Cast the First Stone (Red Lake Series Book 2)

by Rich Foster

  In the holding cell, Robert waited to be returned to jail. He had a smirk on his face. He enjoyed winding the judge up. After all he was broke and going to jail for life what could the bitch do? He hated authority and he sure as hell wasn’t going to take any crap off a woman.

  Brent Carlson graduated from the State University. He attended law school at one of the lesser lights. However, the education was sufficiently competent that he passed the bar exam on his third try. He considered private practice. Unfortunately, his appearance did not inspire confidence. Rather than having the Nordic good looks, which, his name might imply, he was short, had dark oily hair, and wore thick glasses. Worse yet, he stuttered during periods of extreme stress. This defect had not bother him professionally; he loved to debate. Instead, it reared its ugly head when he was attracted to a woman. His attempts to obtain dates ended in a disaster.

  He applied for a position with the district attorney’s office. They reviewed his record and took a pass. Undaunted, he walked his resume across the hall to the public defender’s office. Being less discriminating and desperate for applicants, they offered Brent a job.

  For the previous six months he defended drunks and felons on charges of minor assault, petty theft, or drunk and disorderly arrests. The more interesting cases never fell his way. Inevitably, though, since the public defender’s office ran a straight rotation, sooner or later he would get a big case.

  What Brent did not realize was that lawyers with seniority often had the clerk fix the schedule. The clerk knew what cases were coming up and could fairly well estimate whose name would fall to a case or delay entering a name when they finished a case. None of the senior lawyers wanted to try the Goodman case. While there was no chance of an upset victory, there was every chance that local rednecks would brand whoever represented Goodman a “bleeding heart liberal,” and string up dead cats up in the poor slob’s front yard. As a consequence, when Judge Mannering referenced the rotation list, Brent Carlson was at the top.

  He was excited. His first big trial was a murder case. A wiser man would have realized the danger that lay between this Scylla and Charybdis. Defending the alleged killer of a sitting judge might not trouble the general public; but in the judicial world it could only harm his career. On the other hand, to those who worked in the courthouse, defending a mass murderer was acceptable but the general public was sure to despise him.

  As soon as Brent received word, he sent for the file and immediately began to study the record. This, unfortunately, resulted in a man going to jail for 30 days, who could have plead out with the D.A.’s office. Brent missed the plea conference.

  Though slightly acquainted with the New Life/Kellner case from the newspaper, after reading the file he despaired.

  For the church killings, the district attorney had twenty-two witnesses in the sanctuary at the time of the shootings. Also, a police sniper watching in his rifle scope, the sheriff observing him through the open doors and other deputies watching on a video feed. Forensics had matched the dynamite in the church to the same batch stolen at Corbet Mills; they had the gun, which, was registered to Robert Goodman, the recovered bullets, the bodies, and a victim who survived, who was ten feet away at the time his client allegedly pulled the trigger trying to kill him.

  On the Kellner case, the only hard evidence was Goodman’s fingerprint on the doorbell and grass clippings from his boots that matched the chemical supplements on the Kellner’s front lawn. Circumstantial, Carlson acknowledged to himself, but people had gone to the death chamber on little more.

  The guy has to make a plea deal or go for an insanity defense, Brent thought. After reading Goodman’s police record he decided insanity was the way to go. He imagined himself painting a picture of a helpless psychopath who needed treatment not jail. Of course he knew his client would end up doing life in a state institution for the criminally insane, but it would avoid a death sentence. As a lawyer, that was a victory in itself.

  Tuesday afternoon Brent nervously waited in the jailhouse interview room. The door swung open. His client was ushered in. Goodman sat down opposite to him. The deputy attached Robert’s shackles to the eye-anchor set in the floor. Robert eyed Brent with total disdain. Brent felt relieved that Goodman was chained down.

  He introduced himself as he opened the file. “We have two choices, we can plea bargain or plead temporary insanity.”

  “What’s this “we” crap? Are you going to prison with me if we lose?”

  “Well, Mr. Goodman the only way one can lose is to plead not guilty, and I don’t think that would be advisable.”

  “You’re saying you think I’m guilty.” Robert menacingly leaned forward on the table. A seemingly invisible force pushed Carlson equally far back.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, it’s what the court thinks.”

  “I don’t need some shyster who thinks I’m guilty!”

  “I told you, my opinion on your guilt does not matter.”

  It damn well matter if you’re representing me! You don’t even know if I’m guilty and you’ve got me going to the nut house or jail. You didn’t even ask if I did it!”

  “You want me to ask, is that it?”

  “Yes! I mean if this is confidential and all.”

  Brent took a deep breath, while thinking, this guy was really crazy. He tried to judge how far the shackles would let Goodman move. It was like estimating the length of rope tying up a dangerous dog. “Anything you say is protected by lawyer–client privilege. I can’t repeat it.”

  “Okay,” Goodman said. He positioned himself in his chair like he was getting ready for a quiz show. “Go!”

  “Did you murder four people at the New Life Redemption Church?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Twenty-six witnesses and you say no?”

