Jack Keller - 01 - The Devil's Right Hand

by J. D. Rhoades

  Finally he located something. “DeWayne Puryear,” he read. “That sound familiar?”

  Sanchez nodded. “That is the name that he gave.”

  “There’s an address and phone number here,” Raymond said.

  Sanchez turned around and walked out the door. He was already waiting in the truck when Raymond and John Lee followed him.

  Like most of the people who wore the black robe, Judge Harold T. Tharrington was a former prosecutor. The District Attorney had handpicked Tharrington to run for election to the bench. He had run without opposition; none of the other prosecutors would dare to buck the boss’ choice. For their own part, the lawyers of the defense bar declined to take the salary cut that came with going on the State payroll. Defendants paid better, and often in cash.

  Tharrington looked over his glasses at Keller, who was standing before him. He was a short, balding man with a round face and a fussy demeanor. He clearly found Keller’s presence in his courtroom distasteful.

  Keller had spent the previous day and night sharing a jail cell with a pair of Jamaicans. The two men had totally ignored him. They spent the time playing a seemingly endless game of cards and arguing in low, incomprehensible voices. The argument and the fact that the lights had never been turned off in the cells had made it impossible for Keller to sleep. His eyeballs felt raw and gritty. He hadn’t been allowed to shave. His hands were shackled in front of him and his ankles were fastened together with a short length of heavy chain. His lawyer stood by his side.

  The lawyer’s name was Scott McCaskill. He was an imposing figure, a full six and a half feet tall. He had thick snow-white hair brushed back until it resembled a lion’s mane. His face tended to remind people of someone they’d seen on TV, someone playing a Senator or President. He had represented Keller several times before. Part of the secret to his success was his massive presence that seemed to draw all attention in the room to him and away from his raggedy-assed client.

  “Your Honor,” McCaskill intoned in a voice so deep that it almost rattled the water glasses, “my client has no prior record. He is a bail bondsman licensed by the State of North Carolina. He served his country with distinction in the armed forces and was decorated for bravery in the Persian Gulf. In addition, we are confident that these charges are the result of a misunderstanding and will be resolved in his favor at trial.”

  The judge picked up a sheet of computer printout and studied it. “Your client,” the judge observed, “has been remarkably lucky to have no record of convictions. The PIN check provided by officers Jones and Wesson shows a remarkable string of charges that were either dismissed by the local prosecutor or resulted in ‘not guilty’ verdicts at trial. Can you explain this?”

  McCaskill shrugged and smiled. “The nature of Mr. Keller’s business is such that the people he returns to custody are often, shall we say, less than happy with their situation.”

  “Two of them apparently ended up dead,” the judge said.

  “For which incident a jury returned a verdict of not guilty by reason of self-defense,” his lawyer replied smoothly.

  Tharrington put the printout down and looked at Keller again. Keller was beginning to feel like a piece of livestock being haggled over at the market, but he kept his face neutral.

  “I’m concerned here, counselor,” he said, “that your client is a violent man. He was apprehended with a shotgun in his car. He was carrying a weapon concealed on his person—”

  “For which—” McCaskill began, but fell silent when Tharrington raised a hand. “I realize he claims to have a carry permit for that weapon. He has not been able to produce it.”

  “That’s because Officer Wesson took it. Sir.” Keller said.

  “Which brings us to my greatest concern,” Tharrington said. “The contempt and disrespect shown to law enforcement. It’s bad enough that Mr. Keller apparently fancies himself some sort of bounty hunter, despite having no official standing as a sworn law enforcement officer. But for him to assault a real officer and threaten him with further violence—”

  “Sir,” Keller said. “Officer Wesson assaulted me.” He ignored the lawyer’s hand on his shoulder urging him to keep quiet. “He struck me with his baton while I had my hands on the car. Officer Jones can confirm that.”

  Tharrington looked behind Keller. “Officer Wesson,” he said. “Is Officer Jones present in the courtroom with you?”

