by Marc Cameron
Their sedan looked like a rental or something. No armor, no cage, not even any tinting. If he’d known it was going to be that easy, he would have brought his .308 and popped the two gang bangers and both deputies that morning instead of wasting time on surveillance.
Still, prep was half the fun – wiping the fingerprints off his rifle and each twenty-round magazine, just in case one got left behind. He liked to prepare for the unexpected. He didn’t plan to use more than six rounds – eight max, since he was shooting through glass. With any luck, he’d get the angle right and the first round would shatter the near passenger window, then continue on to splash the driver. He’d take an immediate follow-up shot in any case, just to nail down the marshal behind the wheel. He had to keep the car in place at all costs. The marshal in the passenger seat would go next – before he even figured out he should draw his gun. Childers anticipated getting at least one of the bangers in the back seat before the car crashed, depending on the angle. The last guy would be a sitting duck, chained up and seat-belted in the back. Childers could take him with ease even if he tried to hunker down.
His scope was set for match-grade copper jacketed rounds. No need for any fancy armor-piercing or hollow-point stuff. The shots wouldn’t be from that far away – less than a hundred meters. At this range, .308 rounds would cut through the cheap steel like butter. Trijicon red-dot optic with 4× magnification would be plenty. Yep. Six to eight shots would do the trick – but he always brought more than he needed. Ammo didn’t do any good if it was back in the truck. Besides, Childers knew firsthand, humans did bizarre shit when they got shot. Some dropped their guns if they only believed they’d been shot. A few fell over and died from a wound that by all rights should never have been fatal. Others soaked up massive amounts of lead and still shot back, just flat refusing to die. He’d watched more than one Marine with part of his face blown off continue to engage the enemy. Oohrah. But skinny Iraqi kids did the same thing sometimes, so you could never tell. Childers hoped for the best, but always planned for things to go sideways.
He did a slow three-sixty, checking his immediate and far surroundings before he settled in. It sucked to set up your hide under a hornets’ nest – another thing he’d learned from experience.
Juneau PD was just a couple of blocks away, but the worker bees would be out on the street. The guys at the station were, well, the kind of guys to hang around at the station. He didn’t worry too much about them. If things went too sideways, the Salmon Creek trailhead wasn’t far. The nimble little Yamaha would do seventy in a heartbeat. He could get well into the mountains before anyone could stop him. Juneau was buzzing with helicopters, but it would take a while before they got organized enough to get up and look for him. Even then, the forests were just too thick.
It was just after lunch. He had time for the caffeine from his last cup of coffee to wear off before he took a leak and settled in behind the rifle. Schimmel was his ears at the courthouse. The goofy bastard didn’t have to do much, just sing out when the marshals’ sedan rolled out of the underground garage, and then follow behind at a distance.
It was a good plan. The way Childers figured it, everyone on the prisoner transport would be dead by nightfall.
Chapter 13
“Lola and I will take care of the jail run,” Cutter said to Senior Inspector Scott Keen. Both men stood in the gallery at the back of the courtroom, out of earshot of the two prisoners.
Inspector Keen, tasked with security of both the judge and the court proceeding itself, swayed a little, stunned into slack-jawed amazement by Judge Shawna Forsberg’s ruling shortly after they’d come back from the noon recess. He’d known it was coming. Everyone had. But hope sprang eternal that the judge would consider the logistical nightmare sequestering a jury would be for the Marshals Service and the individual jurors.
Cutter had seen it coming immediately after the judge took the bench, felt it in the mood of the court. Her demeanor had changed from earlier in the day. She’d obviously made her decision. Her high-back leather chair could have swallowed her up, and that morning, she’d let it. Now, she sat perched on the edge of her seat, obviously mulling heavily on the tens of thousands of dollars she was about to cost the American taxpayer in the name of justice.
