Dark Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “No.” Granny laid her hands firmly on the table. “That is not going to happen.”

  “But the law requires—”

  “The law requires us to turn over any potentially exculpatory evidence. But this half-baked theory of yours isn’t exculpatory. It doesn’t make the case against Zakin any weaker. It just creates the possibility of a wild-goose chase and a distraction the defense can use at trial to confuse the jury.”

  “He has a right to know about any potential suspects.”

  “Who considers this … Vincenzo a suspect? I don’t. Do you?”

  Kip and Troy both shook their heads rapidly.

  “However tenuous,” Peggy said, “there is a potential connection.”

  “Am I to inform defense counsel of every criminal in town? Or in this case, every potential but as yet uncharged criminal? I don’t think so.”

  Peggy didn’t know what to say. The law was clear. But Granny seemed determined to ignore it.

  There was a long and very unpleasant silence.

  “Give me the Vincenzo file, Peggy.”

  Peggy reluctantly complied.

  “I’ll refile this. Where it belongs.”

  Yeah, Peggy thought. Like in the incinerator.

  “If we had any hard evidence pointing toward this drug kingpin,” Granny continued, “I’d agree with you, Peggy. But I will not feed the defense an escape hatch by creating a connection that doesn’t exist. We have an obligation to produce evidence, not to invent theories.” She leveled her gaze, finding Peggy’s eyes and fixing upon them. “And furthermore, my dear, let me tell you something that is the law. Granny’s law, if you will. I expect—no, require absolute loyalty from my staff. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, ma am.”

  “If you’re with me, I want you with me one hundred percent. Otherwise, you can get the hell out.”

  Peggy pressed her lips together.

  “I’m waiting for an answer, Peggy. Are you with me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. One hundred percent.”

  Granny waited a good long time before she released Peggy from her penetrating gaze. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. I was beginning to wonder.”

  Peggy tried to read the expression on the dragon lady’s face. Did she still wonder? Did she still have doubts about Peggy? If she did, that could be fatal to Peggy’s employment status.

  Granny spouted a few more “go, team, go” platitudes, then walked briskly out of the conference room. Peggy noticed that Kip and Troy both left without saying a word to her. She had obtained pariah status; none of the suck-ups would have anything to do with her till they were sure she was back on Granny’s good side.

  She was relieved that the meeting was over but disturbed at the result. She knew damn well they were obligated to produce the Vincenzo evidence. True, the evidence against Zakin was enormous, but courts had made mistakes before. And with someone like Granny in charge, anything could happen. What if this suppression of evidence caused an innocent man to be convicted, even executed, for a crime he didn’t commit?

  And if she participated in the suppression of evidence, she would be just as liable—just as guilty—as Granny. In fact, if it were to ever come out, Peggy wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t turn out to be all her fault.

  But what could she do? Granny had made her decision and would never reconsider it.

  And she couldn’t cross Granny, could she? If Granny ever found out …

  Peggy ran to her office and slammed the door behind her. There had to be something she could do, something that allowed her to keep her job, keep paying the bills, not be disbarred, and still not commit a sin a thousand rosaries couldn’t wash away.

  But what was it?

  Chapter 18

  BEN WAS HARD AT work at the tiny desk in the closet they were currently calling his office when he heard a knock at the door.

  Who was that? he wondered. Couldn’t be Christina. She never knocked. “Come in.”

  The door opened, and a strapping mountain of a man stepped inside.

  “Loving!” Ben rose to greet his investigator, shaking his powerful hand. Loving probably outweighed Ben by a hundred pounds, and it was all muscle. Strength radiated from every part of his body. Ben had first met Loving on the wrong side of a gun, but he had somehow parlayed that unfortunate confrontation into a close working relationship and friendship.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said you’d make good time. I can’t believe you’re already here.”

  Loving shrugged awkwardly. Nothing like watching a mountain-size man act sheepish. “Aw, it wasn’t nothin’, Skipper. Just pulled a few strings at the airlines.”

  Pulled a few strings? Ben wondered. Or bashed a few heads?

  “Talked to your cop buddy Mike Morelli before I left. He wanted to come, but he’s buried in some triple homicide shoot-out on the Fifteenth Street bridge. He said to call if you need help.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “And Jones has been burnin’ the midnight oil, running up his Internet bill tryin’ to get you background info. He says he’ll be FedExing you a report tomorrow morning.”

  “Excellent.” Ben smiled. “We’ve already got a trial date hanging over our heads, and it’s not far away, either. I’m going to try to meet all the key witnesses, but I can’t possibly do everything that needs to be done in the time remaining.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Skipper. Just tell me what to do.”

  “Great. My primary concern right now is the victim, a logger named Dwayne Gardiner. The prosecution is trying to paint the killing as politically motivated—an eco-terrorist takes out a tree killer. But Gardiner was also shot before the explosion that burned him to death. That seems unnecessary, especially if the only motive was stopping the clear-cutting.”

  “You wanna know why he was shot first.”

  “You read my mind. There are a bunch of bars and pool halls and such where the loggers congregate during their off-hours. I’d like you to hang around, see if you can get to know these men a little.”