  “Yea. It wasn’t murder. Those people volunteered to die. It was pay back. Those hypocrites at that church owed me.”

  “You think that is a defense?”

  “Uh huh! Kellner, Parks, and all the people in that church deserved to die for what they did. They killed my family and then cheated me with their rich lawyers.”

  “Look Mr. Goodman, in our court system that is not a plea, it’s guilty, not guilty, or not guilty by reason of insanity.”

  “So you think I’m crazy.”

  Brent thought it best not to answer directly.

  “What I think does not matter. That would be up to a psychiatric board. But it may be your best bet to avoid the death penalty.”

  Robert began to laugh. “That’s good, pal. You say payback ain’t a defense for me but it’s okay for the state to do.”

  Brent took a deep breath. This was a lot harder than he ever imagined. “I’m just trying to put together a plea for when we go to court.”

  “Put me down for not guilty.”

  “Okay. But would it be okay if I talk to the prosecutor’s office and see if they are open to a plea. It might be the only way to avoid capital punishment.”

  “Go ahead, talk. That’s all you legal beagles do anyway.”

  “I’d also like for you to see a psychiatrist.”

  “Why? What’s his problem?”

  Brent rubbed his temples where a headache was forming. “Just talk to him okay?”

  Brent knocked on the door for the guard.

  “I’ll see you on Thursday Mr. Goodman.”

  “Sure, just don’t let me down.” The way Robert said this left Brent feeling queasy in his stomach.

  *

  Outside Seattle rain was falling. Lucas crawled along the freeway through the steady drizzle. Welcome home, he thought. Unlike Beaumont’s mountains, clouds buried these today. It was stop and go for forty-five minutes until he turned off outside Tacoma. He ran his Porsche along the two-lane road, the tires gripping nicely despite the moisture. Five miles down the road he turned off onto a lane that ran down toward the sound. The road ended in a parking lot, beyond that a group of floating docks reached out onto the water
like tentacles. Closer to the Sound the drizzle did not so much fall as hang in the air, floating like the atomized mist of a summer sprinkler.

  He lifted his bag from the passenger’s seat and locked the doors. As he crossed the lot a mangy dog trotted over and fell in beside him. “Hello Patch,” he said as he stopped to scratch the soggy fur on the dog’s head. Then pointing to the shack across the road he said, ”Go on home.” The dog turned and trotted away.

  Lucas went home, too. He walked briskly out the main dock to the last finger. His houseboat lay tied off on the side toward the open water. He had bought the boat shortly after he was based at nearby Fort Lewis. It proved to be a comfortable home. The boat’s wood was weathered, but the vessel was sound.

  Inside he dropped his bag in the aft cabin, where he lifted the cabin sole to check the bilges. He went forward into the tidy salon where he opened the flue of the freestanding fireplace. He put in paper and kindling. The fire caught at the first match and soon the blaze was big enough to take a piece of split log. Quickly, the dampness was driven from the salon.

  In the galley he looked for something to eat. The bread had blue mold, as did the cheddar cheese. He tried paring it away, but it went too deep. He dropped the cheese into the trash. The lettuce was wilted and three containers of leftovers now held a glutinous mass. Lucas opened a can of soup and put it on the stove. While it warmed he cleaned out the refrigerator, quickly filling the small trash basket.

  The soup was bubbling. He poured it into a bowl setting on the bar top that separated the galley from the salon. When he took a sip he wasn’t sure what he had made until he read the label on the can; “beef and barley with garden vegetables”.

  Leaving it to cool he went to the bedroom where he opened his suitcase. On top of the clothing lay the framed photo of his mother and uncle. Tucked in on side were the novels by Hunter Wells. He placed the frame on the nightstand beside the bed and with a book, returned to his soup.

  He opened the third novel. How much of this was based on something real, he wondered? How much of his uncle’s life was woven into these pages? Lucas sipped the soup, then rose and found saltine crackers in the pantry, which, he crushed, over the bowl.

  Returning to the book the first line read,

  “There was death in these woods. He could feel its vapor, like a chill breath on his neck. Somewhere it lingered, waiting patiently for him. At the next step, at the next turn, or after the next fall, it did not matter, he knew it would come.”

  Lucas put the book down, reminded about the man on the plane, who told of being lost in the woods and facing death alone. This led him to think of other deaths, the ones in Mason Forks. What did his uncle think of as he went forward? Did he have doubts about the other side? Did he resent this man who would kill him? As he went forward, Elijah knew he was paying to heal the daughter of the man who would take his life. Did that make him bitter? Was he any less willing to act?

  Lucas doubted whether he could do the same. Alone in his houseboat, he suddenly felt cut off, as much as when his mother died. He thought of Grace, Kevin, Calley, even Goodman, and how alone death made the survivors. Once again he wondered if he had made the right choice.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mail call came at the jail. Robert was surprised when the guard rolling the cart past his cell said, “Goodman” and put a letter between the bars. He had no idea who might write him, unless it was his daughter June, but that seemed unlikely, in that she only recently turned eight.

  The letter bore no return address, but was postmarked in Red Lake. He tore off the end and tugged out a single sheet of lined paper.