She’d heard a couple of housekeeping arguments from both sets of counsel. Cutter hadn’t paid much attention to the content of the motions. Instead, he sat and got a read on the mood of the court participants – observing body language and listening to the subtext of what was said. As a deputy marshal, Cutter’s job was to make sure the prisoners showed up on time and behaved themselves during court. If they did not, he administered the necessary measures to make them. A judge might bang his or her gavel and demand order – but it was a deputy marshal who cajoled or muscled everyone into compliance. A judge wanted some guy to remove his ball cap in the courtroom – it was someone from the US Marshals Service who made him do it. If a juror didn’t show up for court – the judge sent deputy marshals to knock on their door. As long as things ran smoothly, Cutter didn’t worry about the guilt or innocence side of a court proceeding. Paraphrasing the immortal words of actor Tommy Lee Jones in the movie The Fugitive, he “didn’t care.”
The lead assistant US attorney – or AUSA – had stood at the lectern for fifteen minutes straight, apparently enjoying the sound of his own voice as he addressed the court about the medical problems of a witness who needed to be brought up from Seattle. Vital information for the wheels of justice, but one of the many boring bits of minutia that deputies had to take in every day when they pulled court duty.
The Hernandez brothers leaned on their elbows at the defense table, to the left of the lectern. Both of their attorneys were court appointed at taxpayer expense, despite the fact that the brothers surely had several cash stashes they’d conveniently left off of their financial disclosure forms at the time of their initial court appearances after arrest.
Half a dozen members of the audience were nodding off in boredom ten minutes after returning from lunch. Only a couple seemed truly interested in the proceedings. A young Native woman perched on the edge of her seat on the second row, the area reserved for journalists. She was dressed professionally – for Alaska – with well-worn KEEN hiking shoes, stylish polyester slacks, and a pullover fisherman’s sweater of natural wool. She turned every two or three minutes to look over her shoulder at the double doors at the back of the courtroom, as if she were expecting someone to burst in with news that would exonerate or convict the defendants. Cutter couldn’t tell from her expression which side she was on – if any. She appeared to be as interested in the show being put on by the lawyers as he was.
Lawyers were always filing motions to exclude evidence or for a summary judgment, extolling the virtues of their freshly scrubbed clients who looked nothing like they did at the time of their arrest. Cutter had thought it maddening when he was a young deputy, all their posturing for the judge and jury, even outright lying to make a client look less like his real self. Deputy marshals saw the defendants outside of the brightly lit, sanitized courtrooms. Deputies listened to them yammer as they shuffled in belly chains, handcuffs, and leg irons down narrow hallways back to the cellblock. Deputies brought them their lunch, handed them toilet paper, escorted them to rooms to see their attorneys. The judge might order a defendant’s white supremacist tattoos covered for the jury. The family could bring a new suit of clothes. But deputies were everyday witnesses to the uncensored versions. They were privy to offensive ink, knife wounds, and colostomy bags that juries never saw. Deputies listened to prisoners curse their fate and watched them break down and cry. Deputies were cordial, friendly even, but never friends.
From what Cutter had seen, Judge Shawna Forsberg understood.
She’d come to the bench from fifteen years at the Federal Public Defender’s Office after working five at the state level. Cutter had talked to a couple of the senior deputies in district who’d known Forsberg as a fierce advocate for
her clients in court, no matter how heinous their crimes. When word came down of her nomination, everyone believed she’d be a pushover judge – but the opposite held true. Some of the defendants called her Frosty Forsberg, and not just because of her silver hair. She ruled her courtroom with an iron hand, maintaining cool detachment, absolutely unmoved by stories of rotten childhoods, poverty, attention deficit disorder, or any of the litany of excuses attorneys used to justify the criminal behavior of their client. She’d heard the stories before, used many of them herself, and wasn’t buying any of it now that she was on the bench. It made perfect sense when Cutter thought it through. Some of the most lenient judges he’d ever seen were former prosecutors – likely wanting to balance the scales for all the people they’d sent to prison. The strictest were often former defense attorneys. Judge Forsberg was the closest thing to a hanging judge on the federal bench in Alaska. If he was forced to work court, Cutter preferred the decorum she expected in her trials. She thought out her rulings carefully, but once she made the decision remained unmovable to all further arguments.
