“You twenty-one yet?” Service asked the boy.
“I could lie.”
“Great, you want red wine or tap water.”
“Those are the only two choices?”
“No,” Tree said. “You can select nothing.”
“Red wine,” Dotz said. “Why am I here?”
“To share; see, we’re breaking bread,” Service said. “It’s symbolic.”
“I don’t see bread,” the boy said.
“Don’t be literal, Dotz,” Treebone carped. “Try the wine.”
Dotz took a sip.
Service said, “You followed me for quite a while before I tricked you out into the bush.”
“What’s your point?”
“Why?”
“The rumors about you being suspended and wondering if maybe the DNR was hiding some sort of scandal.”
“Rumors heard where?”
“A tip, not exactly a rumor,” Dotz admitted.
“Tip from what source?”
“A journalist isn’t obligated to reveal sources.”
“I’m talking about you, not some theoretical scribbler.”
“I’m not talking,” Dotz said.
Service said, “Then eat, the food’s getting cold.”
“You’ve looked at photos of four Drazel women, two that Tree took in their office and others from another source, and you’ve not seen any of those four, correct?”
“I guess.”
Service got up from the table and dialed Fellow Marthesdottir.
She said, “I’ve seen you guys coming out of the Mosquito. You and Tree and Dotz, and now Allerdyce is gone in Treebone’s truck.”
This was jarring. “You’ve got cameras here?”
“No, I’m a good guesser.”
“Hardly,” he said. “You’ve expanded your surveillance.”
“Not really,” she said. “Allerdyce called, he’s on the way over here.”
Service shook his head and cupped the phone, told Treebone. “Limpy took your truck for a bootie call.”
Treebone sputtered, “That better not take place inside my baby.”
Service noticed that Dotz had refilled his wine glass. “What is it with old farts and sex? Ain’t no big thing, sayin’?”
Treebone said, “Shut your mouth, Dotz.”
Service said to Marthesdottir, “We’re in a bit of a quandary. Could Drazel employ more women than the two we first met?”
“Could and do. You haven’t called or I would have updated you.”
“Tell me now.”
“I’ve indentified six potential employees, all female. Not by name, only by faces.”
“All blond?”
“That too. At least on the surface.”
“All six in Ford River?”
“They appear to rotate from downstate. I’ve got bridge pix verifications. Plates are all Drazel trucks, nothing personal. Names I can get, I suppose, but this will take some more time.”
“Are any of them licensed surveyors?”
“Unanswerable until I have actual identities,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean they can’t work.”
He said, “The way we heard it, if unlicensed personnel do survey work they have to do it under direct supervision of a licensed professional. So far, we’ve seen only them in the field. Maybe one of them is actually a licensed surveyor. If so, it would be helpful to know which one and her name. Also, does Drazel have an aircraft for exploration and geosurvey work?”
“What kind of a plane?” she asked. “I confess, all cars and planes look pretty much alike to me.”
“One source says it looks like a hummingbird.”
“Hah,” she said. “That’s interesting. Want me to dig?”
“With the greatest dispatch. Make, model, registration, owner, tail number, where hangered, crew names, everything you can get, and flight plans and local jobs if any of that information is findable.”
“On it,” she said.
Service said, “Tell Allerdyce to never mind on Menominee, explain what you’re doing and tell him there’s no need for him to drive all the way down there.”
“You know he’ll still do what he thinks he should do.”
“I know, but tell him.”
“Don’t hang up before I finish,” Marthesdottir said. “Dotz’s father is not part of the Kalleskevich-Bozian thing. He was mostly a father in name only. He was on the boy’s periphery, but there was some argument or disagreement and a parting of the ways.”
Service said, “The father’s dead, right? So he was part of it, but isn’t now? That’s what happens when you’re dead.”
“It’s the boy’s grandfather, not his father. Yes, the dad’s dead, and I’ve dug out more information on that. He ate a .357 mag after he term-limited out. Tyrus found him.”
Service stared at the boy. Why had they not heard this before now? “Thanks, Fellow.”
“Yah, later. I have company. Listen I won’t be talking to you until tomorrow because, well, my brain gets kinda addled in the slipstream, if you know what I mean.”
After he hung up, Service turned to Dotz and said, “Ty, we’re really sorry about your dad, but we have to ask about him.”
The boy said, “Don’t be sorry. He was only my biological father. Everything except family was important to him.”
“You don’t have to answer this. You found him?”
“And his note.”
“He left a note? Can I ask what it said?”
Dotz looked Service in the eye. “It said, ‘Messy, isn’t it.’”
The boy drained and refilled his glass. And pulled the wine bottle closer.
“You’re bunking here tonight, Dotz,” Treebone said.
