“I’ve of course read the draft reports from the on-scene personnel associated with the events of the other night to include Coroner, Sheriff, Deputy and various technicians. We may not have full departments in little St. Albans, but since things like this are so rare we can bang things out in short order. I insist upon it due to the sixth amendment. I consider my oath to support and defend the constitution one that did not expire with my military service and I’m sure you feel the same way.”
Kelton nodded again. A speedy resolution was fine by him and he’d rather deal with a veteran.
“I understand you told the sheriff it was self-defense and the disparity of force, five to one, was the driver of your decision to resort to your firearm?”
“Yes, Sir,” answered Kelton without nodding.
“Why did you discount non-lethal options?” asked the prosecutor with a passive smile and steady eyes.
Kelton’s eyebrows knitted up as he replied, “Sir, I do not understand your question.”
“You had a working dog at your disposal. They can be very good at deterring mob advances.”
Kelton’s lips parted and his eyes looked down as he considered.
“I suppose that was an option,” Kelton stated slowly, “but it carried some risk for my dog.”
“Are you telling the Commonwealth of Virginia,” he said leaning in “that five of its citizens are dead because you didn’t want to put your dog at risk?”
“Well, I guess I…”
“You do know that the law places human life, five such lives, above that of mere property, like a dog?” the prosecutor half rose from his seat, his voice rising in volume as he did so.
“I,” said Kelton answering in kind, “don’t place their lives above my dog’s.”
The prosecutor smiled, and then sat back. Kelton remained a few more seconds before settling back on the cot.
“Neither do I. The spectrums of the worst to best dogs and worst to best humans, overlap. Especially those five. Worse than the worst dog. Good riddance,” he said and upon seeing Kelton’s shoulders soften suddenly lunged forward again. “But kid, you need to understand something. I know you are smart. I know you are well-versed in the law. But you’ll still wind up in prison if you don’t heed what I’m telling you. Don’t talk, and get a defense attorney.”
“Is there someone you’d recommend here in town? Or give me a list so I pick them instead of you.”
James Redigan sighed, “No, I really can’t. We don’t have enough crime for a local defense attorney. They’d starve down here. Other than me, there’s just a couple of real estate guys specializing in agriculture. I even serve as the county attorney when those duties don’t conflict with my primary office.”
“How long have you been the Commonwealth’s Attorney?” asked Kelton.
“Nearly twenty years. I met Pearl on a Friday night at the officer’s club while I was stationed at Langley. I’d just come from Sheppard Air Force Base down in Texas where I prosecuted desertions. She’d been to college and was administering the base elementary school. We married when I received orders for the pentagon. After following me around to a half dozen other bases, she wanted to settle back home in St. Albans when I retired from being Colonel James Redigan, Judge Advocate General’s Office, United States Air Force.
No one local could compete with my resume, and no one would want to come here to start a career.
Other than our preacher who went missing several years ago, odd duck that he was, nothing ever really happens here. I don’t need indictment or conviction rates to win elections. The next town you shoot up might have that working against you.
In truth, I think our little county would do well to fold. There isn’t the tax base to support the services the citizens need. Taxes on the landowners are draconian. I’d be happy to see that happen and fully retire.
Now tell me something,” he asked as Kelton nodded in response, “What the hell was a captain doing as a K-9 handler? Weren’t you supposed to be leading a company or serving on staff?”
Kelton’s head bobbed side to side. It was a good question and he saw no harm in sharing. He needed a good relationship with this guy and didn’t want to antagonize.
“The short answer is the army,” said Kelton.
James smiled and Kelton continued, “I was branched engineering on account of my degree and the need in Iraq, just like every other engineering graduate of my class. But by the time we were trained and deployed in the pipeline, the engineering demands were stabilizing and the units were saturated with inexperienced lieutenants and not much to do.
Then, the senior NCO who ran the kennels was killed in an auto accident. They asked for a volunteer to lead it for a couple of months, pending an “out of cycle” replacement and I raised my hand. The replacement turned out to be hard to come by as they were ramping up stateside training programs to answer the cry for more multi-purpose K-9’s. Then, when the first guy actually showed, he had to go home two weeks later due to a bleeding ulcer. By then I had traction with the local infantry brigade who loved us for finding weapon caches and improvised explosive devices, and nobody was missing me over at the engineering battalion.
