The Conviction

by Robert Dugoni

  “So when I heard you’d been thrown in jail by Judge Earl I figured you wouldn’t be making checkout. Your stuff’s at the police impound.”

  Sloane bit his tongue. “Where might that be?”

  “Down the road. Look for the foundry. You’ll see signs. You’ll need to settle our bill first, though.”

  “We already paid for the room,” Sloane said.

  “You paid for one night. You missed checkout. I had to charge you a penalty.”

  Sloane sensed what was coming. “And how much is the penalty?”

  “Four hundred dollars. Two hundred a room.”

  “That’s more than the rental rate.”

  The man shrugged. “Like I said, it’s a penalty.”

  Sloane leaned across the counter. “I’m not paying you four hundred dollars. I’m not paying you a dollar. And if you try to charge our credit cards I’ll call and have the charges removed, tell the company they’re fraudulent, just like you.” He turned from the counter, Molia with him.

  “I could call the police,” the man said.

  Molia spun so hard and fast the man stepped away from the counter. “You do that. And you make sure it’s that wannabe rent-a-cop, Wade, who comes looking for us because I am just itching to see him again.”

  SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS

  The sun beat mercilessly, the heat seeming to attack not only from above but to also rise up from the ground, penetrating the soles of his boots. Bent over, Jake’s body convulsed, stomach muscles wracked by pain, throat burning from the acidic phlegm that made him continue to gag uncontrollably.

  “Not much for the great outdoors, are you, Jake?” Atkins held two leashes, the dogs attached to them no longer pulling them taut. The animals, some type of hound, though sleek in build, had sat as instructed, tongues hanging out the sides of their mouths, chests panting, eyes darting from Jake to their master, eager to get started again.

  Jake had no idea how long or far they had hiked. Wrists cuffed to the chain around his waist, he used the shoulder of his red coveralls to wipe his mouth. “Are we done?”

  Captain Overbay got up from the boulder on which he sat, rifle in hand, barrel pointing at the cloudless sky. “Done? We haven’t even started hunting yet.” Eyes again hidden behind sunglasses, his face revealed no expression. “And the dogs have to be run, Stand-up. Dogs are trained to behave through repetition. When you take dogs from their pens and put a leash on them, take them into the mountains, they expect to hunt. It’s bred into them. We’re going to train you the same way.” Overbay looked about the landscape of boulders and trees while wiping a red bandanna across his neck and chest. “You see a rabbit, Stand-up?”

  Jake didn’t bother to look. He just wanted to get the hike over with. “No.”

  “Well, I guess we have two options. Your choice. One, we continue on until we see one, or two, we find something else for the dogs to hunt.” The corners of Overbay’s mouth lifted slightly. “What’ll it be, Stand-up?”

  “I don’t care,” Jake said.

  “Well then, I’ll decide for you. You got a ten-minute head start.”

  Jake’s reflection stared back at him in the lenses of the captain’s sunglasses. “What?”

  “Start running, son.”

  “You can’t shoot me.”

  Overbay smiled. “I told you, Stand-up. I can shoot anything that runs.” He considered his watch. “And the clock’s ticking.”

  TRULUCK FOUNDRY

  TRULUCK, CALIFORNIA

  Sloane did not see signs indicating a police impound. The hand-painted wooden sign above the canopy of the building at the eastern edge of Truluck identified it to be a foundry, but that was likely 160 years earlier, when the town had been flush with residents in need of metal tools for digging the gold out of the hillsides and to pan the river. With that no longer the case, the present renter had turned the building into an antique store. The porch overflowed with period furniture, metal bed frames, light fixtures, and trinkets tourists would buy to commemorate their visit. Inside, clutter filled the shelves and spilled onto nearly every square inch of the wood plank floor. The shop had the same musty odor as damp wood that never quite dries out, despite the efforts of an oscillating fan near a glass countertop displaying rings, necklaces, and metal bracelets. A man behind the counter wore a white T-shirt with a Harley-Davidson motorcycle above the words HOG WILD, gold and silver bracelets like the ones on display, and rings wrapping every finger.

