Above the Law

by J. F. Freedman

  “Not if you take this all the way,” he said, stubborn as an ox.

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “I’ve gone through your evidence. It’s all circumstantial.”

  “So what? Circumstantial evidence is often better than so-called hard evidence, you know that.”

  “Not this time.”

  He was starting to annoy me. I don’t mind sparring with opponents this way, but you say your piece and then you drop it, at least until the actual trial.

  “Like I said, I’ll take my chances. I’ve got a great case, and you know that,” I said, pushing him.

  “No eyewitnesses. No murder weapon.”

  I threw up my hands. “Save it for trial, okay?”

  “You’ll be sorry.”

  I had to answer that. “Your client placed himself above the law. I’m not dropping that. I’m surprised you’re in here like this, John Q. I’m surprised you took this case on, to tell you the truth.”

  “He’s innocent, Luke.”

  “Oh, shit. Spare me.”

  “He is.”

  “How do you explain his actions that night, then? He took the law into his own hands, he went in with an improper warrant, the prisoner was murdered on his watch!”

  “That makes him the killer? There were sixty people there that night. More that you don’t know about.”

  “Like who? You going to produce some surprise witness at trial? I’ve seen your discovery, John Q., your witness list. Don’t jerk me off, okay? Not for this.”

  “Luke…” He looked at me with a pitiable expression, like I was about to do something terrible to myself and he was trying as hard as he could to stop me.

  “What about the sister’s testimony?” I barked at him. “That means nothing to you, right?”

  He sat back, momentarily deflated. “That’s not good.”

  At least he was admitting that.

  “Not good? It’s terrible. It’s prime motive.”

  Even as I was saying that, I cautioned myself to be careful not to let him suck me into a trial before the trial. I was holding all the aces. Showing him my hand, even one card, was foolish. He was baiting me—I had to hold back from taking the hook.

  “Let me ask you a question,” he said in a more conciliatory tone.

  “What is it?”

  “If Jerome was the murderer—he wasn’t, but I’m saying if—why in God’s name would he open a bank account for half a million dollars right after the killing? Why would he expose himself that way? You’ve met the man. He’s not an idiot.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he is an idiot. Or maybe he’s just an arrogant fuck, okay? There’s lots of evidence pointing to that. The laws don’t apply to him, that’s how he thinks, how he operates. So why not open an account? He’s got the money, what’s he going to do, stick it under his mattress? He’s a walking, raging ego, John Q., he thought he was untouchable.”

  “He’s too bright. He would have covered himself.”

  “He never thought he was going to be a suspect. That’s what he is. And it’s not like he deposited the money where he lives, he went to considerable pains to conceal that money.”

  “You found it easily enough.”

  “It was hard work.” I wasn’t going to tell him I hadn’t found it at all, that my off-the-books sheriff had done it for me, with his deep FBI contacts. I was lucky Tom Miller had been so inquisitive, so dogged. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have that vital evidence.

  “You’ve never considered that maybe he was set up? That this bank account’s a setup?”

  “No,” I answered stiffly. “I’ve never considered that. And I’m never going to.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “No,” I said, “and I’ll tell you why. If I’m setting somebody up, I’m not going to drop half a million dollars to do it. It could have been done for fifty K, a tenth of what went into that account. Look at it realistically, pal. You owe it to your client to do that. Nobody would’ve done it that way.” I engaged him, eyes to eyes. “It’s not a setup. It’s the real deal.”

  “I don’t agree,” he said, still digging his heels in.

  “Then you prove it at trial,” I challenged him. “Because if you’re going to raise that as a defense, you’re going to have to carry the burden of proof, not me. Which I would be happy for you to do.”

  He was fishing. I’d thought that’s why he’d come in—now I knew it.

  “What’re you really here for, John Q.? You looking to cop a plea? Knock it down to second degree?”

  “No, that’s not why I’m here.”

