by Kenneth Eade
Brent climbed back up to the trail. He waited for a while, but couldn’t stand the thought of doing nothing while Jack was out there somewhere. But, there’s no way I can cover this whole wilderness park.
Brent decided that the most logical thing to do would be to go back to the cars. He retraced his steps until he got back to the main trail, and followed it back. Clairborne’s car was still there.
Brent called 9-1-1.
“My friend has been lost hiking in Sage Park. I think he may be in danger.”
“We’ll send the Fire Department.”
“You’d better send the police as well. He’s an armed retired FBI agent and he’s been following an armed and dangerous subject.”
“Stay where you are. Help is on the way.”
Brent put his backpack into the trunk and sat in his car, waiting, sipping on water and holding his gun in his hand. I’d better put it away before they get here.
Just holding the gun felt scary. Brent had taken lessons on firing it and was a fairly accurate shot. But that was shooting at targets. Shooting at another human being was an entirely different thing.
Just then, a tall figure appeared at the opening of the trail. It’s Clairborne!
Brent grabbed his gun, tucked it in his belt, popped his trunk, got out of the car, and put his backpack on. As Clairborne approached his car, Brent smiled and waved.
“Hey, buddy. Do you know any good trails out here?”
Clairborne glared at him. “I’m not your buddy. It’s too late to be hiking anyway. Just leave me alone.” Clairborne noticed the flat tire and grumbled. He took off his pack and put it on the ground next to the car, then went to his trunk and got out the spare tire and jack gear.
“Need some help with that?”
“Didn’t I tell you to leave me alone?” Clairborne crouched on the ground and started to position the jack under the wheel. Brent cocked the Beretta and pointed it at his head.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dusty.”
Clairborne turned, brandishing a tire iron.
“Drop it!”
Brent could hear the sounds of sirens in the distance. He didn’t know if they were police, or firemen, or both.
“And if I don’t?”
“First, hear the sirens? I called 9-1-1 and those are the cops coming. Second, unless you can throw that tire iron faster than I can shoot you in the head, I would drop it if you want to live.”
“So, if I don’t, you’ll shoot me?”
“Try me!” Brent fired a shot into the rear tire, and it exploded. Clairborne dropped the tire iron.
“Now put your hands on your head, and kick that backpack over to me.”
Clairborne kicked the backpack over. Brent kept the gun trained on him as he spilled the contents onto the ground. Among the things that came clattering out was a large K-Bar knife and a 9mm handgun.
“Nice knife. And that looks like Jack Ruder’s gun. Where is he?”
“That’s an illegal search.”
“Really, Mr. Know-it-all? I’m not a cop. And when the cops do come, which I’d say will be in about two minutes, they’re going to see all this stuff in plain sight. No search at all. Now where’s Jack?”
Clairborne grinned. Brent saw his crazy cold eyes. He picked up the knife, screamed, “God will protect me!” and ran at Brent, waving the knife in front of him. Brent fired, but the big man kept coming. He fired again, and again, in rapid succession, missing once, then hitting Clairborne in the chest, neck and head. Blood spewed everywhere, and Clairborne fell only a few feet away from Brent, whose entire body was shaking.
“Police! Drop your weapon!”
“Brent looked up to see two police officers, with guns drawn, and dropped his gun. He froze.
“Hands on your head!”
Brent put his hands on his head.
“On your knees.” Brent dropped to his knees. He knew at that moment they were going to take him down. With the force of an NFL linebacker, one of the officers slammed into Brent, pushing his face into the dust and grabbing his arms. The officer handcuffed Brent and stood him up.
“I’m the one who called you.”
The search and rescue team found Jack before darkness had set in. His ankle had been broken and he was dehydrated. His electrolytes were extremely low and he wouldn’t have made it through the next day. Clairborne had been messaging Brent so as not to arouse any suspicion, then had thrown Jack’s iPhone away. Brent was held for questioning, then released.
The current events had changed the entire strategy of the trial. Bradley Chernow surely had to agree to dismiss the case. Brent couldn’t make a motion for directed verdict (a procedure used in civil cases which took the case away from the jury for lack of sufficient evidence) because, unlike other states, California law did not allow it in criminal cases. Brent simply had to have faith that Chernow, given the new evidence, would do the right thing.
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
Brent barely made it to court on time. He looked as if he had slept in his suit, even though he had not slept at all. When Chernow entered the courtroom, he gave Brent a strange look.
“You look like crap, Marks.”
“Thanks, Brad. I’m not sure if you know it yet, but I solved your case last night.”
Brent filled Brad in with all the details of the past 12 hours.
“That’s an incredible story, Marks. But it still won’t get you out of this trial. Your guy’s guilty and he’s going down.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“On the contrary. As far as circumstantial evidence goes, I think we have a winner. And you’ve got nothing. Let’s see what the jury says.”
Before the judge took the bench and before the jury was brought in, Brent requested a conference with the judge. Sitting in her chambers, Brent laid out his offer of proof.
