Harder Ground

by Joseph Heywood

“Garter snakes?”

  “Yes, the same ones I’d seen at Walmart.”

  “And we’re here now because of these same garter snakes, those you told the jury you were inclined to ignore?”

  “Yes.”

  Sabato shook his head. “Which she was going to ignore, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I’m finished with the witness, Your Honor.”

  The judge looked at the prosecutor. “State?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” The prosecutor was Andrew “One-Lung” Bakalt, longtime county PA, a chain-smoker who had lost a lung to cancer and still smoked, though he’d cut back to a pack a day, most days. His voice was as deep as oil in the ground, and raspy.

  “Officer Flato, when you returned four weeks later to the Nougats’ house, vehicles, and property, what did you find?”

  “As I testified earlier today, there were plastic holding boxes built into the minivan doors.”

  “For snakes?”

  “Presumably.”

  “But no snakes in the containers?”

  “No snakes anywhere in the van. It had been scrubbed clean, alcohol. Lysol, the whole extreme sterilization treatment.”

  “In your experience do people normally clean their vans in this way?”

  “No sir, not in my experience.”

  “Did you expect to find snakes?”

  “That long after the initial contact? Not really.”

  “But you searched nevertheless.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you able to learn anything new?”

  “There were framed photos of the Nougats’ daughter. These were in her bedroom.”

  “What did the photos show?” the prosecutor asked with a cough.

  “They showed a man holding garter snakes and a missassauga.”

  “Missauce, missags—that word always throws me. It’s a kind of rattlesnake, correct?”

  “It’s the only rattlesnake indigenous to this state. Some people even call them Michigan rattlesnakes.”

  “You saw the photo. Then what?” One-Lung turned to the jury. “You’ve already seen the photo of the man holding the snakes. That was entered into evidence this morning.” He turned back to Flato, “Okay, you saw the photo, and what then?”

  “I asked Joanie who the man was and she said, ‘Uncle Harp.’ ”

  “Objection,” Sabato said. “That’s hearsay.”

  “Overruled,” the judge said.

  “Is your Uncle Harp a blood relative?” the prosecutor asked.

  “Family friend.”

  “Mr. Nougat’s friend?”

  “Mrs. Nougat’s.”

  “Not her hubby?”

  “Apparently not. The wife and Uncle Harp had some sort of business arrangement.”

  “Explain.”

  “She was a snake mule. She illegally carried rattlesnakes to Canada.”

  “To Uncle Harp?”

  “Well, Joanie was a little confused on the name. The man in the picture is known professionally as Uncle Herp over in the Canadian Soo.”

  “Is it an illegal business?”

  “The reptile sales business appears to be legal by Canadian law, but smuggling and selling endangered, restricted or protected species is not legal on either side of the border.”

  “So these actions break their laws and ours?”

  “That seems to be the case.”

  “But you had no evidence from any of this other than the photo.”

  “And the garter snakes. We had those.”

  “A circumstantial case,” the prosecutor said. “You have no evidence of any snakes being moved from Mrs. Nougat to this . . . Uncle Herp.”

  “What we have is little Joanie telling us she gets new Chink-stripe snakes every couple of weeks, year-round. She said they get tired and have to go to heaven and she gets new ones from God.”

  “Objection,” Sabato said. “More hearsay.”

  “Overruled,” the judge said. “Go on.”

  “I asked Joanie why she called the snakes Chink-stripes and she tugged the corner of her eyelid.”

  “You took that to mean what?”

  “Chinese.”

  “Chink-stripes and Bitey-buzz?”

  “Both species are sold on the black market as medicinals,” Flato said. “High priced.”

  Sabato was immediately on his feet. “Thin circumstances, a mere child’s words. Your Honor? Please?”

  “Do you have children, Mr. Sabato?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, three girls grown and married.”

  “Did you not listen to your girls when they were five?”

  “That’s irrelevant, Your Honor.”

  “No, it’s not,” the judge said. “I’d say it’s crucial, even to the point I would not object if the child was called as a witness.”