  “I couldn’t go for that myself,” I said. “Because this was premeditated, going on two decades. But I could talk to Bill Fishell about it. Save the state some money. He did kill a piece of shit, that’s the only redeeming value you’ve got.”

  “No, I don’t want to plea him out.”

  “I didn’t think so. And we wouldn’t have, either.”

  He got to his feet heavily. He was an old man, he was showing his age. “I know you wouldn’t.”

  I walked him to the door. “See you in court.”

  “See you,” he said back to me in a leaden voice.

  I closed the door on him.

  He shouldn’t have taken this case. It was a loser for him, not the way a lawyer of his stature should be finishing off an illustrious career. The desperation had shown through, like looking into a clear pane of window glass. He was going to come back to me with a plea. I could feel it in my bones. I wouldn’t take it, of course; I’d been testing the waters with my offer, to see where he stood. And he’d shown me. He was standing on shaky ground, his footing uncertain, tenuous.

  I knew where I stood. I stood tall.

  Saturday morning arose sunny and warm. We were going out for the day, all of us, including Joan, who had settled in nicely. She was going to take us to the White Horse reservation and show us where she lived. Riva, who’s interested in everything, especially other people, their lives, their families, and so forth, had asked her to. Joan had agreed, although her enthusiasm for the trip was lukewarm at best.

  “There’s nothing to see up there,” she’d protested, “just a bunch of old shacks. And old people.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find something to make it worth our while,” Riva had assured her. “We’re not fancy. Besides, you need to get home, and it’ll be easier if we take you.”

  Joan had mentioned that she needed to pick up some items, clothing and the like. She had planned on hitching a ride with some friends, but when she could do that, she wasn’t sure. Riva, being the considerate person that she is, was doing the girl a favor, in her mind. And we wanted to get out of Blue River and see other parts of Muir County.

  “Okay,” Joan had reluctantly acquiesced, not wanting to offend her new employer. “But you’re wasting your time. You’ll see.”

  We drove out of town, Riva and I in the front seat, Joan and Bucky in the back. An hour’s easy driving brought us to the White Horse Reservation entrance, a narrow scar that angled off the highway.

  “Here it is.” Joan pointed as we approached the turnoff. Her voice was flat, her eyes averted, as if this was the last thing in the world she wanted to see. Or wanted us to see.

  No signs indicated this was anything other than a road to nowhere—if Joan hadn’t been with us, I would have driven right by. I turned in, and we raised a big cloud of dust as we bounced down the rutted roadway.

  We passed by cinder-block houses standing in isolation, decrepit house trailers, other remote, battered dwellings. They did have electricity—the proliferation of pizza-sized television satellite dishes on the roofs testified to that—and I didn’t see too many outhouses, but this was bad poverty.

  Now I knew why Joan had been reluctant to bring us here.

  I glanced over at Riva as we bounced along the rough, pot-holed road. She was feeling the same thing I was: embarrassment for Joan. Not that we cared where or how she lived, but that she would think that we
did. That we’d judge her.

  Too late to do anything about that now. We were here. To try to ameliorate the situation, bring it out in the open, would make her discomfort more acute. We’d stop at her house long enough for her to get what she needed, then leave.

  The reservation center, such as it was, consisted of a cluster of low buildings on either side of the road about a mile in from the highway: a small elementary school, a firehouse, a few stores, a church. A handful of older people were clustered about, conversing with each other, going in and out of the stores. We didn’t see any kids. They glanced at our car with curiosity as we drove by.

  “My house is about a mile further,” Joan instructed us. She was scrunched down in her seat, her head barely above the bottom of the window.

  “Will your parents be home?” Riva asked solicitously.

  “I guess.” From the tone of Joan’s voice she was hoping the place would be empty, she could run in, get her stuff, and get away without having to introduce us. “My father’s gone. Maybe my mom.”

  “What about your brothers and sisters?”