Dotz took another swig of wine and said, “Grandpa gave me the tip on you being suspended and the state maybe hiding some sort of scandal. I needed a story and this sounded pretty interesting, the kind of thing that could get me noticed. So I start looking around and I ran into the Drazel women. So what’s with the Drazel Sisters and their interest in the Mosquito? They’re not tourists and they’re not on any government contract I can find, and I can’t even find their company registered and licensed with the state.”
Service said, “We’ve been down the same roads. We’ll tell you what we know, but this is deep background and meant only to help you understand. If this turns into a story, then we’ll discuss attribution and all that stuff.”
Service paused and then asked, “You pissed at your old man?”
“Very,” Dotz said. “He was a loser.”
“It will pass,” Service said. The longer he lived, the more he found out about his own father, and the more he had to alter his negative opinion of the man.
Dotz didn’t reply.
“What about your grandfather?” Service asked.
Dotz said, “You mean, His Royal Majassnasty?”
“Problems with dad and grandad?”
“All my grandfather wants is greatness bestowed on his name. He feels ignored. A former governor promised to get a state park renamed for him if he helped him with his legislative agenda, which he did, but that governor’s gone and no state park.”
This had to be Bozian. “Which governor?”
“Sam,” the boy said. “I’ve known him since I was little. Apparently everything was on track until my dad ate a bullet and Sam told grandad the deal was off, that they could not risk a scandal of the name given the suicide.”
“Now my grandfather is despondent and depressed and moping around and mumbling to himself, stuff like, ‘After all the shit I did for that son of a bitch and his toadies.’”
Service had no idea of the load the boy was carrying and decided to leave him alone for the moment. One fact gleaned: The key link here is Dotz’s grandfa
ther, not his late father, and the boy just revealed that the tip on my suspension came from his granddad, which seems to throw the link toward Bozian.
Fellow Marthesdottir called, and Service stared at his plate and wondered if he was ever going to get to eat. “Yah?”
“My mind’s a tad-bit flummoxed. I’ve been talking to M every day. She said I should tell you that Kalleskevich’s lawyers are pushing hard for a court hearing.”
“Court, not the Department of Environmental Quality?”
“Title issues need to be cleared in court before he can ask the DEQ for permits.”
“Does M think there’s a case?”
“She’s not sure yet, and she has her lawyers looking into it. I gotta go, there’s a pest in my house!”
Service looked at Tree. “Limpy’s there.”
“I don’t want no more details,” Tree said.
Chapter 32
Slippery Creek Camp
Grady Service had extensive experience in criminal courts. The prospect of court dealings in this situation bothered him because it was in a sea of case law he knew nothing about. Despite that, any courtroom tended to unnerve him. Over the decades he had come to understand that while precedent in fish and game law was long and deep and tended toward cut and dry, laws governing mineral rights were not just different, but based on what the lawyer O’Halloran had told them, essentially unknown. This suggested any court case would be a crap shoot, above and beyond what it normally was. Under normal conditions he had learned that the behavior of defendants, witnesses, experts, cops, lawyers, judges, and juries was largely unpredictable even in cases that theoretically should have been open and shut. And now this case, which appeared to be even more unpredictable.
There had been a time in his career when he pinched a man named Clayband with two illegal deer. He had watched the deer be shot and killed, had watched the suspect gut them, and had arrested the man red-handed. A confession had been forthcoming, with his excuse boiling down to “because everybody else does it.”
The t’s were crossed that time, the i’s dotted, the paperwork in perfect shape. Just before the trial began the ADA had said to him, “No sweat. We’ll be out of here in ten minutes.” Then came the curveball.
The prosecutor had him on the stand as the arresting officer, and the defense attorney was pecking for grounds for dismissal. Judge Stimac, who had a longtime hard-on for game wardens, sat listening with obvious impatience. When the judge couldn’t take it anymore, he said to the defense attorney, “Excuse me for butting in, counselor, but Officer Service, how many illegal deer cases have you made in your career?”
“Sorry, your honor, I don’t know and I doubt the department maintains such numbers. A lot is the best I can do for an answer.”
“A lot, you say?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“With each case in that ‘a lot,’ what was the penalty?”
Why the hell was he asking this? It was a matter of statute passed by the state legislature and in force forever. “Statutorily, Your Honor, it’s a mandatory year in jail and a thousand dollars for restitution to the state, court costs at the judge’s discretion, and the loss of hunting privileges for the individual for at least one year, but typically two years or more.”
Stimac squinted, grinned, then sat back and joined his hands behind his head. “Tell you what, Officer Service, if you can provide the court with a detailed cost accounting of how the state establishes one thousand dollars as the price of restitution for one miserable whitetail deer, of which we have millions of the nuisances chewing their way through the state—you do that, and then I shall direct a verdict of guilty and we’ll be done with this folderol over a miserable pest. Your turn, Officer.”
How the fuck was he supposed to know something he had no involvement in establishing. It was a calculation made decades before. “Your Honor, if we could have a short recess, I’m sure I can provide the information you seek.”