When she decided to sequester the jury, no amount of fast talking from the defense or objection from the government was going to change her mind. Yes, she knew it would be expensive. She knew it would be difficult. But in her mind, it was the “rightest and safest” thing to do.
Five minutes later, the blue-blazered court security officer brought in the fifteen jurors – twelve primary and three alternates. They sat in stunned silence at the news.
Judge Forsberg explained the details of sequestration, reading word for word from her well-crafted order so there would be no question when the marshals enforced the rules she was imposing.
Each juror would hand over his or her cell phone to a representative of the US Marshals Service. They would be driven home to retrieve a week’s worth of clothing and toiletries, medications, etc., after which they would be driven to a local hotel by a deputy marshal. There, they would each be assigned a private room. They were to have no contact with anyone outside of the court or jury room – including each other – unless supervised by a deputy marshal. Jurors would be permitted a phone call to their significant other each evening. This call would be via land line in a specially prepared room in the hotel and monitored by a deputy marshal. Jurors would be escorted to breakfast and supper by a deputy marshal. Novels, approved by the court on a case-by-case basis, were allowed, and movies – chosen by Inspector Scott Keen, the deputy marshal in charge – would be shown each evening in a common area of the hotel. Judge Forsberg thanked each juror by name for his or her sacrifice, noting that there was “no service save military service more vital to the nation than that of a juror.”
The judge did not utter the exact words, but the content of her order made it clear. The jurors would be virtual prisoners of the US Marshals Service for the duration of the trial, which was expected to last two more weeks.
It was not yet 2:00 p.m., but Forsberg dismissed court for the day, directing the marshals to get the jury settled so they could all resume work bright and early the next morning.
She nodded at the court security officer, who said, “All rise for the jury!”
A man in a too-large polo shirt at the end of the jury box swayed on his feet as his plight sank in. The woman beside him dropped her notebook. Two more fell back in their seats. One juror, a swaggering guy the judge had already warned about wearing too much cologne, overtly eyed two middle-aged women in the row ahead of him. The look on his face said he was imagining possible conquests. Cutter resolved to have a little chat with the would-be Casanova. Juror love affairs happened all the time. The loneliness of being sequestered just helped speed up the process. Only the juror on the front row, nearest the bench, was smiling. She was a small thing, with mouse-brown hair and a startled look in her wide eyes as if someone had just set off a string of fireworks under her chair.
Cutter leaned over to Keen. “What’s the deal with the one on the end?”
The inspector glanced up from his notebook. “Maddie Davis,” he said. “She’s got three kids under five years old at home. If I had to guess, she’s imagining a hot bath and two weeks of hotel-room solitude about now.”
The jurors filed out and the judge adjourned court until 9:00 a.m., before leaving the bench, disappearing through the door to her chambers, contemplating, no doubt, the whirling shit storm she’d just put into motion.
“At least somebody wins,” Lola said, walking up in time to get the gist of the conversation. “So, we’re hookin’ and hauling?”
Cutter gave her a nod, then looked at Keen. “Unless you want us somewhere else?”
“No, that’s great. I’ve got a command post and rooms for all the jurors plus eight deputies at the Sheraton. With the two out-of-district deputies from Oregon plus the two each coming up tomorrow from western and eastern Washington, we should be good to go.”
Marshals Service personnel customarily referred to the judicial district a deputy was from rather than the city, especially in states with larger populations that had more than one district. Western Washington meant Seattle. Eastern Washington was Spokane.
Keen peeled a credit card–size motel room key off a stack from the pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to Lola. “It’s not far from the courthouse and they have a restaurant. I have two vans set up to take everyone home to grab their clothes. We’ll eat dinner in the hotel and I have the command post covered tonight. Once you get the prisoners back you can get yourselves settled – so you guys can help me tomorrow with the day shift.”
