“I understand.”
“Good. Now, because I don’t want to have to try this sonuvabitch twice due to your inexperience, tell me what is going on in this case. I heard Johnstone freaked out during the initial appearance.”
“Yeah, he did. It was weird. An easel fell in the back of the courtroom, and I think he had a flashback or something. The guy’s not right.” She recited the recent events of the case, to include the status of the probable witnesses, the evidence that she intended to present, as well as an outline of her trial strategy. Daniels listened and sipped the whiskey from a plastic cup he had found in his desk, occasionally nodding in agreement or furrowing his brow in apparent disagreement.
“How was he during the prelim?”
“He was fine.”
“What questions did he ask?” When she had finished explaining, Daniels asked, “What do you think Sam’s strategy will be?”
“Well, if I were him—”
“Ann, that is a different question. I’m asking you what you think Sam will do.”
“Well, as I understand it, he has already tried to get his client to cop to an insanity plea. That failed. So he really only has three choices. He can use the ‘some other dude did it’ defense, or he can try to justify it as self-defense, or he can try to show that what happened was not premeditated. I think he’ll see that self-defense is a loser, so I would expect to see him defending with an eye toward demonstrating that his guy killed Emily as the result of an accident. But maybe he’ll try some sort of disabled vet thing.”
“Will he file a motion to have an examination done?”
“I thought he would ask for one before the prelim, didn’t you?”
“I did. But maybe his client won’t go for it.”
“In his shoes, I would have,” Ann said.
“Well his client probably won’t agree to it,” Daniels said. “What is your plan to attack those defenses?” he asked, changing subjects.
“Well, actually, I am still working on aspects of my own case. I have not yet had the opportunity to look at ways to present my case to preclude his defenses.”
“You damn sure better start! You’ve got about ninety days to get ready. You need to be ready as soon as possible, and then you can refine from there.”
“I understand.”
32
On a Sunday afternoon late in January, Sam blew on his fingers to warm them and tried to tie a size twenty blue-winged olive pattern onto the tiny tippet he had affixed to his leader for that purpose. After a couple minutes of struggle, he realized that he had dropped his cheaters in one of his many vest pockets. After rummaging through the vest, he finally located them, got the fly tied to the tippet, and was ready at last. After double-checking to ensure that the vest was packed with water, beef jerky, sunflower seeds, a book of matches, his flask, and a cigar, he locked the door of his truck and set off across the snow-covered hillside for the stream.
The day had dawned clear and cold, no clouds in sight. The water was somewhat high, but surprisingly clear given a recent warming spell and the subsequent runoff. The temperature was just about freezing, and Sam anticipated a hatch of some sort if the wind stayed down long enough for the sun’s rays to warm the water’s surface.
He sat on the bank, lit the cigar, and looked around. Across the stream in a stand of cottonwood were half a dozen turkeys. Seeing him, they had closed ranks and were now peering at him, attempting to discern his motive. On the hillside, a pair of mule deer looked down at him. Apparently satisfied he meant them no harm, they shook their huge ears and browsed off. Sam listened to the soft murmur of the water and scanned the small stream for signs of fish. He didn’t see any shadows out of place, any “noses” indicating feeding trout, or swirls in the water that might indicate subsurface feeding going on. In short, he didn’t see anything that would indicate fishing was worth his while. But he’d come to fish and was intent on doing just that.
He cast upstream maybe twenty-five feet or so, a medium-length cast designed to probe a small pool formed by a trickle of water pouring over the gap between two large boulders. The cast met with success, and less than thirty seconds later he was removing the fly from a small rainbow trout’s mouth. “I’m in the books,” he said aloud.
For the next ninety minutes, he fished his way upstream. At this time of year and in this water, the fish were slowed by their core temperatures and did not react particularly quickly to the appearance of Sam’s fly. For that reason, he eschewed fishing in the rapids and focused his efforts instead on the small pools in the stream. Walking carefully along the bank, he looked ahead for likely spots and then maneuvered into position where his left-handed casts could place the fly on the water.
The leg was causing him pain, so as the sun started to sink behind the mountain range to his west, he decided to call it a day. He had kept a couple of fish for dinner, stopping to clean them using his pocketknife. When he’d finished, he placed them in a small plastic bag that he kept in his vest and commenced the hike out. It was dark when he reached the truck, and he stumbled around until he was able to start the vehicle and turn on the headlights. He then dressed in the glow of the brake lights, walked around his parking spot to ensure that he hadn’t forgotten anything, and departed the area. He’d spent time by himself, caught some fish, gotten a little exercise, seen some country, and avoided all contact with human beings. Success.
“Sam, you’ve got to get me out of here,” Tommy said. He was unwrapping a candy bar Sam had brought him. “This place is driving me nuts.”
“Tommy, I can’t do that. You know that. Judge Howard denied bond weeks ago when we had the preliminary hearing. I’ll ask Judge Daniels to reconsider. But it’s a longshot. I know you don’t like it, but it’s almost certain you’re gonna have to ride this out until after the trial.”
“Then what?” Tommy asked, taking a huge bite from the candy bar.
