of like being way up off the deck. And these monks are the coolest, most laid-back guys you’ve ever seen.”

“Is Mary getting into it, too?”

“Nah. She’s way too wound up for any Buddhist bullshit. She’s all aggression and guns, running around protecting these corporate big shots in Baghdad and Tripoli. Speaking of Mary, she was in town over the weekend. Between jobs—she flew out again this afternoon. But while she was here, she gave me a little present. It’s an old van, and it’s got these hand controls on the wheel that let me punch it and brake. Anyway, I need to get out of here for a while. Thinking about heading up your way. I want to check out that secret project of yours. And I need to feed the Rat, bro. It’s time.”

“Uh, ’Berto, you think you’re up for that?” I said it with extreme delicacy, after a long pause.

“I could always climb circles around you, Ant,” he laughed. “You know that. Nothing’s changed. Did eighty-five pull-ups this morning, and that was just the first set. Now I’m ’bout ready for you to be my belay slave again.”

I wanted to say that the only reason he could do eighty-five pull-ups was because he no longer had any meat on his legs. But I knew he’d been getting strong. The last time I’d seen him, his upper body was even more developed than it had been after his federal prison sentence. After months of hospitalization and rehab at the world-renowned Craig Hospital, he’d gotten to where he could hobble around pretty good on a pair of metal canes and had regained enough control of his legs to use them for balance. At home in the small Boulder house he shared with Mary Chang, he used a metal railing that had been installed a foot below the ceiling to get from room to room. But you can’t climb rock walls with your arms alone.

“Listen, it’s not a good time, ’Berto. Things are really crazy up here.”

Now it was his turn to pause. I could picture him in the house he liked to keep dark when Mary wasn’t around, staring into space, fighting with every ounce of his formidable strength to ward off the siren song of the hot sap he loved to inject in his veins. I could picture him shrugging off my rejection, loving me, his little bro. I’d once worshiped him, and I probably still did. But if he were to try to climb again and fail, I wasn’t sure what would happen. It might break him once and for all. I couldn’t even face what I’d already done to him.

He ended the pause, saying, “Hey, man, that’s all right. I understand. Come on down and see me sometime, okay? See your little girl, too. She needs a better role model than me—that’s for sure.”

I abandoned the pan of fish to Mungo as I raced for the wine bottle and the purple-haired Indigo in the back of the truck.

nineteen

W
hile buying donuts and coffee the next morning, I was drawn to the local twice-weekly paper by a crowd of stout donut-stand regulars talking heatedly over the rack. I grabbed a copy and hurried out to my truck. Walking, I had a glimpse of the headline. It read, “LEGAL EAGLE IN TOWN TO DEFEND RIVER KILLER—Says Defendant ‘Grossly Overcharged.’ ”

Well, I couldn’t really dispute that. But I still found it offensive, somehow a personal insult, even though I had nothing to do with the charging decision.

And it was annoying that William J. Bogey had already run to the press. He knew full well that the initial charges are
always
overblown—it’s simply a starting place for the plea negotiations. Like the sticker price on a brand-new car. And good politics for Luke, too, because it makes him look tough while his electorate is focused on the case. A few months from now, it wouldn’t matter as much if he drastically reduced the charges and dealt the case away.

Bogey knew how these things worked, yet he appeared determined to embarrass the county attorney in front of his hometown press. And at a crucial time for him, too. It was a bad move. Bad for everyone—me, the town, the prosecutor, and, I suspected, Jonah. Luke could be a stubborn, vindictive bastard, and this would really make him hit the roof.

Sitting in the Pig with Mungo nosing the donut bag, I read on: “William Bogey, an attorney with a nationwide reputation, said that ‘inexperienced small-town prosecutors often overcharge when dealing with accidental deaths,’ but that he is certain ‘County Attorney Luke Endow will come to his senses once the unfortunate facts of this tragedy sink in.’ ”

Shit. Luke wasn’t just going to hit the roof. He was going to stick to it.

