by Mark Gimenez
It was ten that night, and they were sitting on the sofa in Elizabeth Taylor’s room on the second floor of the Paisano Hotel. Book was dictating the Welch brief to Nadine; she was a faster typist than Book. They were trying to get the brief finished before returning to Austin the next morning. His cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID.
‘Shit.’
‘Is shit capitalized?’
‘No.’
‘It’s lower case?’
‘No. I forgot I had a date with Carmen tonight.’
‘I think you’re going to be late.’
He answered the phone. Carmen’s voice came over.
‘I’m waiting.’
‘I’m in Marfa.’
‘So I bought a new thong for nothing.’
Carmen Castro worked as a fitness instructor at Book’s gym in Austin.
‘I’ll be home tomorrow.’
Nadine sneezed.
‘Are you alone?’
‘No, Ms. Honeywell is here.’
‘Who’s Ms. Honeywell?’
‘My intern.’
‘Isn’t there a law about that sort of thing, a professor and a student?’
‘Not in college. It’s considered a perk.’
‘Still, she is a bit young for you.’
‘You’re young for me.’
‘Not that young.’
‘We’re working on a brief.’
‘Just keep your briefs on.’
‘Boxers.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Sorry to ruin your night.’
‘That’s okay. I’ll just go to the gun range instead.’
He ended the call.
‘Is she your girlfriend?’ Nadine asked.
‘Carmen’s a girl and a friend. What about you? You got a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?’
‘I’m straight. I’d know if I weren’t. And no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Guys today, their idea of a date is to go to a sports bar, drink beer, watch a football game, and text their buddies about their fantasy football teams, whatever those are. Sometimes I think it might be good to be a lesbian, I’d have someone to talk to.’
‘There’s always Billy Bob.’
‘Gross. Besides, he’s an Aggie.’
‘Good point.’
‘So your reputation, it’s true?’
‘What reputation?’
‘All your women.’
‘Just rumors.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Okay, where were we on the brief? Oh, read the search-and-seizure cases—’
‘I did. Last year, for your class.’
‘I still can’t place you.’
‘I hid out in the back, behind my laptop. I was too afraid to speak up.’
‘I don’t know why you guys are so afraid of the other students—’
‘We’re afraid of you.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re, like, a god at the law school.’
‘I’m just a teacher. Teaching old cases that don’t make a heck of a lot of difference in people’s lives. But out here, I can make a difference. Sometimes.’
‘But not this time?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘You ready to tell me the story?’
‘What story?’
‘How Nathan saved your life?’
Chapter 19
‘You got me fired, you sorry son of a bitch.’
‘Mr. Koontz, my father was a cop. An honest cop. You’re a disgrace to the badge. Hell, you’re a disgrace to the human race. But you shouldn’t worry about losing your job. You should worry about going to prison. You know what the inmates do to dirty cops in prison?’
Book turned away from Buster Koontz. Turning his back on a dirty cop was a mistake, even in a courthouse. He did not see Buster reach to his leg and draw his backup weapon from a concealed ankle holster.
He pointed the gun at Book and fired.
The first letter had arrived four weeks before, on a Monday, the same day Nathan Jones started his tenure as Book’s intern. His first assignment was to read and write responses to incoming mail, typically letters seeking speaking appearances, blurbs for books, recommendations for employment, and comments on important appellate cases—not letters seeking justice.
‘Professor,’ Nathan had said when Book returned from class, ‘you should read this letter.’
Back in the eighties, the bureaucrats running the war on drugs in Washington dreamed up ‘regional drug task forces.’ The idea was to coordinate law enforcement efforts across jurisdictional boundaries to better combat drug distribution in the U.S. Funded by the Feds, managed by the states, and manned by the locals, the task forces were granted authority to fight the war on drugs across wide swaths of America. But federal funding was ‘incentivized’: the more arrests you made, the more funds you got, similar to farm subsidies. If you subsidize corn, you’ll get more corn; if you subsidize drug arrests, you’ll get more drug arrests. The one thousand drug task forces now make two million drug arrests each year in the U.S. And the key to ‘making the numbers,’ as the arrest game is called, is hiring experienced undercover narcotics agents from outside the locality to come in under fake identities and make the ‘buy-bust’ arrests. These agents move from task force to task force. They are not the Eliot Nesses of law enforcement; they are ‘gypsy cops,’ as they’ve come to be known in the business.
Buster Koontz was one such cop. He saw himself as a Dirty Harry type even though he was short and squat instead of tall and lean like Clint Eastwood. But he was dirty. The badge gave him power, and the power fed his ego. Buster rolled into the small South Texas town in the summer of 2007. In less than a year, he had conducted undercover operations that resulted in the arrest and conviction of fifty-three Hispanics, mostly young Mexican nationals with limited English language skills, all for ‘delivery of a controlled substance,’ i.e., drug dealing. Fifty-three drug dealers in a town of three thousand. His testimony was the only evidence presented at trial. The prosecution offered no corroborating evidence—no surveillance videotapes, no audiotapes, no wiretaps, no photos—nothing except Agent Koontz’s word that he had purchased illegal drugs from the defendants. But his word was enough to secure convictions from juries determined to fight crime in their town and a judge seeking reelection. The mother of one defendant saw Book on television and wrote him the letter. Book turned to his new intern.