“Then, if you’re acquitted, you’ll be free to go.”
“And if I’m not acquitted?”
“We can’t think that way. We need to remain positive.”
“We?”
“Tommy, I’m in this with you. As much as I can be. As much as anyone could be.”
“I know that, Sam,” Tommy said. He stood and threw the wrapper in a small trash can in the corner. “I’m just getting a little squirrely, is all.”
“How are they treating you?”
“Who?”
“Anyone.”
“The other inmates are okay, ever since the incident with what’s-his-name. I keep pretty much to myself. The guards . . . well, I think they just try and stay above it all. Basically, they’re all authoritarians. Control freaks—you know what I mean?”
“I do.”
“I mean, most of ’em, they’re just doing the jail thing until they get a slot at the law enforcement academy. They’re okay. But the ones who like this shit—overseeing inmates—I mean, who would lock himself in with a bunch of criminals for twelve hours a day, right?”
Sam smiled.
“Sam, what do you think?” Tommy asked.
“Tommy, I can’t tell you what’s going to happen,” Sam began. “I’m doing everything I can. We have about three months to get ready. But there’s an alternative. You give any thought to pleading out?”
“Screw that, Sam. Told you last time you asked. I’m not crazy, and I didn’t do it!”
“Tommy! Lower your voice. Look, I hear you, okay. But a plea is the only way—the only way—you can be absolutely sure you don’t end up with a life sentence or worse. Just say the word and I’ll talk with Ann. Maybe she’ll take second-degree. You’d be looking at maybe twenty years.”
“Twenty years! No way! I didn’t do it. When the jury hears my story—”
“I’ve told you before: juries are made up of people. People make mistakes.”
Tommy was out of his chair, pacing the small conference room. “That’s not going to happen. It can’t happen.”
�
�Tommy, let me ask you something.”
“What’s that?”
“As long as we’ve been together, I’ve never heard you talk about your wife. I need to know about you and her. It’s Becky, right?”
“Right. What’s to know? We got married after I’d been out of high school a couple of years—right before I enlisted. I took her to Quantico. She didn’t like the humidity and being away from her mom at all, so when I got orders to deploy, I took a couple weeks of leave and moved her back so she could be near her folks.”
“How’d it go after that?”
“You know, Sam.” Tommy was staring at the cinderblock wall. “You first get in-country they got all kinds of USO facilities, and you call home and talk about the kids and stuff happening back here. But as time goes by, you get more and more wound up with patrols and recovery and ops planning, and so the calls get fewer and fewer. Meanwhile, she’s back here having to run the household by herself. Then one day, you’re on the phone and the wife is bitching about something that isn’t important and you make the mistake of putting it in perspective for her and she gets pissed off, and then you get pissed off, and then the whole passive-aggressive thing starts. Next thing you know you’re calling only on a kid’s birthday or a holiday and then it goes downhill from there.”
Sam watched Tommy in silence. There was nothing to say.
“Got back and realized I’d spent a couple years doing stuff no one around here understood or wanted to hear about. My first sergeant had recommended I talk with someone at the VA when I got back, but I said, ‘Screw that.’ I think maybe I kinda held some stuff in. Started drinking too much, and, well, Becky gave me an ultimatum one night and I guess I thought about it and felt like she was hassling me for no reason.”
Tommy was pacing again. “I got on her phone and seen she’d been talking with this guy we went to high school with while I was gone. You believe that shit? I’m ten thousand miles away humping a hundred-pound ruck, dodging goddamned bullets and IEDs, and she’s back here talking with some pencil-necked banker dude who was on the fucking debate team. And it ain’t like she’s perfect, neither. She got arrested down in New Orleans years ago for drunk and disorderly.”
Sam continued to watch Tommy.
“So,” Tommy continued. “One night she took the kids and filed for divorce. I honestly thought things were gonna be okay, that we could do this—what’s the word? ‘Amicably,’ I think—and then she tells me she wants the car, the house, everything, plus full custody of the kids. Said I was ‘dangerous.’ Bullshit on that. I ain’t giving her everything I worked for while she sat back here on her fat ass and collected my check. So I lawyered up with Emily the week after she packed up the kids. I called her bluff, man.”
“How did you come up with the money for a retainer?”
“Oh, you’ll love this. I get a little disability check from the VA, right? I’ve been putting that in a separate account every month. I’d been planning on buying a boat when I got enough. Even had one picked out. Then this shit happens, so instead of buying a goddamned boat that I figured she’d get half of, I had to use it to pay an attorney. Took the whole wad.”
“I’m gonna need to talk with Becky at some point,” Sam said. “Probably soon.”
“Why?”
“Well, it might be important. Do you think she’d agree to come to the trial? She didn’t come to the prelim, did she?”
“I didn’t see her. Why?”
“Because I think it would be good if the jurors saw her there. They’ll find out about the pending divorce, sure, but if she was there every day it would give the appearance that she still supports you, still believes in you. Think she would?”
“I dunno,” Tommy said. He was sitting in the plastic chair again, staring at the floor.
“When’s the last time you spoke with her?”