  Keller didn’t trust himself to turn around and look, but he could hear the smooth confidence in Wesson’s voice. “No sir,” he said. “She had, ah, other duties to attend to. And your honor, I was forced to use my baton to subdue Mr. Keller when he attempted to reach for the firearm I was taking from him.”

  “And is it not true, Mr. Keller, that you threatened to take Officer Wesson’s baton away from him and beat him with it?”

  “No sir,” Keller said through clenched teeth. “I told him I was going to take it away from him and shove it up his ass.”

  Tharrington reddened. He picked up his gavel. “Bail is set at fifteen thousand dollars. Cash.” He nodded to the deputy Sheriff standing at one end of the bench. “Take him back to the holding cell.”

  “Your Honor,” a soft female voice said. “I’ll be supplying Mr. Keller’s bail bond. But may I request that the court change it to a secured bond rather than cash?”

  Keller looked around for the first time. She was standing at the back of the courtroom, dressed in a floor length black trench coat that contrasted starkly with her white-blonde hair. Her jeans were black as well and she wore a white blouse buttoned up to the neck, despite the outside heat. Her hands were covered with black gloves. One hand rested on the silver handle of a dark cherrywood cane.

  “And you are…?” the judge asked.

  She walked down the center aisle of the courtroom with a pronounced limp, leaning on the cane for support. “Angela Hager, your honor,” she said. “H & H Bail Bonds. I’m Mister Keller’s employer.”

  The judge tapped his chin with his pencil. “Hager, Hager…” he said thoughtfully. “You look familiar…”

  She arrived at the bar and looked up at the judge. She brushed her hair from her eyes with her free hand. “My husband was Jeffery Hager.”

  The judge dropped his pencil. “Yes, of course,” he said. “I—I remember the case. You—ah—you seem to be doing well.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Now, about the bond. I can supply a cash bond, but it’s less paperwork if I don’t have to transfer that much cash. The IRS, you know.” She smiled slightly. “I assume H & H’s credit is still good with this court?”

  The judge didn’t answer at first. He was staring in fascination at the narrow band of puckered scar tissue that peeked above the high collar of the blouse. She waited patiently, still smiling. Finally the judge realized that he was staring and his gaze broke away he began randomly shuffling papers on the bench.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Certainly. Fifteen thousand,” he said to the clerk. “Secured by H & H.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” Angela said. She approached the low desk to the side of the bench where the court clerk was organizing the forms she would have to sign. She didn’t look at Keller until she finished signing. Then she stood up and smiled at him. “I’ve got to get back,” she said. “There’s no one in the office. I had to lock up to come down here and get you. Will you be okay?”

  “Yeah,” Keller said. “I’ll pick up my car from impound. I’ve got some more leads to run down. I’ll keep in touch.”

  She patted his shoulder. “Back to work, cowboy,” she said, then walked out.

  The judge picked up his gavel, prepared to adjourn court “Your Honor,” Keller’s lawyer spoke up. “There is still the matter of Mr. Keller’s vehicle and ah, its contents, which were impounded.”

  The judge seemed to have recovered his composure. “He can have the vehicle back,” he said. ”Not the weapons or the restraints.”

  The lawyer tried again. “Those are the tools Mister
Keller needs to conduct his business, if your honor—”

  “Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” the judge snapped. He stood up. “Adjourn court, Mr. Bailiff,” he ordered.

  “This court stands adjourned,” the bailiff called out. “God save the State and this honorable court.”

  “Mister Keller,” a voice said.

  Keller turned. Officer Marie Jones was sitting in a red Honda Accord in a parking space in front of the courthouse. The driver’s side window was down. Her uniform blouse had been replaced by a white T-shirt with a Gold’s Gym logo on it. Her police cap was gone but her light-brown hair was still pinned up. She still wore the mirrored shades.

  “You need a ride?” she said.

  Keller approached the vehicle. “My car’s in the impound lot,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. She leaned over and opened the passenger side door. “Get in. I’ll take you over there.” Keller got in. She pulled away from the curb without speaking. She was dressed in a pair of black workout shorts and tennis shoes. Keller looked her over. Her body was lean and muscular, the body of a swimmer or long-distance runner.