  “And see what I can find out about this Gardiner.”

  “Exactly. You never know what you might turn up. Anything could be useful.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “In time. I suspect I’m going to need someone to do some digging into Green Rage. See if there are any secrets I need to know about. They just lost one of their top members. I’d like to know why.”

  “Can’t you just ask your client and his pals?”

  “I can ask,” Ben said. “But I can’t always be sure about what I’m being told. Anyway, first things first. See what you can learn about Gardiner—”

  Christina burst through the door. She was carrying a huge cardboard box, practically big enough to hold a refrigerator. She smiled and greeted Loving.

  “What’s that?” Ben asked. With the three of them and the box in his pseudo-office, there was barely enough room to move. He was beginning to feel distinctly claustrophobic.

  “These are the prosecution’s exhibits,” she answered. “The ones that can’t be photocopied.”

  “When can we expect the ones that can be photocopied?”

  “They say they’re still working on it. Which is to say, they’re taking their time and will push it just as long as they think they can without causing you to run to the judge.”

  Ben peered at the huge box. “This seems like an odd way to produce physical evidence.”

  “I think it would be fair to say this is the way calculated to be least convenient to the defense,” Christina replied. “Some of the clerks in the filing office gave me the skinny. Granny’s put the word out—she wants everyone to be as uncooperative and obstructive as possible, within the letter of the law.”

  “But why?”

  “Because she wants to win, Ben. She wants to win big.”

  Ben peered over the edge of the box. “Anything in here of interest?”

  “Oh yeah.” Christina reac
hed inside. “Here’s something the cops found after the murder—in George Zakin’s tent.” She pulled out a huge mess of cloth and fur; to Ben, it looked like a wadded-up throw rug.

  “I don’t follow. What is it?”

  Christina shook it out to its full length. It was as long as a tall man, covered with black hair and fur—with a zipper up the back.

  That was the first thing Ben noticed. The second thing he noticed was the mask, apelike and entirely black.

  And the third thing he noticed was the abominable smell—worse than the worst skunk that ever walked the face of the planet. What was it?

  Ben slapped his forehead. Of course. It was a Halloween costume.

  Sasquatch.

  “WHY DIDN’T YOU tell me?”

  Zak ran his fingers through his long, unkempt hair. “I just didn’t think it was important. I didn’t want to confuse the issues.”

  “Confuse the issues? What the hell are you talking about?” Ben grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him back onto his cot. “You’re on trial for murder!”

  “It’s just politics, man.”

  “Let me give you a news flash, Zak. I’ve spoken to the prosecutor personally, and I don’t think she’s remotely interested in politics, except maybe her own reelection. What she cares about is preserving her win-loss record and seeing you jabbed with a lethal syringe!”

  “She’s just a pawn, Ben. There are larger forces at work here.”

  “Larger forces? What are we talking about here? Global conspiracies? Covert government operations? ’Cause I’d really like to know.”

  “Don’t be patronizing. I’m talking about the Cabal. The million-dollar mob. Their dirty tricks make our monkeywrenching tactics look like kid stuff.”

  “I think we’re getting a bit off the subject. Why did you lie to me about the Sasquatch suit?”

  “I didn’t want Green Rage to get distracted. I didn’t want to feed Slade and the logging machine any ammunition.”

  “So you lied to your lawyer.”

  Zak extended his hands. “Look, the suit was no big deal. I never even wore it.”

  “Someone did.”

  “You’re assuming all those rubes who reported seeing Bigfoot saw someone wearing my suit. For all I know they saw the real thing.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “It wasn’t even my idea. Some of the other nitwits in the group bought this Bigfoot suit, and they’d been running around in it before I even showed up here. I thought their suit looked particularly stupid and unconvincing, so I got my own. It was a first-class outfit. Very handsome and manly. Bigfoot had a bright red nose, like Rudolph or something. But Green Rage put the kibosh on that particular program, so I never got to wear it. Never even showed it to anyone. In fact, I threw it away.”

  “The cops found it in your tent.”

  “Not my suit. That’s the original one. The boring number Green Rage had before I made the scene.”

  “Why would it be in your tent?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t put it there.”

  “The prosecution has tested it. They’ve found traces of sweat and skin flecks. They say it was worn—recently.”

  “Not by me.”

  “Then who?”

  “How should I know? Our camp was hardly a high-security compound. Anyone could’ve gotten in there and gotten the suit. And put it in my tent when they were done.”

  “Now you’re sounding paranoid.”

  “You have no idea what these Cabal people are capable of. I do.” He leaned forward, arms outstretched. “It’s just a stupid suit. It doesn’t matter.”

  Ben wanted to beat his head against the cell bars, but he managed to exercise some measure of restraint. “The prosecution knows someone was behind all the Sasquatch sightings. You had the perfect motive. And now they find the suit in your tent. They’re gonna tell the jury you’re Bigfoot.”

  “And that makes me a murderer?”

  “Granny’s theory will go something like this: First, the fact that you were prancing around in a Bigfoot suit explains why you would be out in the forest late at night.”

  “I was always out in the forest late at night.”