But I found him in his chair when I walked into his office fifteen minutes later. He looked like he’d just climbed down into it. His face was red, his hair and tie askew, his eyes narrow and mean. The paper was open on his desk. It looked like it had been wadded and unwadded a couple of times.

“That prick wants to play hardball, he’s come to the right place.”

I waited, saying nothing.

“He thinks he’s going to bully me into some sweet deal. Well, fuck him. Nobody pushes me around. I’m adding five years to any offer I make.”

I still didn’t say anything. I could have told him the obvious—that you don’t punish a defendant just because you hate his counsel—but Luke knew that. He was just so pissed he wasn’t thinking straight. For me to point it out would only make him madder. So all I did was put two chocolate donuts with rainbow sprinkles on his desk.

He looked at them, his favorites from the old days when we were partners. He started to smile, but it twisted on his face.

“Something’s wrong with my tummy. I don’t think I can eat them.”

Someone knocked on the door frame behind me.

“What?” Luke demanded.

His secretary, a blue-haired, churchy-looking woman in her sixties, said, “The judge just called. He wants to see you in chambers.”

“Fuck. Tell him I’ll come down in fifteen minutes.”

She frowned at the obscenity and set her jaw.

“He said he wants to see you
now
.”

Luke cursed again and lifted his bulk out of his chair. Breathing hard, he stabbed his arms into his jacket.

“Take it easy,” I advised. “What do you think he wants?”

“Probably to ream my ass about something. Or bust my balls for this crap in the paper.” Then he winced and stooped a little, one hand massaging his stomach. Seeing me watching him, he snapped, “You’re my lead investigator. You tell me.”

Because I didn’t want to hang out in view of his glowering secretary, and because I was curious, I followed him down a staircase in the back of the building. It led to a corridor behind the courtroom. The door to the judge’s chambers was open.

The “chambers” of Colter County’s only district judge turned out to be just a small room, maybe twelve feet by fourteen. But it looked nice, with paneled walls of dark wood and shelves full of faux-leather statute books. The fierce old judge sat unsmiling behind a desk facing the door. On the desk’s glossy surface lay a single sheet of paper. Perpendicular to the desk, against one wall, was a love seat. And perched on it like a pair of smug vultures were William Bogey and Brandy Walsh.

Seeing them, Luke took in a gulp of air. Then he managed to lift the corners of his whitening lips, but he couldn’t do anything about his face, which was turning an even darker shade of red. I half-expected Luke to lose it. If it had been eight years ago, when he was a cop, he definitely would have. In my “training days,” I’d seen him berate, threaten, and sometimes even rough up witnesses who refused to cooperate. Several times I’d had to drag him off. Later he always insisted it was just a show—that I’d played the role of “good cop” to his “bad” to perfection. But I’d never been quite sure.

“What’s this?” he now tried to joke. “A little ex parte party? Thanks for thinking to invite us on down.”

Bogey smiled slightly. Brandy, her hair pulled back tightly, looked aloof and also contemptuous. They both wore suits. She made no acknowledgment of having seen me at the river last night. She just stared at me as if she were an entomologist studying a strange kind of bug that had just crawled into view. To get that expression off her face, I was tempted to do something shocking—like bend down, grab her by her suit’s deep brown lapels, and kiss her squarely on her thin lips.

The judge held up the piece of paper on his desk.

“Mr. Bogey, do you have a copy of this for Mr. Endow?”

“I do, Judge.”

Bogey bent to the briefcase that was propped against the bottom of the couch and pulled out a single sheet. Despite an apparent attempt at restraint, Luke ripped it out of his hand when Bogey offered it to him.

“What is it?” Luke demanded, leaving him open to the obvious retort from Bogey—
You can read, can’t you?
But Bogey was polite enough not to mock him in the judge’s presence.

I read over Luke’s shoulder. The document was titled “Motion to Compel.” It demanded the production of all materials relating to the case, particularly all exculpatory evidence, and concluded by asking for sanctions against the county attorney’s office for failing to comply.

I could feel the heat rising off him. One of my arms lifted a few inches from my side, readying to grab the back of his coat. But all he did was say coldly, “The usual crap. That’s what this is all about?”