“Mr. Chernow, are you sure there’s no way to settle this case?”
“He wants a dismissal, Your Honor.”
“I don’t like the way this looks, Mr. Chernow. I’m powerless at this point, and can’t take this case away from the jury, but I strongly suggest that the two of you talk it over and try to resolve it.”
“I’ll do life with possibility of parole, Your Honor. That’s as far as we can go.”
“You really think your case is that strong, given this new evidence?”
“I’m not sure what this new evidence shows, Your Honor. I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of this Clairborne fellow and whatever crimes he committed, along with investigating Mr. Marks for shooting him.”
“Thanks, Brad.”
“Really, Marks, you think you can blow someone away and just walk?”
“Gentlemen, this isn’t helping us in this case. Please take the next half hour to discuss it, and if you can’t settle it, be prepared to go on with your case, Mr. Marks.”
***
“I call Jack Ruder, Your Honor.”
Jack was wheeled in front of the jury in a wheelchair, still bearing the scars from his ordeal. He testified how his investigation of Dusty Clairborne had led him to follow Clairborne to Sage Ranch Park.
Brent went over Jack’s background as an ex-LAPD cop and ex-FBI agent who had served on several serial killer task forces. Jack walked the jury through his investigation, starting at the point where Dusty Clairborne had become a suspect.
“Please tell the jury what happened while you were conducting surveillance on Dusty Clairborne?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Clairborne discovered I was following him, and he set a trap for me.”
Brent paused for a moment to let the jury anticipate Jack’s story. All of their curious eyes were on Jack.
“What kind of a trap?”
Clairborne was sure someone was following him. It couldn’t just be another hiker. This one was going out of his way to make sure he wasn’t seen. He ran ahead, climbed a large eucalyptus tree, and waited.
Jack rounded the curve. He’d lost track of Clairborne
. He looked to the left and right sides of the trail. No luck. Jack determined to trudge on.
Clairborne saw Jack approaching, and hid in the camouflage of the tree, waiting for the perfect moment. Jack continued on the trail, until he was right under the eucalyptus tree.
As Jack passed under the tree, Clairborne pounced on him.
The wind was knocked out of Jack. He felt the weight of the man on top of him and could smell his foul body order and bad breath.
“Why are you following me?”
“What are you talking about?”
Jack’s arms were pinned down with the big man’s knees. Clairborne rifled through his pockets, finding his wallet and iPhone.
“I’m talkin about this, Mr. FBI man.” Clairborne held Jack’s retired FBI ID in front of his face. He then searched Jack for a gun, and of course, found it in his shoulder holster.
Clairborne got off of Jack, and pointed Jack’s gun at him.
“Get up, FBI Man!”
Jack struggled to stand up, but couldn’t put his weight on his left ankle.
“I can’t. I think my ankle’s broken.”
Clairborne pulled Jack by the arm to his feet.
“Looks like it works just fine. Move!”
Clairborne pointed the gun at Jack, who limped along, dragging his injured leg.
“Keep moving!”
“What’s your plan?”
“I’m walkin’ out of here alone, that’s my plan.”
“I called for backup, you know. They’re on the way.”
Clairborne laughed. “Your backup sounds like it’s going to be a while in coming.
“Clairborne had my iPhone and was replying to your texts, so you would think that I was okay.”
“What did he do next?”
“After forcing me to drag my broken ankle for about an hour on that hiking trail, he wiped my phone off and threw it into a ravine. Then he made me continue.”
Jack couldn’t walk anymore. He fell to the ground.
“Not here! Get up!”
Clairborne kicked Jack in the ribs, and he groaned and fell in a cloud of dust. Clairborne kept kicking, shoving him with his foot until Jack tumbled down off the trail, into another ravine.
“And he left me there to die.”
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
“That story is all very interesting, Mr. Ruder. But it still doesn’t explain what connection, if any, that Dusty Clairborne has to this case.”
“Objection, argumentative!”
“Sustained. The jury will disregard the question. Please keep your questions without argument, Mr. Chernow.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Ruder, isn’t it correct that your investigation of Mr. Clairborne did not uncover any evidence that directly connects him with this case?”
“No, that is not correct…”
Chernow looked surprised. Because he had his own blinders on, he had broken the cardinal rule of cross-examination as well as trial preparation. He had asked a question without knowing what the answer would be.
“…The police discovered, among his possessions, a military-style K-Bar knife. It’s being tested in the crime lab now.”
“Objection and move to strike, Your Honor. These facts are not in evidence.”
“I am calling one of the officers who responded to the scene, Your Honor. He’s my next witness.”
“I’m going to sustain the objection for now, Mr. Marks, subject to you connecting it up with the next witness. The jury is instructed to disregard Mr. Ruder’s answer.”
That error threw Chernow off for the rest of the cross-examination. For the rest of the story, since Brent could not testify himself, he called Officer Kevin Huckavy, a young Simi Valley patrolman with a military style haircut. Huckavy had been on the job for a little over three years. He had seen enough to not be surprised by anything yet, but still had the vigor, promise, and optimism of a new recruit. He was as excited to tell the story as Jack was. Huckavy told the jury how he had responded to the scene of the 9-1-1 call that had been placed by Brent.