  She shrugged. We knew that Joan had two older sisters and a younger brother, she’d told us about them. I wasn’t clear how many were living at home, or on the reservation. She didn’t talk much about her family; her conversation with us, when it was about her, was her future, her dreams. She wanted to go to four-year college, become a teacher, a nurse, a dental hygienist. A professional. Her plans didn’t include living on the reservation as an adult.

  Her house was wood-frame, in need of paint. Small, not much space for two adults and four kids. We parked in front and got out to stretch.

  “I’ll just be a minute.” Joan didn’t want us to come in, that was clear.

  “Potty.”

  We looked down.

  Bucky held his arms up to Joan. “Potty, Joan.”

  He’s only been toilet-trained a few months—Riva isn’t pushy about that stuff. He won’t wear diapers during the day and prides himself on being able to hold it in. Now he was squirming.

  “Okay, Bucky,” Joan sighed. “Come on.” She scooped him up, turned to us, and said, “You can come in, too, if you want to.”

  A woman opened the door as we approached. Joan’s mother—she looked like her daughter, except she was shorter and squatter. A tentative smile creased her face, which was deeply etched with sun lines. She was Riva’s age or younger, I assumed, but she looked at least a decade older.

  “Hello, honey,” she said warmly, giving Joan a bear hug.

  “Hi, Mama,” Joan replied, hugging her back in the perfunctory way teenagers do when others are around.

  “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Garrison?” the woman asked us.

  “Yes,” Riva answered. “And you’re Mrs. Canyada. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You have a lovely daughter. She’s been a lifesaver.”

  Hyperbole, but it did the job—the woman’s smile expanded all the way across her face.

  “And this is your little boy,” Joan’s mother said, cooing at Buck. “Isn’t he so cute!”

  “Potty,” Buck said.

  She laughed. “Right inside. Come in, all of you.”

  The interior was tiny, but neat. One room for living, eating, cooking. A few doors led off to the back.

  “Come on, Buck. Let’s go potty,” Joan said, leading him into the bathroom.

  Riva and I stood in the middle of the small room with Joan’s mother. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

  “No, thanks,” I started to say, but Riva, right on top of me, jumped in. “I’d love something cold. Wouldn’t you, Luke?”

  “Sure,” I regrouped quickly, realizing I’d offend the woman’s offer of hospitality if I didn’t.

  Mrs. Canyada got a couple Cokes out of the refrigerator.

  “I needed this,” Riva said, taking a swallow. “It’s dry, out in that car.”

  I drank from my can. The cold soda felt good, going down.

  “Thank you for hiring Joan,” the woman told us gratefully. “She likes working for you.”

  “We’re happy to have her,” Riva said, smiling warmly as Mrs. Canyada beamed. She’s great with people, my wife, she can put anyone at ease. Looking around, she walked over to a battered chest of drawers that was pushed up against a corner wall, on which there were some framed family photos.

  “Is this Joan?” she asked, picking one up. The picture was of a girl about ten, staring intently into the camera.

  Mrs. Canyada nodded. “Her confirmation picture. She wasn’t happy. She didn’t like her dress. It was a hand-me-down, from her sister Betty.”

  “Nothing wrong with hand-me-downs,” Riva said. “I wore plenty myself from my older sisters.”

  I was about to say, I didn’t know you had any sisters, but I caught myself in time.

  “Well, tell her that,” Mrs. Canyada said. “If she heard it from you, she’d listen.”

  “Isn’t it always like that?” Riva said, mother to mother.

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  One minute in each other’s presence, and they were already friends and allies-in-arms.

  Joan led Buck out of the bathroom.

  “All finished?” Riva asked him.

  “He did a real good job,” Joan said. “I’ll get my stuff.” She disappeared into the rear of the house again. A minute later she was back, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. “Okay, we can go now,” she said, moving toward the door.

  “Good-bye, Joan,” Mrs. Canyada called out to her.

