Joiner had just been charged with being an accessory-before-the-fact in the robbery and murder case against the Bradshaw clan. Her role, as a look-out, required some accountability. I understood that. But she was also a young woman who’d experienced a troubled past and who had a promising future as a clinical social worker until she made a very bad decision. I made my pitch to Flo Lattrell, the deputy prosecutor assigned to the case. She was noncommittal but promised she would consider everything I said. That was the best I could do under the circumstances. I would ask Kate to make a similar pitch to Lattrell on Joiner’s behalf.
I stopped at Kate’s office and spent the next hour giving her a blow-by-blow description of my meeting with Cates. She listened patiently before delivering a verbal tirade against him that would have made a hooker blush, and then heaping copious amounts of empathetic understanding on me. Talking it through was a cathartic experience and I felt better afterward for doing it.
I drove home wondering how to break the news to my staff the next day although maybe I wouldn’t have to. These things often had a way of filtering through the department well before any official announcement was made. I wasn’t sure if my separation from the SIB was going to be permanent, but it felt like it might be.
There’s an upside in life to everything that happens to us. In my case, I was about to have a two-week vacation, albeit an unpaid one, that would allow me to focus my energy on family for a change instead of the job. That was a good thing.
Chapter Fifty-one
Two weeks later
Thanksgiving had come and gone and the Christmas season was in full swing. My two-week suspension was all but over, and I was almost regretting it. It took a few days for me to decompress, but with that accomplished, getting off the treadmill had actually begun to feel good. I had a life again, and I liked it. For two weeks, I had been able to take my daughter to and from school everyday, attend her parent-teacher conference, and watch her rehearse and then perform in the elementary school Thanksgiving play. Sara’s soccer season ended dismally on a cold Saturday afternoon in a regional tournament played in a mixed rain-and-snow storm. Sara’s team lost four to one.
Kate’s parents, Keith and Susan McConnell, had come to town and spent the Thanksgiving week at her place in the Avenues. I had sensed some unease at first, but who could blame them? Kate was their only child, and they had to be wondering who this new guy was with the ready-made family. Kate and I took them out to dinner twice during the week, and Aunt June and Uncle Baxter proved consummate hosts by inviting everybody to the house for a home cooked dinner the night before they left. If first impressions counted for much, I thought we were off to a good start. Kate and I seemed committed to each other, but we had decided to take things slow and easy.
Between Kate and Marcy Everest from the SIB, I was kept up to speed on events related to the recent cases. Nobody had heard anything about the Dixons or Joey Bradshaw. They had simply vanished. Teams of FBI agents combed the Arizona strip, mining the local populace for any information that might provide a lead into their whereabouts. Hilldale, Utah, and Colorado City, Arizona, are tightly knit communities steeped deeply in the culture of polygamy, and so far, nobody was saying anything.
I don’t know whether Kate’s and my recommendation to the prosecutor helped, but Robin Joiner was allowed to plead guilty to one misdemeanor count with no jail time other than the five days she served immediately after her surrender. She was fined, ordered to perform community service, and placed on probation for a year. I felt good about that and so did Kate. I believed that Robin would take her graduate degree in social work, turn her life around, and become a productive member of society.
Robby Allred had remained loyal and tight-lipped. He had refused to talk and the smart money said he never would. He’d been denied bail because of the flight risk he posed and the heinous nature of the crimes he’d been charged with. From all appearances, it looked like he was headed to trial on state murder and aggravated robbery charges in the armored car heist. Rumor had it that the U.S. Attorneys office was considering filing several additional counts in federal district court. If he managed to avoid a death sentence, it seemed unlikely that he would ever enjoy life outside a prison cell.
As for Terry Burnham, to borrow a well worn cliché, the jury was still out. He remained on paid leave pending the resolution of departmental charges that had been brought against him at the behest of corrections boss, Benjamin Cates. As far as I could tell, Cates still intended to make Burnham a poster boy for what happens to department employees who break the rules. Burnham was showing no sign of a willingness to surrender his job without a fight. As a member of the corrections officer’s union, he would be represented by union counsel at his forthcoming disciplinary hearing. All things shake out in time. This would too.
***
It was December 12th and I was standing in the Delta terminal at Salt Lake International Airport preparing to board a flight to Atlanta. It was a cold, blustery day and there was a light snowfall outside. The mountains had been getting it good, much to the delight of the ski resort operators. A good, early snow pack guaranteed a deluge of out-of-state tourists to fill the hotels, restaurants, and ski slopes during the busy Christmas holidays.
I had heard nothing from Benjamin Cates during my two-week suspension. I didn’t know whether I would be returning to the SIB or reassigned to another department. I think I shocked a few people by putting in for two weeks of vacation to run back-to-back with my suspension. I wasn’t scheduled to return until after Christmas.
But on this day, my job status wasn’t my highest priority. I was on my way to Atlanta to attend a pretrial conference in our child custody case. So far, my ex, Nicole, hadn’t blinked, and neither had I. I don’t know how it’s going to turn out, but they say all things in life happen for a good reason, and for today, that’ll have to be good enough.
Author’s Note
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The above disclaimer aside, many of the environmental issues raised in the story are very real and extremely contentious throughout the West. Perhaps a few statistics are in order. The federal government owns more than 650 million acres across the U.S. Approximately 90% of that land lies in a dozen or so western states, including my home state of Utah. In Utah, the federal government owns 70% of the land. In neighboring Nevada, it’s about 76%.
In the early 1970s, a movement that started in Nevada quickly spread throughout many western states. This organized resistance to federal public land use policies became known as the Sagebrush Rebellion. The Sagebrush Rebellion’s goal was to wrestle control of public lands away from the federal government and place it in the hands of state and local government. Supporters of the Sagebrush Rebellion have argued that federal lands rightfully belong to the states and that states, not the federal government, can more effectively manage these lands.
During the past thirty years, the Sagebrush Rebellion has lost momentum but has never completely gone away. The principal reason for the failure of the Sagebrush Rebellion was the inability of the movement’s proponents to sustain the legal argument that federal public lands truly belong to the states. Thus, public lands have remained under the federal government’s control through oversight by federal agencies such as the Bureau of Land Management.
Unfortunately the rancorous debate continues. Its intensity is still as strong as it was 30 years ago. As we go to press, I am reminded of the similarities between the ongoing public land use debate and the virulent diatribe surrounding the discussion of health care reform in America.
With the Sagebrush Rebellion as backdrop, I chose to create a fictitious character named John David (J.D.) Books. As the protagonist in the story, J.D. is employed as a Law Enforcement Ranger in the Bureau of Land Management (BLM), a branch of the Department of the Interior. The BLM has jurisdiction over
more than 260 million acres of public land located primarily in the aforementioned dozen western states.
In telling this story, I attempted to keep my personal views outside the framework of the plot and story. I wanted to allow the characters to express their own opinions and points of view through the use of dialogue. Ultimately, you, as readers, will decide how well I accomplished that.
Michael Norman
Salt Lake City
October, 2009
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