  “Objection!” Sabato croaked. “It is improper and outrageous for a sitting judge to suggest legal tactics to one side. I demand a dismissal. You’ve gone off the reservation, Your Honor. This is not acceptable.”

  “No!” Mr. Nougat screamed from the gallery. “This is bullshit! Leave my kid alone!”

  “Order in the court,” Judge Jack Tar said. “Control yourself, Mr. Nougat or I will find you in contempt. I assure you that you will not like that development. You’re not the defendant here, your wife is.”

  “I’m sorry Your Honor. I know that, but my kid ain’t guilty of nothing. She’s a sweet, good little girl.”

  “And she is accused of nothing, Mr. Nougat. We just think the jury ought to hear from her.”

  “Grounds for appeal and reversal,” Sabato raged. “Mistrial, this is a classic mistrial scenario. I move for a mistrial, and for you to recuse yourself. A judge is supposed to be impartial.”

  “I’m very partial to the truth, Mr. Sabato. Does that offend defense attorneys?”

  “Your Honor . . .”

  “My chambers after lunch,” the judge said, standing up, his face florid.

  •••

  Flato thought they could have been done quickly but Judge Tar apparently needed his midday repast at a set time. Judges were among the rare professionals who got to absolutely fix their hours and those of everyone around them.

  Titania Flato and One-Lung were joined outside the courthouse by Flato’s DNR sergeant, Dirk Bernhardt. Flato ate a hot dog from a cart and One-Lung had coffee and a cigarette and coughed.

  “I don’t know about this kid thing,” Bernhardt said.

  “You sure don’t,” One-Lung said. “Please keep your legal naivete to yourself.” He turned to Flato. “Good job in there, one word answers, good use of silence and delay in response as a shield and sword.”

  She chewed, he smoked, and the sergeant drank Coke from a paper cup.

  One-Lung looked at her. “You having qualms?”

  “About the kid? Of course.”

  “The Feds are pressuring me to drop this case,” One-Lung said.

  “What Feds?”

  “Fish and Wildlife.”

  “Why? They never talked to me.”

  “No explanation. Just drop the charges and apologize for the CO’s zealotry.”

  “They want me to apologize?”

  The prosecutor nodded once and lit another smoke. “I mean, really, it’s just some garter snakes, right?”

  “It’s a pipeline to who knows what,” Flato said.

  “All we can prove is that it stretches across the river.”

  “It’s a classic Lacey Act case, you know that.”

  One-Lung exhaled smoke. “Calm down, we’re here, aren’t we? I just thought you ought to know what’s going on down in the public prostate.”

  “What’s Fish and Wildlife’s motivation?”

  “My guess? They have something going and we’re cross
ing their lines or short-circuiting something. The media’s already the laughing stock of law enforcement, Big bad cops snatch little girl’s pet ‘gardener’ snakes.”

  “That can’t be helped,” her sergeant interjected.

  Flato said, “I agree, but it could get worse.” She turned to One-Lung. “Why wouldn’t the Feds not come to us in the first place? Isn’t this the time of peace and cooperation between all law enforcement agencies at all levels in this great country of Homeland Security transparency?”

  “Spin wins,” One-Lung said. “Not reality.”

  Flato looked at her sergeant. “Is this my call, yours, or Lansing’s?”One-Lung said, “This is the state’s call, which is to say it’s my call and it’s a go.”

  “If it’s winnable,” Bernhardt offered.

  “We’ll win,” One-Lung said. “The question is at what price?”

  •••

  “Are you comfie, Miss Joanie?” One-Leg asked the now six-year-old.

  “I want to talk to her,” the girl said, stabbing her little finger at Titania Flato.

  “Not me?”

  “I smell cigarettes,” the girl said, making a face. “She smells good, like my snakes.”

  One-Lung invited Flato to ask the questions, whispered, “Just let her talk.”

  “Hi Joanie. Did you have some lunch?”

  “Mum brought it from home.”

  “I object to this, Your Honor,” Sabato said.

  Said Judge Tar, “So noted. Let’s hear what this young lady has to say.”

  “Do you know why you’re here?” Flato asked the girl.