  “We’re looking for the police impound,” Molia said. “Someone directed us here.”

  “Yeah, I got the call you’d be coming.” The man hooked one thumb behind a brass belt buckle bearing the image of a miner carrying a lantern, a pickax over his other shoulder and the words UNITED MINE WORKERS OF AMERICA circumventing the oval. “I have it out back. Four backpacks.”

  Molia looked about. “This is the impound?”

  “Today it is.”

  “What’s that mean?” Sloane asked.

  “It means, today it’s the police impound.”

  “So how much do we owe you?” Sloane asked, again sensing where the conversation was heading.

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  “Five hundred dollars,” Sloane said, unable to keep from chuckling. “You’ve had the stuff for less than an hour.”

  “It’s a flat fee.”

  “Today anyway?” Sloane asked.

  “That’s right,” the man said.

  Molia pounded a fist on the counter, rattling the glass. The man jumped. “You listen to me and you listen good,” Molia said. The veins in his neck bulged.

  Sloane stepped between Molia and the counter. “Hang on. Hang on.”

  “I’m calling the police,” the man said.

  “Just hang on,” Sloane said. “You don’t need to call the police.” Sloane walked Molia away from the counter, lowering his voice. “Neither of us is going to do our sons any good in jail,” he said.

  Molia did not respond. He was breathing heavily, and his focus remained on the man behind the counter.

  “Let me handle this. Tom?”

  Molia’s gaze shifted to Sloane.

  “Let me handle this.”

  Sloane walked back to the counter. The man adjusted his glasses. “I don’t like being threatened,” he said, trying to sound tough though his words came out tentative and he looked unnerved.

  “Okay, fine. Five hundred dollars,” Sloane started.

  Molia stepped forward. “What? You’re not honestly—”

  Sloane put up a hand. Molia stepped back. “If you’ll just show me your California license authorizing your establishment to impound possessions, we’ll be happy to pay and get on our way.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You do have a license, don’t you?” When the man didn’t immediately respond Sloane said, “You need a license to impound another person’s possessions in the State of California. Otherwise it’s just extortion, and that’s a serious crime. The newspapers and television people would love to get ahold of a story like that, tourists being exploited. You’d likely lose your business license as well as go to jail.”

  “Funny you should bring up the subject of crimes, seeing as how you just skipped out on a hotel bill.”

  Sloane shrugged. “You can explain that to the state officials when they come to discuss the complaint I’ll be filing against you.”

  “Wait.” The man glared, but the game of chicken didn’t last long. “Like I said, stuff’s out back.”

  They found the four backpacks on a cluttered patio. “An impound license?” Molia asked, eyebrows arched and unable to suppress a grin.

  Sloane smiled. “I figured they have departments for just about everything in California, don’t they?”

  SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS

  The dogs gained ground. Jake could not see them, but the rabidity and volume of their wailing and bawling had increased as they neared, sensing him, perhaps smelling his scent. Their barking echoed across the ca
nyons and reverberated off the mountains, sounding as if the two had become many, a pack encircling him, closing in.

  He climbed over fallen trees and boulders, the altitude causing his lungs to ache. The back of his throat burned. He had fled at too quick a pace, fueled by adrenaline and fear. The lactic acid burned deep in his muscles and he now ran on fumes. He’d unzipped the upper half of his coveralls and folded them to his waist, but as the dogs neared, the echo of their yowls made him pull the fabric back over his bare skin.

  He followed no discernible path, his only goal to climb higher. A steep pitch, his legs labored as the rock and shale gave way with each step, dirt and gravel avalanches leaving a trail of dust down the mountain. When he fell he scrambled like a bear on all fours.

  Reaching the peak, he turned and looked down, hands on thighs, emitting great gasps and moans. The muscles of his legs and feet cramped, and his chest felt as if someone had reached inside and gripped his heart. Light-headed, his vision spotted black and white, but he could still make out the dogs, tethered together, pulling Atkins up the mountain. The captain trudged behind them not looking at all pleased, his khaki shirt darkened with sweat. Something told Jake this was not what they had expected.

