Bitterroot Blues
Page 27
He found himself wishing he had a dog, except he did not really want a dog, or at least not the responsibility that a dog demanded. He could pass time with his table mates at the Ox, and did; but he could not concentrate on the cards. Even Tina was missing, off on a bus tour to the tables at Jackpot, Nevada. At home, he looked at the bare trees in his back yard, and the carpet of dead leaves that needed raking, and thought of how much he needed to re-arrange his office files. At his office, he stared out the window at Lolo Peak and felt guilty about not raking the leaves at home.
Friday finally came, and brought, who was staying for the weekend. Arceneaux tried to brighten up, but Josh picked up his mood and commented on it before he had been there an hour.
“You’re all grumpy, Dad,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess I am,” Arceneaux said. “It’s not your fault.”
“I know. Sometimes grownups just get into bad moods. Mom does that, too.” Josh patted Arceneaux on the shoulder. “Is your girlfriend going to be here?” he asked.
“Her name’s Anne,” Arceneaux said, bristling at his son’s persistence in not using her name, then catching himself and softening his tone. It no longer mattered, after all. “She’s not coming.”
“Good,” Josh said. “What’s for dinner?”
“Burger King, I expect.”
“Cool. Can Jimmy come with us?”
“If it’s okay with his mother.”
“And can we rent a movie?”
“Sure,” Arceneaux said, relieved that he could duck being responsible for entertaining Josh that night, and feeling guilty about it.
“Can I pick it?”
“No. I’ll do that.” Got to be responsible about something, he thought.
“Are we gonna rake leaves tomorrow?” Josh asked as he headed for the door.
“Absolutely,” Arceneaux replied.
“Cool,” Josh said, and left. Arceneaux watched him go and wondered how he would approach the subject of Anne with his son, even as he realized that if he never brought her up, neither would Josh. He would be happy to act as if she had never existed.
Arceneaux was saved from deciding what to do next by the ringing of the telephone. He picked it up and said hello.
“It’s Larry French. How you doing, Sam?”
“I’m good,” Arceneaux said. “What’s happening?”
“A lot,” French said. “First, they did a rush tissue match, and preliminary findings are that Elbert fathered Samantha’s baby.”
“Tina was right,” Arceneaux said.
“Who?”
“A friend of mine. She figured the baby was Elbert’s, and Samantha was about to blow the whistle, so he killed her.”
“It looks that way,” French said. “And, the suicide note was definitely Elbert’s handwriting.”
“It wasn’t much of a note.”
“Barbara has a theory about that, too. The autopsy showed a pretty high concentration of alcohol and Demerol. She figures he couldn’t handle the idea of being arrested, decided to off himself, and got loaded to get a little extra courage. Because he wasn’t a drinker or a drug user, it hit him fast, and he had to stop writing so he could get the hanging done. The main thing is, he wrote the note.”
“Case closed, then?”
“It looks that way,” French said. “That’s the other reason I called. There’s a hearing Monday morning. Barbara’s going to move to dismiss all charges against Arden. He and I will be there, of course, so I thought you’d like to come and gloat, and we could even make a pie.”
“A pie?”
“Sure. You make the pastry, and I’ll supply the crow.”
Arceneaux laughed. “I think you ate it already,” he said.
“Maybe. Anyway, the hearing’s scheduled for ten.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“I didn’t think you would,” French said, and hung up.
By the time Josh returned to the house, Jimmy Littletoes in his wake, Arceneaux was in a good mood again. He even agreed that Jimmy could spend the night, on condition that he help rake in the morning.
“We’ll go out and start now,” Josh said. Arceneaux nodded absently, his mind on the coming hearing. He could not deny that he would enjoy gloating a little, and promised himself not to make any smart-ass comments to Barbara Drake. Against his will he found himself thinking of Anne again. She was the one he really wanted to brag to. He wondered how long it would take for that kind of thing to go away, and found himself envying his son, for whom Anne was out of sight and out of mind. He got up and went to the refrigerator. Thank God for beer, he thought.
Chapter 44
District Judge Dabney Black had been the man to fear in Ravalli County for thirty years. In a community that valued mavericks, Black, who by reputation knew more law and paid less attention to it than any other judge in the state, had never had a serious challenge to his re-election. He was reputed to pack a .357 magnum under his robes. He was also known to place great importance on starting hearings promptly. Right now, he was not pleased. Ten o’clock had been gone for more than five minutes, and only Barbara Drake sat at the attorney’s tables.
“I don’t suppose you know where Mister French is,” the judge said.
Barbara rose. “No, your honor.”
“And who are you?” the judge said to Arceneaux, who sat beyond the rail in the spectators’ section.
“He’s a private investigator working for the defendant, your honor,” Barbara said.
“You always let women speak for you?” the judge asked.
Larry French saved Arceneaux the risk of putting his foot in his mouth by walking into the courtroom at that moment, Arden Marks behind him. He strode quickly to the attorneys’ table and motioned for Marks to sit down.
“I’m sorry to be late, your honor,” he said.
“What great distraction kept you from being in my court on time, Mister French?” the judge said.