“Well, I dunno, Sam. Before Emily got killed, for sure. I mean, I was pissed off and she was ragging my ass. She wouldn’t let me see my kids!”
“I’m gonna talk with her, Tommy. I’ll see what she has to say.” Sam stood and extended his hand.
“Okay,” Tommy said. “And Sam?”
“Yes?”
“When you talk with her, tell her . . . tell her . . . well, tell Becky I said hi.”
“Will do.” Sam pushed the button to summon the guard. “Take care of yourself,” he said as he left.
“Boss, what’s going on?” Jensen asked. “You’re not yourself.” He pulled a donut from the box on the table between them. They were in the break room at the station. Punch was pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve been a little short. Baker said you bit his ass over nothing. That’s not like you.”
“Baker needs to quit being such a candy-ass,” Punch said. He took a sip from his cup. “But I’ll tell you what: I am irritable. It’s the Olsen case.”
“Why? You got the right guy. He got bound over. Trial starts here in a couple of months, assuming his lawyer don’t plead him out.”
“I don’t like loose ends.”
“Well, no one does, boss. What loose ends are you talking about?”
Punch stood, walked to the window, and looked outside. It was early spring. In a lot of places, the grass would be turning green, trees would start to put out leaves, and birds would be returning. Not here. Here, it was clear and cold and looked not unlike it did in October. “The three shot glasses—one with a print we can’t match. The semen from an unknown male. The unknown set of prints on the vase and an unknown print on the murder weapon. All of that gives Johnstone an opening.”
“Olsen’s the guy, boss.”
“I know he’s the guy. But those loose ends give reasonable doubt. If Johnstone’s any good—and I think he might be—he could exploit those loose ends and walk his guy.”
“So, what do you want to do about it?”
“We need to tie this up,” Punch said, rubbing his eyes, “so I can sleep again.”
33
Sam was in an examining room at the VA clinic in Custer when his counselor appeared on the desktop’s monitor; he didn’t even know where the counselor was logging in from.
“Mr. Johnstone, my name is Bob Martinez. I’m a counselor with the VA. How are you today?”
“I’m well.”
“Really? Then why are you here?”
Sam sat quietly, thinking about it. “I’m here because I’m all screwed up. I can’t sleep, I’m drinking and quaffing pain pills and having nightmares and . . . well . . . I had a little episode a while back and it scared everyone around me.”
“Scare you?”
“Yeah.”
“Need a change?”
“I do.”
“Need some help?”
“I guess.”
Martinez smiled. “Of course you do. If you had been capable of fixing yourself, you would have done it by now, right?”
“Right.”
Martinez was looking at another screen. “You were a captain, am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“Lost a leg?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Bob. Now, tell me about losing that leg.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
“No shit.” The abruptness of the counselor’s reaction made Sam laugh out loud for the first time in days. “Tell me what happened,” Martinez said. All of it.”
For the next thirty minutes, Sam recounted in detail that day in 2007. When he finished, he said, “Bob, I know you don’t understand—”
“Oh, I get it,” Martinez said, waving a prosthetic hand dismissively. Seeing Sam’s surprise, he made a show of looking at the device. “This? Oh, I lost my arm in Kuwait in 1991. 2nd Brigade, 1st Infantry Division.”
“The Big Red One,” Sam said, referring to the division’s nickname.
“If you’re gonna be one,” Mart
inez began.
“—be a big red one,” Sam finished, and they both laughed.
“I’m no hero like you are, “Martinez said. “Got my arm caught between the back of an Abrams tank and a track recovery vehicle right after the war ended.”
“Ouch!” Sam said. “You gave it up, Bob.”
“I did. See you Thursday.”
Sam smiled again. “This just might work,” he thought as he walked to his car.
Punch sat back and rubbed his neck, then removed his readers and rubbed his eyes. It was ten p.m. and he’d been working his way through more than a thousand pages of printouts from Emily’s computer. For the past couple of days, he’d been spending an hour or so every night working his way through the contents of her desktop—calendar, contacts, email, and the like. He’d had a young officer go through her social media accounts months ago, but it hadn’t turned up anything of significance. Following Olsen’s arrest, of course, the review of her desktop had gone to the back burner, as new cases arose and took precedence. The contents had only been brought to his attention when Ann had passed on a request for pre-trial discovery from Johnstone seeking copies of all electronic information in the State’s possession relevant to the case. It was prudent, of course, to review everything before he kicked it out to Ann to pass along.
He took a bite of his sandwich and continued to scan the left-most column containing the senders’ names. Because Emily had both her personal and professional email forwarded to her desktop, the volume was incredible. Some of the retailers sent her more than one email per day. Coupons, advertisements, solicitations, old friends staying in touch. Nothing appearing relevant to the case had caught his eye. Her contacts were apparently mundane, as well. He knew many of the names, which included most of the attorneys and judges in the region. The appointment feature showed about what you might expect, with a couple of exceptions. She had calendared a couple of appointments with Judge Daniels and several with Judge Howard over the months leading up to her death. “Seems odd,” he mused, downing the last bite of his sandwich.
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