A year later, when my deployment should have been ending, the engineering battalion’s leadership had not only turned fully over, the unit had moved from Baghdad’s Green Zone to up around Erbil somewhere. When my orders came to them, they had no idea who I was or my status. That was fine with me, and I think the local personnel NCO’s put up a smokescreen for me saying they had no idea who I was when someone called brigade, threw out letters, filed extensions on my behalf, etc. The army still might not have found me if my mom hadn’t died.
Anyway, the guy killed in the car crash had used back channels to get a breeding pair in the country after all the frustrations with getting replacement dogs. The first litter was six weeks old when I took over. I had a lot of spare time, and was surrounded by a lot of guys who spoke fluent dog, including a well-seasoned civilian contractor from Israel. Azrael was one of those dogs, and didn’t exist on army property inventories. That’s how I got to take him home.
Fun as those years were, it didn’t set me up for an officer’s career. Those commanders over there kept me where I helped them the most during their one-year tour. When the real army found me, I was way off the career track and they encouraged me to separate.”
“Even with two silver stars for valor?”
Kelton looked surprised.
“A copy of your DD214 was in the file, but not the citations,” he explained with a gesturing open palm. “Tell me.”
Easy enough for one of the technicians to take a digital photograph of all his processions.
“I went out on patrol once a week to stay in touch with what my guys were doing on the front lines. The first couple of years, I would pair up with someone, rotating through the entire platoon. Later, when demand for us was so high with everyone knowing what we could do, I’d go alone to stretch our resources.
On one of those, the platoon I was embedded with started taking heavy fire to the front. We were in low rolling ground, between a lot of small stone houses, with these low walls crisscrossing everywhere. It was good cover against the incoming rounds, but dead space was everywhere.”
“What’s dead space? Remember, you’re talking to an air force lawyer.”
“Ground that can’t be covered with direct fire, from like your rifle. That you can’t see into. It’s a way the enemy can more safely approach your position. Which is what happened.
The platoon leader had everyone on line facing front, not realizing his brother platoons on each flank were a little far off to secure his. Some bad guys got between the units without us seeing, and popped up to our side and rear with light machine-guns and a rocket launcher.
I couldn’t see to the front and had only brought a pistol. It made things a lot easier working the dog. So I was just lying on my back looking to the rear when I caught a brief glimpse of a head scarf in a g
ap in one of the walls. When they popped up over the top a second later, I was ready for them. It took them by surprise. I killed all four before they could get off a shot. They credited me with saving most of the platoon.”
“And the second?”
“An ambush initiated by an IED on some marines. We were nearby. I saw a wounded dog in the kill zone so I crawled out there to get him while everyone else was busy firing. He passed soon after I got to him, but it positioned me to make my way over to checkout a burning hummer on its side. There was a wounded man inside, and I dragged him to safety while everyone gave cover fire. A corpsman and another guy met me halfway to safety at which time Azrael and I turned around to try and find other survivors. We didn’t, but I was sure proud of my young pup under that pressure, bullets flying all around, and keeping his nose to the ground.
The medals definitely would be a help with a military career, but there are a lot of brave men and women serving who have earned medals, too. And they served in positions that have prepared them for staff work or company command. I did not.”
“Justice is supposed to be blind, but please pardon me for wanting to peek under the blindfold a little bit and know who you are. Seems only fair since I knew who the others were. Not my fault they don’t measure up.
The only other thing I have to discuss with you is a witness statement taken by Deputy Garner which says you were the aggressor under the bridge, ambushing them from the darkness because you were so afraid and all alone. What say you to that?”
Kelton scoffed, “I’m a combat veteran. I had a weapon, plenty of ammunition, and am skilled in its use. And I wasn’t alone. Azrael was with me. If they didn’t know I was there, I would have just sat quietly until they left so I could keep on walking. It’s nonsense. It’s a lie.”
“Bullshit is the term I would use. The statement is also unsigned. Even a second year law student, with a little collaboration from you, would eviscerate it in court. And it’s the only piece of evidence contrary to a very strong self-defense case.
I see no reason to detain you further, or confine you to town.
Come on, I’ll give you a ride to animal control so we can get your dog,” he said as he rose and reached for his sport coat.
Kelton stood too, “My dog is missing. I told him to make a run for it, and Deputy Garner emptied his sidearm at him. But if my gear is nearby, I have GPS on him.”
James’ eyes narrowed at the explanation, but he confined himself to actions instead of words. He left through the bay doors, but returned within moments with the cell keys. They left them in the lock, and the chair in the cell bay. Chandler had placed Kelton’s pack in the hallway just outside his office, and James waited patiently as Kelton opened the top and began hurriedly donning his gear. He checked the pistol, and found it was still loaded.