* * *
Prisoners were rarely restrained in front of the jury, so the two deputies and one contract guard from Juneau Police Department waited to hook up the Hernandez brothers until the door shut behind the last juror and the judge.
“We’ll get them back to Lemon Creek,” Lola said, taking a set of chains, cuffs, and leg irons from the JPD officer, a guy with a stark gray flattop that he’d probably had since the Marine Corps, judging from the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattooed on his forearm. One of the two deputies, a new guy named Lardon, up from the District of Oregon, held on to his chains. The outline of his issued ballistic vest was visible under his white cotton shirt and tie. Cutter figured it was the kid’s first assignment after the Academy. Not that it wasn’t smart to wear a vest; it just wasn’t common for court duty. Lola held out her free hand, ready to take the chains, but the kid shook his head, clenching his teeth like a chargy horse, full of excitement and twitching nerves.
“I got him,” he said. “I don’t mind hookin’ up these broke-dick assholes—”
Lola shot Cutter an amused side-eye. He raised a hand, motioning the kid to the end of the table.
“Sir?”
“Listen,” Cutter said, keeping his voice low. “You’re new. I get that. But we don’t talk to prisoners that way here. It shows—”
“Disrespect.” The kid cut him off and gave an emphatic nod. “I get it, sir.”
“No,” Cutter said. “Interrupting me shows disrespect. Talking to a prisoner like that shows weakness. These guys have been around the block many, many times. They respond to calm surety much better than strident bluster. The day will, no doubt, come when you need to kick somebody’s ass. Let it be the prisoner’s fault, not yours for spooling him up.”
Deputy Lardon stood and blinked, clenching his teeth again. Instead of asking him if he understood, Cutter stood silently, letting him process the information.
“Copy that,” the kid said at length.
“Outstanding,” Cutter said. “Now, look at the door and pretend like I’m giving you instructions to take care of another matter so these assholes don’t think I just chewed you out.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to call them that.”
Cutter shrugged. “We’re not,” he said. “But that doesn’t make them any less so.”
Lardon stood and listened for thirty seconds, then went to the back of the courtroom to check in with Inspector
Keen for his next assignment.
“How come he gets a vest?” Raul, the eldest Hernandez brother, asked, pointing at the young deputy with his chin while Lola passed the belly chain around his waist.
She slipped the big link at the end of the chain through the smaller link, before inserting the jaws of the handcuffs through the same larger link and then around each wrist. This locked the chain in place and kept the prisoner’s hands confined low at his belly. It was an operation she’d done so many times she could do it by feel, keeping an eye on the prisoner.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that new kid gets a bulletproof vest,” Raul said. “We’re the ones in danger. We should be gettin’ vested up too every day.”
Cutter put the belly chain on Reggie, the younger brother, then had him turn and kick an ankle up so he could put on the leg irons.
Reggie gasped. “Damn, bro. That’s some big-ass magnum cannon you got. You blow somebody’s leg off if you shoot ’em with that thing.”
“Not likely,” Cutter said, tapping Reggie’s ankle so he switched ankles. He knew the drill.
Reggie craned his neck around to look at Cutter over his shoulder. “You mean… you shoot to kill?”
“Let’s just say, it’s better you don’t get shot.”
Finished, Cutter had Reggie take a seat so he could talk to Raul. As in tracking – and most things in life – it was important to pay attention to the little nuances when dealing with prisoners.
“What’s this about a vest?” Cutter asked. “Something happen that makes you believe you need protection like that?”
Raul shrugged. “We hear things. You know, through the prison grapevines, threats, what do you call it… termination orders. That kind of shit.”
“Be more specific,” Lola said.
“Like it would be easier on a lot of people if we were out of the picture,” Reggie said, backing his brother’s play. The spider web tattoo covering his neck and lower jaw made it difficult to see him as a victim.