  He plunged down the other side, an equally steep pitch, leaning back, fighting gravity, using a hop and a slide in the loose terrain. The descent would slow the dogs’ pursuit, but they’d never quit. He remembered that from the movie his uncle Charlie liked so much, Cool Hand Luke. The dogs would run themselves to death before they quit.

  He stumbled and lost his balance, pitching over like a tired skier on a steep run leaning too far forward and unable to correct his weight distribution. He had the presence of mind to tuck and roll as he fell, using his arms to protect his head. The ground slammed hard against his back and shoulders, the loose rock scraping and tearing at his forearms and biceps. He managed to swing his legs in front and dig in with the heels of his boots, skidding and sliding, splinters of pain shimmying up his legs. He came to a stop in a cloud of dust.

  His tumult had increased the distance between him and his pursuers, but it would be a short reprieve. Only the human at the end of the leash prevented the dogs from already overtaking him. He rose in pain but continued to where the ground flattened at the tree line, picking and weaving his own path through the brush and twisted wood. He heard the roar of water, like the din of rush-hour traffic on a freeway, and moved toward it. The water would be cold, winter snowmelt, but it would quench his thirst and might provide him a means to escape.

  He pushed through brush and abruptly stopped, standing at the edge of a sharp drop above a swollen river of white water crashing into and over large boulders. Nowhere to go. “Shit.” He turned from the edge and pushed back through the brush, continuing into a forest of mature trees. The canopy prevented heavy undergrowth, which left the ground a bed of pine needles and boulders. It was easier to maneuver, but left no place to hide.

  The dogs bellowed, drawing near.

  He looked back over his shoulder and saw the dogs come out of the brush, tugging and straining their leashes, fighting to be set loose with their prey now in sight. Atkins held the end of the leash; the veins in his arm as swollen as the river. Overbay materialized behind them.

  Atkins smiled. Then he bent, and unleashed the dogs.

  Overbay raised the rifle.

  Jake fled.

  The blunt pain struck him between the shoulder blades, a piercing blow his weakened leg muscles could not absorb. He fell, rose to a knee, turned. The dogs bounded forward, each stride eating up huge chunks of ground. Ears pinned back, mouths open, they advanced with menacing grins.

  Overbay reshouldered the rifle.

  The second shot hit Jake square in the chest.

  NINE

  THE TRISTAN MOTEL

  TRISTAN, CALIFORNIA

  The green and white highway sign marking Tristan listed to the side, and the town didn’t seem far from toppling into extinction itself. The sign indicated a population of just 565, but even that was hard to believe. As far as Sloane could tell, Tristan consisted of a Valero gas station with an attached minimart, a stock and feed store, and a tired-looking, single-story stucco strip mall, the windows mostly vacant. A headless mannequin in a bridal gown stood out in front of one of the shops. Another in its window faced the parking lot. Two doors down a sign advertised a real estate office. Both seemed equally unlikely to attract much business.

  Molia likened the town to the rural towns in West Virginia. The population, he surmised, lived down the dirt tributaries off the asphalt road, beyond where the eye could see, past the gnarled black and white oaks and sunburned grass hills. He pointed out barbed wire and split rail fences, which he said would have had no use if there wasn’t livestock to keep from meandering onto the road, and livestock meant people.

  The Tristan Motel sat kitty-corner from the gas station. A one-story, corrugated block building, it had been cut into the hillside, the dirt and shale beneath the grass a rust color. When Sloane pushed out of the comfort of the air-conditioned car the blistering air buzzed with swarms of hidden insects, and high overhead buzzards circled against a cloudless, pale blue sky.

  The woman in the manager’s office gave them the keys to rooms 5 and 6, which she said would be cooler, since the sun did not beat on them directly during the heat of the day. You could have fooled Sloane. When he pushed open the door to room 5 he felt as if he had stepped inside an oven, the air stale and reeking of cigarettes and the antiseptic smell of whatever chemical had been used to clean the bathroom.