‘Mr. Jones, we’re going to South Texas.’
‘Uh, Professor, I’d rather not.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I read it’s kind of dangerous down there, with the drug cartels.’
‘So?’
‘So … I’m afraid.’
‘Nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Jones.’
‘You’re not afraid. Of anything. Even dying.’
‘I’m afraid of not living.’
‘Me, too.’
‘No, you’re afraid of dying, Mr. Jones.’
A week later, Book and Nathan Jones rode the Harley to South Texas. Nathan had conducted an Internet search on Buster Koontz and discovered that his past was checkered, to put it mildly. He was a drug task force hired gun, moving from small town to small town, putting up high conviction rates and then moving on. But scandal lingered behind: allegations that he had committed perjury—one convicted defendant was released from prison when his family produced time-stamped videotapes that proved he was at work when the alleged buy went down; another was released because he had been in jail in another county for drunk driving when Buster testified he had made the buy. Their first encounter with Buster Koontz was less than cordial.
‘I want to commend Agent Koontz for his courage in wiping out the drug trade in our town. His remarkable work has resulted in twenty-two more arrests …’
The local district attorney (up for reelection) was holding a press conference on the steps of the county courthouse to announce the latest victories in the war on drugs. Agent Koontz stood next to him and
basked in the glory. Three print reporters and a camera crew from the Laredo TV station captured the moment. When the D.A. paused, Book jumped in.
‘Mr. District Attorney, are you aware that Agent Koontz produced the same remarkable results with drug task forces in seven other states over the last eleven years, but that many of the convictions based on his testimony are now being overturned because Agent Koontz committed perjury and fabricated evidence. That many of his colleagues on those task forces regarded him as a racist, a liar, a bully, a rogue cop, and even mentally unstable. That—’
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Professor John Bookman, University of Texas School of Law.’
‘And what brings you to our county?’
‘Injustice.’
The D.A. cut short the press conference and retreated to his office in the courthouse. Agent Koontz did not retreat. He fought past the reporters asking if Book’s claims were true and grabbed Book’s arm. Book eyed Buster’s hand and then Buster.
‘You don’t want to do that.’
‘What?’
‘Grab my arm.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m going to break yours.’
‘You threatening a police officer?’
‘I’m threatening a dirty cop.’
Buster released Book’s arm and escaped the reporters and camera by driving off in his black pickup truck. Book gave his information to the media. Once the story broke, the D.A. had no choice but to fire Agent Koontz and announce a grand jury to investigate his actions. Buster Koontz would never again carry a badge.
But in Texas, he could still carry a gun.
Book jumped when the gun discharged. He wheeled around and saw Buster running from the courthouse and Nathan Jones slumped to the floor.
‘Call an ambulance!’
He dropped down and cradled Nathan’s head in his lap then felt his intern’s body for the wound. His hand came back bloody.
‘Nathan, what the hell were you thinking?’
His intern’s eyes blinked open.
‘Professor … you called me Nathan. Not Mr. Jones.’
He passed out.
Nathan Jones had stepped between Buster’s gun and Book’s back. The bullet struck his shoulder; surgery saved his life, as he had saved Book’s. Buster Koontz was found later that day in his truck, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. His days as a cop were over, as were Nathan Jones’s days as Professor Bookman’s intern.
Chapter 20
‘Wow,’ Nadine said. ‘And all I had to do was hit that guy with a beer bottle. What happened to all those people they sent to prison?’
‘The governor pardoned them. They’re back home with their families. Once that story hit the media, the letters started coming, never stopped.’
‘Those drug task forces are scary.’
‘They are. Bush tried to defund the task forces, but members of Congress don’t get reelected by being soft on crime, so they funded them anyway. After this case and several other scandals, the governor disbanded the task forces in Texas.’
‘Professor, I understand now, why we came. Why you had to come. Why you care so much about Nathan Jones.’
‘Nathan saved my life, so I wanted his death to be something more than an accident, to have a greater meaning. To make sense. But it was just a senseless accident. Just a coincidence that he died the same day he mailed the letter. No one took the bait. There was no proof of contamination. No evidence of a crime. No murder mystery. That’s what we learned today, Ms. Honeywell.’
Book’s cell phone rang again. It was Joanie. She again pleaded for him to put their mother in a home. After a moment, he checked out of the conversation.
‘Book—don’t do that.’
‘What?’