“When we came on the scene, Mr. Marks had just shot Dusty Clairborne. We secured Marks in restraints and ascertained that Clairborne was dead.”
All members of the jury were now looking at Brent with great surprise. They had not expected the saga to take this turn.
“Did you take an inventory of Mr. Clairborne’s personal property?”
“Yes, we did.”
“And is this inventory in your report?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Officer, I am showing you a copy of what has been marked for identification as Defense Exhibit W. Can you identify this document?”
“Yes, that is my report on the Dusty Clairborne incident.”
“Included in the inventory was a knife, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe the knife?”
“It is a military-issue KA-BAR knife with a seven inch blade.”
Brent projected a photograph of the knife onto the overhead screen.
“Did you take this photograph of the knife for your report?”
“I did.”
“Your Honor, the defense moves Exhibit W into evidence.”
“No objection? It is received.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. I have no further questions for this witness.”
“Mr. Chernow?”
“Officer Huckavy, isn’t it true that no blood was found on the knife?”
“Yes. It is in the lab for analysis now.”
“But the blade and handle appeared to be clear of any blood, isn’t that correct?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
Brent had delivered a sufficient dose of reasonable doubt. The question was, at this point, whether to risk calling Banks as a witness. Wrapped up in his convoluted mind was an explanation of how he had been found in the blood-stained clothes. Loose ends were the worst part of any trial presentation. There was no other way to get that explanation to the jury.
Brent met with Banks in the holding cell after court to discuss his possible testimony. The crazy man was wide-eyed and excited.
“Mr. Banks, I know I said I didn’t want you to testify, but it may be the only way to explain how you got into those blood-stained clothes.”
“God provided me the clothes. And the way out!” Banks was animated. He truly believed this.
“And how did you get out of the bus?”
“The demon! He descended upon me with his foul breath. I awoke and he was standing over me!”
Brent showed Banks a picture of Dusty Clairborne. “Do you recognize this, Mr. Banks?”
Banks turned his head away in fear.
“That is the demon! In his human form, without the horns.”
“And you’ve seen him with the horns?”
“Of course. I was a prisoner of the demon for many days.”
“Mr. Banks, if you testify, we have to work on your presentation.”
“My presentation?”
“Yes, some details. Well, we just have to leave them out. Make it simple. Do you think you can do that?”
“If it is God’s will, I can do it.”
“Then we should pray that it is God’s will.”
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
Brent met with Banks for two hours that evening at the jail. After the meeting, he was hungry and exhausted. Thankfully, Angela was waiting for him at home. Brent walked in the door. He was pale as if all the blood had been drained from his face. He felt faint, and put his hands on his knees and his head down.
“Brent, honey, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It’s just lack of sleep, and I’m probably a little dehydrated.”
“You’re completely wet!” Brent had broken into a sweat. “Come, lay down on the couch.”
The cat twisted around Angela’s legs, mewing for her dinner, indifferent to her master’s suffering. Angela took Brent’s jacket and led him to the couch. Brent lay down and Angela went into t
he kitchen to get him some water.
She handed him the water. “Are you feeling better?”
Brent propped his head up and sipped at the water. “A little, thanks.”
“I’ll fix us something to eat. You just have to get some sleep tonight.”
“First, I have to figure out what to do about tomorrow. If only Charles Stinson were alive, I could ask his advice.”
“First, you have to have something to eat and get a good night’s rest, or you’ll be joining Charles Stinson.”
“I can’t take these defense cases anymore, Angie. That was never the plan, and they take too much out of me.”
“Okay, let’s take a break from the law; at least for dinner. We can talk about it after.”
***
It was 3 a.m. before Brent drifted to sleep. He kept closing his eyes and trying to relax, but he couldn’t stop thinking … thinking about shooting Dusty Clairborne. And when he finally did sleep, Clairborne haunted him in his dreams as surely as he had his victims, in life.
Brent drifted in and out of a shallow sleep, full of visions of Clairborne stalking and stabbing his victims. He dreamed of confronting Clairborne, over and over again. In some versions of the dream, Clairborne attacked him with the knife before he could fire a shot. In others, Clairborne hacked at him with the K-Bar. At 6 a.m., Brent finally quit fighting with his psyche. He was awake and there was nothing he could do about it.
Angela made a generous breakfast of fried eggs and potatoes to give Brent energy for the ordeal that lie ahead. The nagging question of whether to put Banks on the witness stand was still gnawing at him as he dressed for court.
***
Judge Carlyle looked in a jovial mood when she took the bench. The trial had not been boring, but she knew that it was nearing the end and was looking forward to that. She called the court to order and Brent, Chernow and Banks stood for the jury as they filed in.
“Mr. Marks, do you have anything further to present?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I call Father Thaddeus Brown.”
Father Brown took the oath and sat in the witness chair.