“I, uh, ran out of gas, your honor.”
The judge snorted. “You did that years ago, Mister French; but I assume in this case you’re talking about your car.”
“Yes your honor.”
The judge picked up the papers in front of him, and pulled on the reading glasses he kept on a chain around his neck. “Very well, we’ll begin this hearing now,” he said. He peered at the document he held. “Let the record show that this is Cause Number DC-06-279, the State of Montana versus Arden Marks. The charges are two counts of murder in the first degree, one count of murder in the second degree, and one each of breaking and entering and criminal trespass.” He glanced up at Barbara Drake. “Is that right?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Drake replied.
“I note that the defendant has pleaded innocent to all counts.” He looked down at Marks. “Is that still your plea?”
Larry French stood up. “It is, your honor.”
“And I note,” Black continued, “that the prosecution does not appear to have any kind of plea bargain to present. Is that correct, counselor?”
Drake rose. “You honor, because of new facts that have come to the state’s attention, we are bringing before you a motion to dismiss all charges against Mister Marks.” Barbara, a sheaf of legal sized paper in her hand, stepped around the table and started to walk toward the bench. The judge waved her away.
“Just a moment,” he said. “I assume you are aware of this, Mister French?”
“Yes, your honor. The evidence is clear that my client did not commit the homicides in question.”
“Then I assume you have no problem with the county attorney’s motion?”
“No problem, your honor.”
Black motioned Barbara toward him. “You placing that in evidence?”
“Yes, your honor, as exhibit one. It details an investigation just completed by the Ravalli County Sheriff’s Department, which uncovered the evidence of Mister Marks’ lack of culpability.”
“And are you going to be arresting someone else?”
“You’re saying there are two murder suspects?”
“That’s correct, your honor,” Barbara said. “We had already intended to move that the court dismiss one murder charge against Mister Marks, in the death of Corey Wallace, as the evidence indicates that a different person killed him.”
The judge shook his head and looked a little confused. “And that is the suspect who is alive, or is that the one who is dead?”
“The one who is alive, Your Honor. David Crisp, who is currently in custody.”
“And the other suspect is the dead one?”
“Yes sir.”
“So I won’t be seeing him here.”
“I certainly hope not, Your Honor.”
Black stared at her silently for a moment, then nodded his head emphatically.
“Very well,” he said, and picked up a pen. “There being no objections, I’m going to order these charges dismissed.”
Arden Marks lurched to his feet. “Do I get to say anything?” he asked.
Everyone froze. Larry French looked as if he wanted to tackle Marks and drag him under the table. Finally, the judge nodded and motioned to Marks.
“Go ahead, sir,” he said. “I assume you have no objection to the prosecution’s motion.”
“I have a big objection,” Marks said. “I don’t want them dismissed.”
Black’s eyebrows arched toward his hairline. “You don’t?”
“I want a trial,” Marks said. “I’m entitled.”
“Jesus Christ,” French muttered.
“I beg your pardon, Mister French?” the judge said.
French shook his head. “Nothing, your honor.”
Marks looked down at French. “He shouldn’t care, your honor. He always thought I was guilty anyway.”
“Mister Marks, why do you want a trial?” the judge said.
Marks turned his attention back to the bench. “They can dismiss all the charges they want, but that won’t do me any good. People will just say I got off on a technicality. I’ve been living with this for all this time. It was in the papers, on the television.” He lowered his head. “I’ve been made out to look like a bad man, a real bad man. I want a trial so everybody can know I’m innocent. The system tarred me. Now I want it to clean me off again, not just toss me out, stains and all.”
The expression on Black’s face combined exasperation with amusement.
“I can sympathize, Mister Marks. But I don’t think you know what you’re asking for. The county is on a restricted budget. It costs a lot of taxpayer money to collect a jury and hold a full blown trial; and it means other court business has to wait while you have a day in court that you don’t need.” He shook his head and picked up the pen again.
“Wait a minute,” Marks said. “If you dismiss these charges, what’s to stop these people,” and he turned to stare scornfully at Barbara Drake, “from trying again? They lied about me once, and called it evidence. Can you keep them from doing it again?”
“No, Mister Marks.”
“Then I want my trial, and I don’t need no jury,” Marks yelled. “I . . . what do you call it . . . I waive my right to a jury.”
The courtroom was silent again. Larry French covered his face with his hands and looked as if he wished he were anywhere else. Barbara Drake still stood, half way between the bench and the attorney’s table, looking first at Marks and then at the judge.
Black’s face darkened. He leaned across the bench and pointed his finger at Marks. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said. “I’m going to let you sit down, and shut up, while I grant the County Attorney’s motion to dismiss. But if you prefer, I’ll have you arrested right now and jailed for contempt of court.” He sat back and tugged at his robe. “You choose, sir.”
Marks stood facing the judge, his body swaying like a tall tree in the wind, and his mouth opening and closing silently. The courtroom felt like a still life as everyone else waited to see what he would do. Then he slumped, turned around and walked behind the witness table, and sat down, and you could feel the relief fill the space.