‘Check out.’ She sighed. ‘Book, you’ve been my big brother for thirty-one years. You took Dad’s place when I was ten. You rode me to school on your bike, you protected me from bullies—’
His dad had taught Book the basics of self-defense in the backyard. After he died, the anger that consumed Book had given him strength. The school bullies were big and mean; Book was mad at the world. They didn’t stand a chance. But the anger threatened to destroy the boy, so his mother had put him in a taekwondo class, her version of anger management for her teenage son. It worked. Taekwondo taught him to control his emotions and to channel his anger into martial arts. He came to each class filled with anger and left with a sense of peace. He now taught the class to other angry young boys.
‘—but I’m married now. You need to consider what I think. And what Dennis thinks.’
‘I don’t care what Dennis thinks.’
‘He’s a doctor.’
‘He’s not her son. Or her daughter.’
She again sighed into the phone. ‘When are you coming home?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘What about the dead lawyer?’
‘It was just an accident.’
‘Good. Because I worry when—’
Book heard the distinctive discharge of a shotgun below their window fronting Texas Street and dove for Nadine just as the glass exploded and buckshot peppered the opposite wall. She screamed. He covered her on the floor and heard a roaring engine and screeching tires outside and Joanie’s voice on the phone.
‘Book! Book!’
He stayed low and reached for the phone.
‘Joanie.’
‘Book, what was that?’
‘Gunfire.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘We’re okay.’
‘We who?’
‘Me and Ms. Honeywell.’
‘Who’s Ms. Honeywell?’
‘My new intern.’
‘What happened to Renée?’
‘She quit.’
‘Why?’
‘Gunfire.’
He disconnected his sister. Nadine had curled into the fetal position on the floor; her body was shaking uncontrollably. He brushed glass shards off her. She cried.
‘You’re okay, Ms. Honeywell. They weren’t trying to hurt us, not with a shotgun. They’re just trying to scare us off.’
‘I’m not crying about that.’
‘Then what are you crying about?’
‘Because we can’t go home now. A fish just took the bait.’
Chapter 21
Book opened his eyes, but lay still. It was morning, but something wasn’t right. Someone was in the room. Someone was in the bed. Someone’s arm was stretched across his bare chest. Someone’s face was plastered against his shoulder, covered by a mane of black hair. Someone’s drool wet his skin. He turned to the someone.
Nadine Honeywell.
He remembered now. Her window had been blown out by the shotgun blast. So she had slept in his room. He had offered her the bed, but she opted for the couch. She stirred awake and realized her position. She didn’t move.
‘I got scared on the couch.’
‘I said you could sleep in the bed.’
‘I did.’
She removed her arm, peeled her face from his shoulder, wiped her drool from his skin—
‘Sorry.’
—and rolled over onto her back. They both stared at the ceiling. She finally spoke in a soft voice.
‘I’ve never slept with a man before.’
‘We only slept, Ms. Honeywell.’
‘I’ve had sex, once, but it wasn’t an overnight thing. It was a back-seat-in-high-school-with-a-jerk thing. I tried a few more times, but like I said, after I got my clothes off, turned out they were gay. Awkward moment.’
‘I bet it was.’
‘No. This moment.’
She lay silent, which made the moment even more awkward.
‘Sorry, Professor. In awkward moments, I tend to over-share.’
He decided to change the subject. ‘You want to run with me?’
She groaned. ‘Don’t tell me it’s only dawn?’
‘I’m afraid so. So how about it?’<
br />
‘Please, Professor. My generation does not run at dawn. We stay up late and sleep late.’
‘I’ll bring you breakfast.’
‘That egg, cheese, and ham baguette, waffle with chocolate syrup and whipped cream, Strawberry Banana Cabana smoothie, and a large coffee with real cream.’
‘Fear doesn’t dampen your appetite.’
‘A girl’s got to eat.’
‘I’ll be back in an hour.’
‘I’ll be here.’
Book got out of bed; he wore long boxers. Nadine pulled the comforter over her head and said, ‘Lock the door.’
An hour later, Book had run five miles around town and then stopped off at SqueezeMarfa. He bought breakfast and headed back to the hotel. He turned the corner off Lincoln Street and onto Highland Avenue and saw a Presidio County Sheriff’s Department cruiser parked out front of the Paisano one block down. He broke into a run and sprinted past the front desk—
‘Another night, Professor?’ the desk clerk asked.
‘Every night until further notice.’
—and up the stairs and down the corridor to his room. He found Nadine in the shower. Steam filled the bathroom.
‘You okay?’
‘Professor!’
‘Sorry.’
He placed the breakfast on the kitchen counter then went next door to Nadine’s room. He found Sheriff Munn standing at the blown-out window and a young female deputy digging with a pocketknife into the sheetrock on the opposite wall. Her blonde hair was pulled back but strands fell into her face; she wore a snug-fitting uniform that emphasized her curves and carried a big gun in a leather holster. She looked like Marilyn Monroe in a deputy’s uniform. She smiled.
‘Well, hidee there.’
She put a hand on her holstered gun and jutted her hip out. She gave him a once-over and a coy look; he wore only running shorts and shoes. He caught a faint whiff of perfume, not standard equipment on most of the law enforcement personnel he had encountered. She blew hair from her face.