  After a few moments, she spoke up. “I’m sorry about Eddie,” she said. “Officer Wesson, I mean.”

  “That would have meant a lot more if you’d been there to tell what really happened.”

  She sighed. “No one told me about it. I went off-duty and went to the gym.”

  “Would you have told the truth if you’d been there?”

  “Of course I would have,” she snapped. Keller looked at her for a long moment. She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t know. I mean, yeah, I guess. “ She sighed. “Fuck, I don’t know.” She sounded weary.

  “What is he, your boyfriend?”

  Jones yanked the wheel suddenly, steering the car over to the side of the street and slamming on the brakes. She turned to Keller. “Get out,” she said. Her voice was absolutely flat.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Keller said. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “I am so SICK of that bullshit!” she slammed her open palm on the steering wheel. “From Eddie’s wife. From my ex. From every asshole in the station. The ones that don’t assume I’m fucking Eddie assume I’m some sort of dyke because I’m not fucking him. Well, fuck them, and fuck you too.” She grabbed the wheel with both hands. She rested her head on the steering wheel for a moment, getting herself under control. Her knuckles were white.

  “You’re right,” Keller said softly. “I was out of line. It was a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry.”

  She took a deep breath and straightened up. She looked straight ahead for a moment, took another breath, blew it out. She turned to Keller.

  “I sit for the Sergeant’s exam next month,” she said. “I’ve got a kid that my ex keeps threatening to take away every time I make a fuss about the back child support. You think I need that kind of problem?”

  “Not meaning to add to your load, but you’ve got another problem. Wesson’s a psycho,” Keller said. “He’s apt to turn on you.”

  Jones shook her head. She pulled the car back into traffic. “He’s really an okay guy,” she said. “He’s just been having some problems at home. He’s wound a little too tight these days, I guess.”

  “Officer Jones,” Keller said. “Your partner’s more than wound too tight. I’ve seen that look in people’s eyes before. He’s getting ready to cut loose. And when he does, he’s going to kill somebody. And maybe get himself killed as well. Or you.”

  She shook her head again. “He’s my partner,” he said. “I’m supposed to look after him.”

  “You’re supposed to look after each other,” Keller said. She didn’t answer. Keller could see he was getting nowhere, so he changed the subject. “How’d you find out about the hearing?” he asked.

  “Your boss got me on my cell phone,” Jones said. “I tried to get here, but I ran into her in the parking lot and she told me it was all over, that you’d been turned loose.” She looked at Keller. “Do you mind if I say something?”

  Keller shrugged. “Depends on what it is, I guess.”

  Marie laughed. “Fair enough. It’s just that your boss— Angela, is it?”

  “Yeah, Angela Hager.”

  “She’s pretty, but she’s kind of spooky-looking. What’s the deal with the gloves?”

  Keller leaned back in the seat and looked out the window. “She’s got some pretty bad scars. Burns. She doesn’t like people staring at them.”

  “How’d she get burned?”

  Keller looked at her. “Her husband founded H & H bail bonds. He was a big shot, knew everybody, liked to throw his money around. He also used to beat her up. Finally, she had enough and took out a warrant on him. He went into court and denied everything. He had been a major supporter of the D.A. in the last election, so they dismissed all charges without even a trial.” Keller looked out the front window. “Jeff Hager went home, kicked in the front door and broke both her legs with a baseball bat so she couldn’t run. Then he set the house on fire.”

  “Damn,” Jones whispered. “He do any time for it?”

  “No,” Keller said. “But only because he shot himself in front of her.”

  “How’d she get out?”

  “Dragged herself out of the house on her elbows.”

  Jones gave a low whistle. “That is one tough lady.”

  “Yeah,” Keller said. They were pulling up to the chain-link fence that surrounded the impound lot. As Keller moved to get out, Jones took off her sunglasses and turned to him.

  “Mister Keller,” she said. “When this comes to court, I’ll tell what happened. All of it.”

  “That’s not going to help your career much,” Keller said.

  “I know,” she said.