Judge Black picked up the papers in front of him. “Once again, this is DC-06-279, the State of Montana versus Arden Marks.” He looked across to where Barbara Drake was still standing. “You are moving to dismiss all charges?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“So ordered,” the judge said, and slammed his gavel down.
Marks got up immediately, strode to the door and out of the courtroom. The others rose and milled around for a moment, then moved gradually toward the exit.
“I thought for a while he was determined to hang himself,” French said.
“He just wanted his justice,” Barbara replied. She turned to Arceneaux. “You must be happy as a pig in an apple orchard right now, Sam.”
Arceneaux shook his head. “I guess, but you know what I keep thinking? That now it’s back to jealous husbands and crooked convenience store clerks. Not much adrenaline in that.”
Barbara popped him lightly on the arm with her fist. “Face it, Sam. You need to go back to being a lawyer. You just weren’t cut out for peeping in bathroom stalls and store rooms.”
“That’s up to the ethics committee,” Arceneaux said.
“If you want my support, Sam, you’ve got it,” Barbara said. “For all that you can be hard to take sometimes, you’re a good lawyer. And frankly, it would keep you out of my hair.”
“I’ll second that,” French said. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re a hell of a guy.”
Arceneaux just looked straight ahead. He had grown up knowing how to handle insults. He still had no idea what to do with compliments.
“Too early for beer,” he finally said. “But I’ll buy coffee.”
Chapter 45
The Subaru chose a sunny Sunday morning the following April to use up the last of its lives. It had been a mild winter, with an early thaw, and Arceneaux had driven up the West Fork of the Bitterroot to try out a new collection of beadhead nymphs. About halfway up, the little wagon’s engine began to lose power, and then shuddered to a stop, with the unmistakeable clunking sound of a shot main bearing.
The good news was that the death occurred within a dozen steps of a fine set of boulders and holes, and the water was running well enough to provide holding lies for the trout. Arceneaux pushed in the clutch and let the car roll backwards to the shoulder of the highway, then set the hand brake and got out to examine the river. Sure enough, he could see the flashing and darting of hungry fish under the surface. He pulled out his fly rod, found a likely overhang to cast from, and went to work.
A couple of hours and several nice rainbows later, he sighed, packed the gear away, and reluctantly returned his attention to his car. He knew that if he was right about the bearing, a repair would cost more than he could convince himself the little Subaru was worth. He sighed and shook his head, deciding it probably was time to let it go for good. He realized that by now he was only keeping it out of pure orneriness. He did not even need it any more. He had the truck now, the International Harvester that had been David Crisp’s. Barbara Drake had released it to him once the criminal proceedings were over, and it ran well, even if it didn’t get close to the Subaru’s mileage. Matt Hagan’s wonderful knife had gone to Arden, as Elbert’s legal heir. Arceneaux still felt a pang about that.
He locked the doors and started to walk, prepared to hoof it all the way back down to the main highway, because the West Fork Road drew little traffic this time of year. It was not big for tourists, and had just a few houses scattered along it, many of those occupied only in the summer; but he had only been walking ten or fifteen minutes when he heard a vehicle approaching behind him. He turned and saw a huge, shiny Lincoln Navigator coming downhill. He stuck out a thumb and the driver pulled over and rolled down a window.
/> “That your little car up the road?” he asked.
“Sure is,” Arceneaux replied.
The driver pushed the passenger door open. “Hop in,” he said. Arceneaux climbed up and slid into the passenger seat.
“It’s a good thing you came along,” he said. “I thought I might have to walk all the way to Darby.”
“Glad to help,” the other man said. “My name’s Lloyd Peck.”
“Sam Arceneaux.”
“Are you from Darby?” Peck asked.
“Missoula, but I can jump out wherever you’re stopping and call home from there.”
“I can take you all the way, in that case,” Peck said. “I’m headed for the airport to meet my wife. She was off in Chicago to play grandmother. Our daughter just had her first.”
“Great.”
“Shame that your car broke down,” Peck said. “Is it serious?”
“Terminal, I think. But it was an old car, with lots of miles.”
“We all have to go sometime.”
Arceneaux nodded. “And I still got in a good day’s fishing, plus a ride back in a fancy rig.”
Peck laughed. “Too fancy for me, to tell the truth. It was my wife’s idea. I think she was afraid a normal sized car wouldn’t protect her from the bears. Kind of early for fishing, though, isn’t it?”
“Not this year,” Arceneaux said. “Spring’s early, and with the winter we had, the fishing may not amount to much later in the summer, between the low snow pack and the irrigation taking the water out of the rivers. The Bitterroot’s bad that way anyhow.”
“I planned to do a lot of fishing when we moved here,” Peck said. “I had a business outside of Chicago. Made my pile, retired early, and came here to buy a little piece of paradise. But to tell the truth, it’s driving me crazy. I’ve developed a bad case of cabin fever. This summer I’m going to start looking for another business to buy.” He smiled. “It’s funny. The guy I bought our place from was leaving for the same reason, except it was his wife. He loved it here, but she couldn’t stand it after a couple of years. Told him he’d have to choose—either her or the fish. With us, it’s just the opposite. My wife loves it here, bears and all.”