  The handwriting was feminine and neat and the “I hate you’s” perfectly symmetrical. The lines were like those of a schoolchild in detention forced to write repetitively at the chalkboard. They filled the sheet.

  I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

  I hope you burn in hell!

  As Robert read the letter a perverse joy filled his heart. He sensed the pain in the words, the anger, and the hate. Obviously a surviving loved one wrote it. Those feelings were his and now they were someone else’s too. The knowledge was like fuel to the fires of hate that burned within him. The emptiness that filled him was replaced by a renewed sense of power to inflict pain. His efforts were not wasted. Later that day he asked for a piece of tape. He put the letter up on his cell wall.

  *

  Grace went to the mailbox. It contained the usual junk mail, several bills, and a few stray sympathy cards from out of town relatives. The wind gusted around her and her skirt hem danced in the breeze. Clouds were building around Desolation Peak. The hot air felt energized causing the hairs on her arms to rise. She was turning back to the house when a young voice called out her name.

  “Mrs. Leeds, oh Mrs. Leeds!”

  Grace turned, to see Sally Kendal crossing the grass from the church. She ran barefoot and her braids twirled in the wind. Oh to be fourteen again, Grace thought. The girl clutched an envelope in her hand. When she came up her voice was left breathy from running, which added an air of maturity to her tone.

  “My mother asked me to bring this over. She’s helping in the church office since Mrs. Potter quit.” The woman mentioned had been the church secretary. She resigned the day after the shootings. It was rumored she became a Baptist. “Mom said she found this letter in the church office. She said to say, she’s sorry. It may have been there for a while.”

  The letter was unstamped and in fountain pen ink neatly addressed to “Grace Leeds.” The tight crisp lettering was familiar. A short gasp escaped her lips and her right hand went to her mouth. It was a letter from the grave. Lester had left a note after all.

  “Thank you, Sally,” Grace managed to say.

  Sally seemingly floated away, carried with the wind toward the church. Grace took the mail inside and set it on the Georgian secretariat near the front door. Using Lester’s letter opener, which terminated in a cross, she slit the envelope open. Her reading glasses were upstairs, so she held the letter at arms length in her left hand. It took a moment for her eyes to focus.

  Grace,

  I betrayed my flock and also my God. The condemnation, which I preached to others, I now find, has come upon myself.

  That for which you are named, I cannot find. I have lost my faith in a god who forgives. My God is one who reckons the sins of the fathers onto the third and fourth generation. “I will repay, thus sayeth the Lord.”

  I will not see you again in this life, or that to come. I would that God might show me mercy, but the voices of the dead condemn me to hell, where I and Robert Goodman, shall experience God’s wrath forever!

  Lester

  Grace put the letter away. She felt pity for the man. Whether she believed he was or was not now in hell, she was not sure. Certainly, he had been in one that last week. She said a prayer for his soul

  *

  Mrs. Vincentia set the mail on her kitchen table. Adjusting her glasses, she saw a letter from a law firm. It frightened the old woman. Letters from lawyers meant trouble or death.

  For the past several days she had supervised a local girl cleaning the Daniels’s apartment. Thank God, he had not bloodied the walls, but Mother of God what a mess, she thought. Between much cajoling, scolding and criticism from Carmen, the poor girl made the place spotless.

  The girl’s boyfriend, wanting to be near her, volunteered to come over and move Kevin’s boxes down to the garage. Mrs. Vincentia would have liked to throw them out, but she was afraid that some relative or perhaps Kevin himself might come looking for them. Then she would be sued. And as if punishing her for her thoughts, here was a lawyer writing to her. She read:

  Maxwell Teech and Associates

  Attorneys at Law

  Red Lake.”

  Dear Mrs. Vince
ntia,

  A client has instructed me to forward to you Mr. Kevin Daniels’s rent, until such time as he is capable of remunerating you himself or he moves elsewhere.

  Enclosed is a check for seven hundred dollars. That should be sufficient until you can send me a copy of his lease.

  If you have any questions feel free to contact my office, but if it is in regards as to whom my client is, I will be unable to assist you.

  Should you prefer a direct deposit to your bank please supply us with your account number.

  Respectfully Yours,

  Maxwell Teech

  The money was an answer to a prayer she never made. Oh my, Carmen thought. I must light a candle to the Virgin on Sunday. She had been advertising the Daniels’s apartment since they gave their notice. No one had expressed interest.

  Seven hundred dollars, it was like found money. She would drive to the bank immediately. Then she must get that girl’s boyfriend to put the boxes back in Kevin’s room. A man who had friends who paid their rent and also knew a lawyer was not a man to cross.

  *

  Lucas went to the post office. He waited in line at the counter, thankful that the people who ran the post office did not run the cash registers at the supermarket. Everyone’s frozen food would melt before they got home.

  “Lucas,” a voice said, interrupting his thoughts. He looked up to see a friend who lived in the same marina.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I had to go out of town, a death in the family.”

  “Oh. Well my sympathies. Why don’t you stop by tonight and we’ll drink a little Scotch to their memory whoever they were.”