“No good, Officer, no good, unh-unh. I want your explanation and I want it now. You are the arresting officer, you accumulated evidence for the case, and surely you must think about the precise effect and implications of all your work on the citizens you collar.”
“Your Honor, I also represent the citizens. It is their representatives who make these laws, and perhaps if you directed your question to the legislature on behalf of the citizens, an answer would be forthcoming.”
The judge glared at him. “Nice try, Service. Case dismissed.” He hammered his gavel down.
“Objection,” the assistant prosecuting attorney yelped weakly.
“I imagine you do,” Judge Stimac said. “Overruled.” The judge then turned to the defendant. “Mr. Claybank, the next time you get the itch to shine a deer, you will do well to understand that this court will focus on the untoward practice of discharging firearms at night and take appropriate action. I don’t condone anything you’ve done, sir, none of it, but I expect game wardens upholding state laws to understand the reasons they are charged with the job they are doing, for all facets of the law, and I expect them to be able to explain such rationales to citizens such as you, or jurists such as me.”
The gavel came down again. All stood—including the judge, who sashayed to his chambers.
A week or so later the same APA called him while he was on patrol. “Apparently, Judge Stimac had a brother who was just pinched for shining after shooting seven deer that were snacking on his soybeans.”
“Wish we’d have known that coming in.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
Service had no answer.
Treebone poured coffee and sat down across the table from his old friend and comrade. They had heard last night that some sort of preliminary hearing was on the docket for today in Lansing, something to do with the case, but there had been no details. Tree said, “We heading south to sit in the peanut gallery or are we gone sit tight?”
Service sighed. “Fish and game law I’m comfortable with. Real estate resource ownership rights, I know less than zero. We’ll get a transcript. In any event this is just a hearing to set a date for the actual hearing, so it’s no biggie.”
“Not afraid you’ll be blindsided?”
“They can blindside us if we’re there or here. Our presence is irrelevant. The lawyers have to lead on this and we have to follow as best we can.”
“There are good lawyers and bad,” Treebone said.
“We’ve seen both extremes,” Service said. “The space between those extremes is pretty thin.”
“I hate the waiting shit,” Treebone said.
*****
Chief Eddie Waco called later that afternoon. “Lis was at the hearing,” he told Service. Lis was Captain Lisette McKower, Service’s longtime friend and onetime partner.
“And?”
“The claimants tried to present evidence purportedly to demonstrate inarguable rights to said parcels in the Mosquito. But the judge told him to not be in a hurry, that there’s a process in place and the judge intends to follow said process step by step until he reaches the endpoint.”
“So?”
“Bing-bang, no quick on-the-spot decision, a lucky and fortuitous start for our side. The judge did in fact take a fast recess and review evidence in his chambers, but when he came back to the courtroom he set the date for the actual hearing, told the claimants their evidence seemed interesting.”
“When’s the actual hearing?”
“Six weeks from today. Claimants wanted two weeks. Judge countered with one month, and when the claimants’ attorney tried for three weeks, the judge set the date at six weeks. You get your new badge?”
“I’m all set.”
“Good. I don’t know what to tell you, Grady, but you’ve got six weeks to birddog this thing and come up with evidence the case needs. If the judge rules for the claimants,
our own attorneys say that will be that, end of game. Without state records to counter the claim, they’ll have no options.”
“If the claim is bogus and bullshit and the judge buys it, that’s all she wrote?”
“About the size of it,” Waco said.
“Even if it’s bullshit?”
“It won’t be bullshit if the judge buys it.”
“This is not right. Justice should mean right or wrong.”
Eddie Waco said, “You know better, my friend. All justice requires is a decision, nothing more and nothing less. The captain will give you a bump tomorrow, and she’ll make sure you get a transcript of todays’ proceedings.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
“Grady,” Waco continued, “I never met a man with more sand than you, and now’s the time to let loose on the opposition. Most people stumble through life and never even see an opponent of your strength, much less have to go head to head with one. It’s time for you to attack, Grady. Over the top and all out.”
Sand and grit? Meaningless tripe from his chief and friend, but all said with the best of intentions, which he appreciated. “What I need, Eddie, is something that undoes bad paper—scissors or a damn rock, I can never remember which one.”
“Scissors cuts paper,” the DNR law enforcement chief said. “You’ve got six weeks. Use it all.”
Treebone looked at his friend. “We been hosed?”
“It don’t mean nothing.” Service said. This phrase had arisen among combat troops in Vietnam and come home with them, a statement that came from when they were looking at the worst possible consequences and circumstances. He had never understood the logic of the words, but the emotional load in it was clear: Get the job done, no matter what, no matter how. Service said, “Let’s get us some beers. Where the hell is Allerdyce?”
“Said he had some stuff to take care of.”
“You loan him your truck again?” Service asked with a sneer.
“Me and my truck had our turn, Bro. I loaned him your truck.”
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