  “But they need you to be doing something you shouldn’t. That’s how they get to motive. They’ll say you were trying to instigate false Bigfoot sightings—and maybe planting a few bombs on logging machinery for good measure. And this logger, Dwayne Gardiner, spots Bigfoot and decides to have a few words with the prehistoric beast. Maybe even take him back to camp to see his boss. You panic and shoot him. But to your horror, he doesn’t die right away. So you put him on the tree cutter and blow him to kingdom come.”

  “That isn’t right. It didn’t happen that way.”

  Ben arched an eyebrow. “Then how did it happen?”

  “I—I mean—I wasn’t there.”

  Ben took a few short steps until the two men were standing very close to one another. “Now listen to me, Zak. And listen good. I will not put up with this.”

  “You’re not backing out, are you?”

  “I can’t back out. It’s too close to trial. The judge wouldn’t let me quit even if I asked. But I can tell you this.” He planted a finger square in Zak’s chest. “I will not put up with any lying. You must tell me everything, the good and the bad. I’ve never had a case that didn’t have some bad facts and I probably never will. But if I know about them in advance, I can prepare. I can be the one who tells the jury about it up front, to soften the impact. But I can’t do any of that if you don’t tell me the truth!”

  Zak held up his hands. “All right, man. I got it. It won’t happen again.”

  “And to make sure it doesn’t, Zak, let me ask you again. Is there anything else you haven’t told me? Anything that might be potentially damaging to us at trial? Anything?”

  “No, man. Nothing. Definitely not.”

  “Be sure, Zak. Be absolutely sure.”

  “I am. I am.”

  Ben waited a long moment before speaking again. “I’m warning you …”

  “There’s nothing else, man. I promise. And if I think of anything later, I’ll call you.”

  “You do that.” Ben reached through the bars and rapped on the outer wall—the signal to the sheriff that he was ready to leave. “How am I going to explain this to the jury? I don’t suppose we can say you were preparing early for trick or treat?”

  Zak tilted his head to one side. “Well …”

  “Or maybe you’d been invited to a masquerade ball?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Or maybe you were satisfying your angora fetish.”

  Zak gave him an unamused look.

  “Well, I’ll keep working on it. Can I ask you one more question?”

  “Sure. Shoot.”

  “I may be sorry I asked, but”—Ben’s face squinched up—“why does the suit smell so bad?”

  “That’s easy. Most of the reports of close encounters with Bigfoot have mentioned his tremendous stench. Really horrible—worse than dead animals that have been left out in the sun. It’s a Bigfoot calling card.”

  “And you wanted to be authentic.”

  “Of course.” Zak shrugged his shoulders. “What’s the point of having a fake if it isn’t real?”

  Chapter 19

  BEN APPROACHED THE SAWMILL with considerable trepidation. Maureen had warned him he would feel this way, but he hadn’t believed it until he arrived. After all, he was an impartial participant. He was a lawyer representing a client, conducting an interview relating to a murder case. He was not necessarily involved in the political issues that underlay the conflict.

  He just hoped everyone else understood that.

  He parked his rental car and started up the dirt path that wound toward the main building—a huge log-and-sideboard structure at the edge of the Crescent National Forest. As Maureen had explained to him, the sawmill had been there since the 1950s, processing tons of lumber on a daily basis for any number of
logging sites.

  Even from a good distance away, Ben could hear the teeth-grinding sound of the sawmill at work. It was a shrill, piercing sound, like a dentist’s drill magnified a thousand times over. Except instead of opening a root canal to save an abscessed tooth, it was splitting, pulping, and destroying hundreds of years and thousands of acres of wild growth.

  Ben brushed shoulders with several loggers making their way out of the main building. He was pleased to see that, contrary to stereotype, they did not all wear flannel shirts. Jeans and T-shirts seemed more the current fashion. But then, it was still summer. Maybe the flannel came out later in the year.

  He saw a group of loggers off to one side whispering. One of them glanced at Ben, then lowered his head into the communal huddle. If I were a paranoid man, Ben thought, I’d think they were talking about me.

  And then he saw one of the men in the huddle jerk his thumb in Ben’s direction.

  That settled it. Paranoid or not, Ben was the topic of conversation.

  Ben was so busy watching the huddle that he almost walked right into the man standing directly in front of him.

  “Oops!” Ben put on the brakes at the last possible minute. “Sorry about that.”

  The man didn’t move. He didn’t smile, either. “You don’t look like you belong here. Got some ID?”

  “What is this, a gestapo camp? You need ID just to get in?”

  “We have to be careful. There are terrorists in the area who would love nothing more than to see this mill blown to bits.”

  “Well, I can assure you I’m no terrorist.”

  “Didn’t I see you at the courthouse?”

  Ben’s heart skipped a beat. “Courthouse? Me? You must be thinking of my older brother.”

  “No. It was you.” He placed his fists firmly on his hips. “You’re the lawyer. The one who’s representing the killer.”

  Ben swallowed a big gulp of air. “Yes, I’m a lawyer. And I’m here on official business.” He noticed that the larger group of men at the side were slowly edging in his direction. “So if you’ll please just step aside …”

  “You’ve got some nerve, showing your face here. After what happened to Dwayne.”