  Keller looked at her. She obviously meant it. Her jaw was set and she stared at him defiantly, as if daring him to question her resolve. He noticed that her eyes were blue, the sharp, hard blue of the sky on a clear winter day. Finally, he shrugged.

  “It’ll be a moot point anyway,” he said. “The D.A.’ll make a lot of noise about jail time, then when it gets close to trial, they’ll offer to dismiss everything in exchange for me agreeing in writing not to sue the department for excessive force.”

  “And you’ll agree.” Her voice was flat.

  He looked away. After the idealism she showed in her offer to testify, he hated what he was about to say. “It’s not like I’m giving up much. With your help, I may win the resisting, but they’re scared shitless of the publicity that they’d get from a civil suit. So they’ll make damn sure I go down on something. Even if they have to make something up.”

  “Pretty cynical,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Yeah, it is,” he said, “But I’ve seen it happen. If it happens to me, I lose my bondsman’s license. I weigh that against the possibility of winning a civil suit against the Fayetteville police. Even if I take it to a jury, who do you think they’ll believe?” He thought for a moment about the judge’s description of him as a violent man. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than take on lost causes. Even my own.” He closed the car door. He was walking towards the small guardhouse at the entrance to the impound lot when he heard her voice. “Mister Keller.”

  He turned. Her hand was out the window, holding a small piece of paper. He walked back and took it. It was a business card, the type cops gave to victims and witnesses who might need to contact them. The police switchboard number was scratched out and another number written in blue ink.

  “That’s my cell phone number,” she said. “In case you change your mind. Or, you know, if you want to, like, talk about anything else.”

  He smiled at her. “That’s not going to do a lot to help your career, either.”

  She didn’t smile back. “Yeah. Well.” She didn’t go on. She’d replaced the mirror shades, so it was impossible to read what was in her eyes.

  “Okay,” Keller said. “I’ll keep it in mind. And my name is Jack.
”

  “I’m Marie,” she said. She looked like she was about to say something else, but she stopped. She put the car in gear and backed out of the gravel driveway. Keller put the card in his shirt pocket as he watched her go.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “What about the neighbors, what they gonna say, hey little sister got carried awayyyy,” DeWayne sang in a loud, slurred voice. He reached over to crank up the volume on the cassette deck.

  DeWayne’s buzz had been veering back and forth all day from catatonic stupor to manic lunacy. It was the fifth or sixth time that he had played the song, stopping it at the end to rewind and play it again so he could sing along and play air guitar on the solos. It had been getting on Leonard’s nerves since the second run through.

  “Damn it, DeWayne,” he said, “Shut up for a second and pay attention. ”DeWayne lurched back in the truck seat with his eyes closed, playing air guitar along with Stevie Ray. His back arched orgasmically as he launched into the chorus. Part of the beer in his left hand spilled on his shoulder as he mimed the solo. “Hey, hey…” he wailed. “Look at little sisterrr…”

  “DEWAYNE!” Leonard bellowed. He reached over and turned the stereo off.

  DeWayne’s eyes snapped open. “‘Eyyyy, man,” he whined. “The fuck’d you do that for?”

  “I got no idea where we are, man.” Leonard said. “You been to Crystal’s, I ain’t. You gotta tell me where to go.”

  DeWayne straightened up and look around blearily. He squinted as if to bring the road into better focus. “I’m gettin’ hungry,” he said.

  “One thing at a time, cuz,” Leonard said. “We gotta—”

  “Wait, turn here, man!” DeWayne yelled. “Turn right, turn right!”

  They were almost past the turn. The tires screeched as Leonard instinctively obeyed. The truck rocked up slightly on two wheels.

  “Whoo!” DeWayne shouted. He laughed and drained the last of his beer. “It’s down here at the end.”

  In the daylight, it was apparent that the neighborhood was struggling against becoming decrepit, and losing. Some of the houses were in good repair, others had sagging roofs and trim that was badly in need of fresh paint. There were small clumps of skinny, half-bare trees in some yards. In others, the owners who had apparently given up on even mowing the weeds that grew around the stumps where the trees had once been.