  “Nope,” the girl said. “It’s boring.”

  “How’re your Chink Stripes?”

  The girl pouted. “God took all of ’em and I’m never getting no more.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Flato said.

  “It’s okay, they’re up in Chink heaven.”

  Flato used her finger to pull an eyelid. “Chink, like that?”

  The girl did the same. “Chink. They’re funny looking.”

  “Objection,” Sabato said, “leading the witness, irrelevant.”

  “Overruled.”

  “The stripes don’t have eyes like that, do they?”

  The little girl pondered this and opened her eyes wide, said “No their eyes look like this!”

  “So why are they called Chink?”

  “Cause Mum and Uncle Harp call ’em Chinks.”

  “Did they tell you to call them that?”

  “I don’t know,” Joanie said, looking up and over at the judge. “Is he the boss of us?”

  “He sure is,” Flato said. “He’s a real nice boss.”

  The girl said, “Okay.”

  “Joanie, can you tell us about the Bitey-buzz?”

  The girl animated with a buzzing sound so realistic and eerie the jurors and almost everyone in the court looked down at their feet, Sabato included.

  “Thank you for that, Joanie. It sounds so real! Do you play with them?”

  The girl flashed a big smile. Then she mimicked vomiting so realistically even Flato backed up. “Can’t play with them things. They bite you and make you real sick and make you puke.”

  “Have they made you sick, Joanie?”

  “Nope, just Uncle Harp, but it don’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Uncle’s got real strong blood.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “Mum neither.”

  “What about daddy?”

  “Daddy works all the time. Chinks is Mum’s.”

  “For what?”

  “Uncle Harp. He has lots.”

  “Do you know where Uncle Harp lives?”

  The girl furrowed her brow, “Crosst the river. He’s a Can-tuck.”

  “Canuck?”

  “Yah, Oh . . . Can-a-da,” the girl began to sing with perfect pitch.

  •••

  “Officer Flato, you have further evidence?”

  “Yes we subpoenaed Mrs. Nougat’s personal savings account. She has a balance of . . . ,” Flato held a note in front of her, “$72,733.57.”

  “And the date of the most recent deposit?”

  “One day after our Walmart encounter.”

  “Check?”

  “Cash, Canadian converted to US greenbacks.”

  Mr. Nougat shouted, “You bitch, I’m working three fucking jobs and you’ve got seventy fucking grand stashed?!”

  “Bailiff,” Judge Tar said calmly. “Please take Mr. Nougat outside and let him breathe in some fresh air.”

  •••

  Two days later the jury found the defendant guilty on all counts and the judge condemned the money account, which allowed the state to confiscate the illegal cash.

  Titania Flato was almost to her truck when a red-haired man in a camo jacket caught up to her. “Nice outcome,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Course, you just shit on two years that the RCMP had a man inside. Uncle Herp’s operation was an international hub: China, Taiwan, Korea, Japan, unreal. He has ten thousand reptiles at a time, sales in the multi hundred millions and now it’s all right down the shithole. Uncle Herp disappeared yesterday.”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Templeton, Fish and Wildlife. You traded less than a hundred grand for a few fucking copper bellies? It’s ridiculous.”

  “You should have talked to us.”

  “You fucked that doggie, girl, not us. Uncle Herp left one message to pass on to you. It says, ‘tell the game warden over there with the fancy name she’s dead meat.’ ”

  Flato watched as the man strode away and felt her knees go rubbery and then she laughed out loud. Dead meat over harmless reptiles? This can’t be real. Can it? This is what, your fifth death threat in fifteen years?

  “How comes these things to pass?” her namesake had asked in Shakespeare’s play, which she had read dozens of times throughout her life, knew it almost by heart.

  Five death threats? I must be doing something right.

  The Real Twelve Mike

  Tamarie Bullywick did not expect a gunshot and reacted instinctively, bouncing off the roof of the Silverado, jamming her neck. “Shit,” she muttered out loud: All the windows were down to help her hear better. As soon as she recovered from hearing the shot, she put the truck in gear and started forward with her truck completely blacked out. She soon saw a small beam of light blink on and off and by the time she was closer to it, she saw a silhouette dump what looked like a large animal into the pickup bed.