Bogey smiled again, and the judge nodded.

“Mr. Bogey alleges that you have potentially exculpatory material in your possession that you have refused to turn over to the defense.”

Luke forced a laugh.

“Judge, about all I got is a report from my investigator here, and another from a couple of state troopers who were at the scene. I already told Boogie I’d be happy to give them to him, just as soon as my girl gets them copied.”

“Your Honor,” Bogey said, “we met with Mr. Endow and his investigator two days ago. They had these reports with them at the time, as well as access to a copying machine, yet despite my persistent requests, they were unwilling to provide them to me. All I received was the same vague promise you just heard. As you’re surely aware, this is an exceptional matter, with extremely serious implications—”

Luke interrupted, “Damn it, Boogie, I told you—”

The judge froze them both with the ice in his voice.

“I don’t want to hear any more. Mr. Endow, turn those files over to Mr. Bogey immediately. Mr. Bogey, your Motion to Compel is granted, the Motion for Sanctions is denied. Now, does either of you have anything further to say?”

He stared from attorney to attorney to me, daring all of us to speak. Bogey, apparently, was unafraid.

Still holding on to his polite smile, the lawyer said, “One other matter, Your Honor. When I attempted to speak with my client yesterday, I was turned away. I was told by the deputy sheriff in charge that because of budget shortfalls and staffing shortfalls, attorney-client interviews are not permitted on Sundays. Then this morning at eight I was again turned away—rudely—and told to come back in two hours. Now, as you’re aware, under both state and federal law, I have a right to access my client as often as I deem it necessary. I hate to say it, but right now I’m considering a federal suit against Backwater—excuse me, Badwater—both for restricting access and for the beating my client suffered on Thursday night.”

The judge’s hawkish features tightened, as if they were being screwed down. He was being insulted, too, and he knew it. And I had to give Bogey credit for balls.

I began to suspect that he was one of those attorneys who baits judges into bad rulings, then uses them as grounds for an appeal. Or makes the judge bend over backward to show that he can remain impartial even when being spat upon. What I really didn’t like, though, was the way Brandy turned and looked at him with admiration. For some reason, that pissed me off more than Bogey’s bullshit tactics.

Now there wasn’t just ice in the judge’s voice, but icicles. The sharp, cold daggers were thrown with every word.

“You do whatever you feel is appropriate, Mr. Bogey. Mr. Endow will speak with the sheriff about making your client more available, this afternoon at the very latest, but for the time being he’s in the custody of the sheriff and this court. You will receive no special privileges no matter how much you threaten or bluster.”

After a chilly pause, he added, “This is not Miami, New York, or even Cheyenne, Mr. Bogey. Here we do the best we can, and we all get along. Do you understand? Don’t come running in here every time you encounter a minor inconvenience. And don’t attempt to try this case in the local newspaper. After hearing about your stunt this morning, if Mr. Endow here were to file a motion restricting interviews with the media, there’s a damn good chance I would sign it.”

Luke now tried not to show his sudden cheer as he said, “I intend to do that, Judge.”

With a final glare at all of us, the judge spun around in his chair to study the papers on the credenza. He dismissed us by announcing, “We’re adjourned.”

No one spoke as we filed out into the hallway. I raised my eyebrows at Brandy when her eyes swung my way, but they blankly passed right on by. I began to follow Luke up the courthouse’s exposed back staircase.

Bogey called after us, “We’ll be waiting in the lobby for the discovery materials.”

Luke didn’t reply.

He did pause, though, at his secretary’s station, to curtly order her to copy everything we had on the Strasburg case and deliver it to Mr. Bogey in the court’s lobby, and to shuffle it thoroughly before handing it over. I followed him into his office, where he slammed the door behind me. He slumped in his chair.

“What are you going to offer him to make this piece of shit go away?” I asked.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Luke snarled, “There’s not going to be any deal. He can plead straight up or go to trial. For once somebody’s going to be convicted of the crime they actually committed.”

It was something I’d wanted to hear a prosecutor say for a long time. But not in this case.