  Molia tinkered with the knobs on a portable air conditioner framed into the window, his eyes puffy and red. He’d called Maggie, and Sloane deduced from his solemn demeanor that the call had been an emotional one and had not gone well, though Molia had offered no specifics. Sloane had also called Frank Carter. He provided the facts with as much patience and as many details as he could, as well as explaining the efforts he would undertake to get Jake out. To his credit, Frank had offered to drive to Tristan, but Sloane advised against it, telling Frank there was nothing he could do, and they couldn’t even visit Jake for the first thirty days.

  When Sloane stepped outside to open the door to room 6 his cell phone rang.

  “How far are you?” he asked.

  Lisa Lynch had spent the late morning and early afternoon obtaining equipment and supplies they would need to set up a portable office to create and file pleadings. He also asked her to send an associate out to buy him appropriate courtroom attire: a sport coat and slacks, dress shirts, a tie, and shoes.

  Lynch said she had been delayed in traffic getting out of Oakland and again on the outskirts of Sacramento, but the line of cars was now moving and she expected to arrive within the hour. Sloane provided her the address for the motel to plug into her GPS.

  “Tristan isn’t coming up,” she said. “What’s the next biggest town?”

  “Big is relative,” he said. “Try Truluck. It has a post office, so it’s probably on some map.” He spelled it for her.

  “Got it.”

  “Tristan is about fifteen minutes before Truluck. Look for a Valero gas station. The motel is across the highway.”

  “That nice, huh?”

  Sloane had stepped inside what would be Lynch’s room to turn on the air conditioner. It emitted only a trickle of cool air. “Think the Four Seasons of Winchester County,” he said.

  An hour later, Sloane and Molia carried laptop computers, a seventeen-inch flat-screen monitor, a high-speed printer, and a portable fax machine and scanner from the back of Lynch’s car into room 6. At least Lynch had maintained a sense of humor.

  “I see you took the suite with the Jacuzzi tub and wet bar for yourselves,” she said upon entering.

  The air conditioner had cooled the room to sweltering, which was a notch below oven. After unloading the supplies, Molia went across the street to the convenience store and returned with cold drinks. Lynch pressed a can against her for
ehead and cheeks while fanning her sleeveless cotton shirt in front of the air conditioner. With her hair in a ponytail and dressed in shorts and flip-flops she looked ten years younger than she did in court.

  Lynch linked the computer to her iPhone and pulled up a satellite image using a search engine to point out the location of the Fresh Start Youth Training Facility on the edge of the Eldorado National Forest. “It’s rugged country,” she said, which Sloane could deduce from the heavy green canopy surrounding the facility. Fresh Start looked to be half a dozen buildings surrounding a rectangular plot of dirt. “There’s nothing up there, which is usually where these types of camps get put. The remote location deters thoughts of escape and allows for excursions outside the facility without encountering the general public.”

  “What did you find out about this one in particular?” Sloane asked.

  Lynch opened another file on the computer. “Not much. It’s flown pretty much under the radar since it opened.” She clicked on several icons. Newspaper articles appeared on the screen. “It’s a former Conservation Corps Camp. California sold it off to help alleviate its financial crises, and Winchester had it converted to a juvenile detention facility to replace an outdated county facility, but not everyone was in favor of the switch.”

  “Who opposed it?” Sloane asked.

  “The correctional officers union, for one, but maybe that was to be expected, since closing the old facility put them out of jobs. They said there was nothing wrong with the old facility, that it met all state regulations and applicable codes.”

  “Did it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s find out. Anyone else?”

  She scribbled a note. “In general there’s been increased opposition to the idea of boot camps. I don’t want to alarm either of you…”

  Molia shook his head. “Trust me, after the day we’ve had, not much else would register on the alarming scale.”

  “I found some articles of physical and emotional abuse at some of these facilities. The most egregious was the death of a sixteen-year-old boy in Utah who had been branded a malingerer when in reality he had a serious medical condition.”