  She turned on her blue emergency lights and spotlights and accelerated forward, but the other truck took off fishtailing and she got up a hundred yards behind it on the icy two-track and picked up her microphone. “Central, Two One One One is in pursuit.” She gave her location. The two-track dead-ended at a massive cedar swamp so the guy was not going any farther than that. It had snowed two days in a row, heavy wet, October snow, thick and gumbo-like, quick to melt in the sun, but just as quick to turn slippery when the temp dropped, and fast turning to ice, as it was doing tonight.

  Lakes and ponds had been iced over for a week now, most nights down to almost ten degrees, winter stutter-stepping its way into place.

  Bullywick drove as fast as she dared. The guy was black now too and she focused hard in case he tried to flip on her. She knew that two vehicles running black at night on these roads was a potential disaster. But she had been trained to do this and had been doing it for the better part of nine years. She guessed a crash lay ahead and seconds later she caught a glint of the truck ahead sliding sideways to the left, hitting something and rolling and flipping, end over end, like a toy.

  Oh boy. She stopped, jumped out and ran to the wreck, which rested on its roof
. She shone her flashlight into the cockpit. Empty. Boot tracks beside the driver’s door. Some spots of blood, then a good pool of it. Fool. Quick look at bed of the truck, no deer beneath. Blood and hair, but no corpus. She found the carcass fifty feet back from where the truck had hit a stump which caused the vehicle to flip.

  “Central, Two One One One is out of the vehicle. My guy rolled his truck and is running. I have some blood and boot prints and will be on the dog.”

  “Backup headed your way,” the multiple county dispatcher said. “Fifteen minutes minimum.”

  “Two, One One One on foot, will check in with positions. Run a file?”

  “Central ready.” The CO passed along the truck plate as she went to her truck, pulled her Remington .308 out of its scabbard and started tracking. The blood wasn’t heavy but it was steady. She guessed he’d wrapped it with something. Good. The bleeding would slow him down eventually, probably pretty quickly. Does he have a rifle? Should have checked the cab of the truck. Shit. Assume he does. First rule of the chase, know what you’re following.

  “Two, Triple One, Central. Plate comes back to a ninety nine Ford Taurus, owner’s name is Tivoli, Carolyn R., out of Mancelona.”

  “Can you call the owner and ask who has her car? The plate is now on a ten-year-old Dodge Ram pickup.”

  “Central clear.”

  Bullywick’s lungs were burning, heaving. Her legs were rock solid. Cold air always got your lungs until you got acclimated. No way a normal civilian could last twelve minutes in this cold and shitty footing. Catch-up was a matter of time. She kept running. Rifle’s heavy, bulky, pain in the ass. The division needs to downsize just for deals like this. The .308 will drop an elephant at a mile, but elephants were few in the Yoop and a one-mile shot unheard of in a region that was 75 percent swamp and heavy bush. Wrong weapon for the job, this crap is not .308-friendly.

  He had started running south from his truck but was gradually veering westward. He’s lost, running without a plan? Blood sign was spotty, intermittent, no change. No destination in his flight, his only goal is to get away from me. No way he can last.

  Breathing more evenly now, steadied, low sweat starting to bead. Suddenly his tracks cut sharply west and she followed them to the lip of a seven or eight foot drop down onto a pond. She shone her light, saw his boot prints. He’d run right across the middle. Light snow on black ice, watch your footing, girl. Be snotty-slippery footing. She moved across the pond at a steady clip and saw the other bank and was looking for a place to make landfall when she heard a sickening crack and kept running and then she was through the ice waist-deep. The cold sucked all the air out of her and she used the rifle to pull herself back onto the ice shelf and once up, slid to the shore and dropped to her knees in the snow. She looked at his tracks and followed him up and found where he had stopped and milled around. Why? Watching me? Sonuvabitch, did he see me go through the ice? Did he watch me struggling? If so, he was leaving me to freeze. Sonuvabitch!