  Joan turned, came back to her mother with a guilty expression on her face. “Bye, Mama.”

  “Don’t be a stranger, honey,” her mother implored, her eyes searching her daughter’s face.

  “I’ll call you.”

  We said our good-byes outside, by the car. Out back behind the house I noticed clothes hanging on a line, a hand-crank washing machine near it.

  “You be good, you hear?” the mother told the daughter.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “She’s in good hands,” Mrs. Canyada said to Riva. “I can tell that.”

  “Thank you.”

  As we were getting into the car, the woman looked around at her bleak surroundings. “This is going to be different soon around here. It’ll be too late for me, but life here’s going to be better for my kids. A lot better.” She looked at her daughter.

  “They know about us buying that place. Mama,” Joan said. “I told them. It’s not a secret.”

  I remembered Joan telling us about the tribe buying the drug compound and turning it into a casino. “Good luck to you with it,” I said. “I hope you can get people to come up here.” I didn’t need to explain my feelings about gambling. And in this situation, I could be flexible in my attitude. Anything legal that could help them pull themselves out of this kind of poverty couldn’t be all bad.

  “Thank you. We’re keeping our fingers crossed.” Then she repeated her daughter’s earlier statement to me: “If you build it, they will come.”

  It was their mantra. If they said it enough, and believed it enough, it would come true.

  We took a different route back to Blue River. It led us on a loop out the back side of the reservation, skirting the state line, heading down toward the area where the compound was located. It was more scenic—there were scattered trees, a variety of high-country tall pines, firs, and spruces.

  “This isn’t bad,” Riva remarked.

  “It’s pretty,” I agreed. In a rugged sort of way.

  We drove for several miles. Rounding a blind curve, we saw, to our left, a barbwire fence running along the side of the road for several hundred yards—someone’s private property. Signs were posted at intervals: NO TRESPASSING. NO HUNTING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW.

  “Whoever lives in there likes their privacy,” I commented.

  “That’s Sheriff Miller’s spread,” Joan informed us. “And he does like his privacy, that’s for sure. He runs people
off there all the time. The locals all know to stay away, but we get these hunters coming through that think the signs don’t apply to them, you know? Or they’re not going to get caught? They find out fast not to mess with old Sheriff Miller. He’ll take a shotgun to your car, or something more personal if you know what I mean. He’s got motion detectors and video cameras and all kinds of high-tech equipment in there. You sneak in there, you are noticed, I kid you not.” She laughed. “Kids’ll go under the wire on a dare, you know? They come flying out of there like they’ve got an M 80 up their behinds.”

  “Were you one of them?” I teased.

  “Not on your life,” she swore resolutely. “Sheriff Miller, he means business.”

  Riva was checking it out through the windshield. “Have you ever been there?” she asked me.

  I shook my head. “We don’t have that kind of relationship. Whatever business I do with Miller is in the office.”

  Looking through the fence to the wooded property behind, I wondered how large the place was. It looked big.

  “Potty, Mommy.”

  Riva swiveled around to him. “Again? You just went.”

  “Potty,” Buck said firmly.

  When he has to go, he has to go—we’ve learned that lesson. And we hadn’t brought a change of clothes for him with us.

  “You’d better pull over,” Riva cautioned. “As soon as you can.”

  Up ahead I saw a break in the fence, where a driveway intersected the highway. A gate blocked access into the property.

  “Is that the entrance to Sheriff Miller’s place?” Riva asked Joan.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I could use a bathroom myself,” Riva said. “Why don’t you pull in? He isn’t going to run you off.”

  I felt uneasy about that—not about Miller “running us off,” or anything hostile, but about us encroaching on his evident desire for privacy.

  “Let me call first,” I said. “We don’t even know if he’s home.”

  I pulled off the highway onto the shoulder, in front of Miller’s entrance, and reached into the glove compartment for my cell phone. I’d called him at home a few times, so I had the number in my notebook.