“I can’t believe your sheriff left an unattended loaded gun laying in the hall.”
“The front doors were locked when I came over and I’m sure he expected me sooner,” James shrugged, “but I agree with you that it was poorly done.”
With phone in hand and pack slung over one shoulder, Kelton hurried toward the front doors. James followed, and used his keychain remote to unlock the doors and start the engine of his vehicle. Kelton saw it was a big silver Dodge Ram 4x4 with a V10 engine. He threw the pack in the bed, and jumped in the passenger side. James was already putting it in gear.
“Which way?” he asked.
“Head south out toward Lowland Road while it loads up. That’s where I lost contact. It’s being a little slow.”
“We don’t have the best satellite coverage out here,” James explained as he took a right out of the parking lot and then a left at the stop sign by the railroad tracks.
Kelton didn’t acknowledge him, eyes fixated on the tiny screen. He began working his fingers to zoom in and out, trying to have enough perspective to know where Azrael was but detailed enough to navigate. It was a hard balance on the tiny screen.
“We’re way to the west of him.”
Tires squealed and Kelton banged his head on the door as James whipped the big truck left onto Coalson Street. The tiny yards were mostly quiet, except for some young boys throwing a baseball.
“Looks as if he’s this side of the interstate.”
“Coalson dead ends into Thigpen and we’ll need to pick left or right,” informed James.
“Left. We’re just a little south of him, but mainly west,” said Kelton, not looking up from the small screen for even a blink.
James took the next turn more modestly, running the stop sign. Within a moment they were at Main’s flashing light, where it intersected at Thigpen.
“Go east. Right,” directed Kelton.
James was quick to comply, the giant V-10 engine roaring as he mashed the accelerator. Kelton began scanning the scraggly bushes and brush maple trees of the vacant strip just west of the truck stop.
“Okay, he’s just a little south,” said Kelton looking back down at the screen. They were just north of the truck stop’s parking lot.
A faded blue sedan with peeling roof leaving the diner started to coast across their path. James angrily hung on the horn, the long blast lasting several seconds. The driver extended his hand from the window with raised middle finger. James gave him a second horn blast as he raced on by. The car turned and started to follow them behind the parked rigs.
“East west is good. Head south.”
Fifty feet later they were out of asphalt, but James didn’t slow down. A quick pull at the floor lever and the four-wheel drive indicator glowed on the dash. The rough ground bounced their heads to the ceiling as they left the parking lot for greenspace. Tires ripped into the grass and they barreled toward the wood line. Only when within a few yards did James apply the brakes. Both men hit seatbelt releases and door handles as the rock back of the truck’s suspension shook them.
“Azrael!” called Kelton.
An explosion of leaves and branches followed by paw pounding joy, greeted them. Kelton dropped to the ground, patting at his dog while fangs tickled his wrists. Azrael rolled and ran circles, letting out a series of short high-pitched barks. Behind them, at the edge of the parking lot, a young man in a wife beater and backward ball cap got back in his car and drove away.
“You drive like a wild man,” admired Kelton.
“I want all my veterans home safe regardless of their branch of service, or species,” proclaimed James.
Azrael sat proudly in his drab-brown vest, panting after his excitement while a kneeling Kelton rubbed his ears.
“You two are free to continue your pursuits of life, liberty and happiness. Let’s get your gear out of my truck, and I’m going back to the office.”
“Kind of late for that isn’t it?”
“I want to get a jump start on my filing against Deputy Garner. Reckless discharge of a firearm and cruelty to animals,” shrugged James. “He should have called the dogcatcher.”
Kelton donned his pack and the attorney handed him his card.
“In case you get into further trouble, young man,” he explained. “You are a fellow oath taker and will be standing up for what is right. I will do what I can to help you, provided you don’t lie, cheat, or steal.”
Kelton shook the old colonel’s hand. He’d actually enter the information into his phone before throwing the card away. Then he’d get dinner one more time at the diner, a good night’s sleep, and would be walking down the road come morning toward nowhere in particular.
CHAPTER—13
Chandler pulled into his old saltbox on the grassy knoll on Caisson Road. The house was two stories facing the road with five upstairs windows over four below, the middle spot taken by the front door which nobody ever used. The white asbestos shingle siding needed a pressure-washing to chase the pollen and mildew away, but so did all houses here this time of year. The crepe-myrtle trees were well pruned and blooming their pinks and reds. No debris lingered under the magnolia. He had lots of pride a
nd was pleased with how his home looked.
Image was everything for a highly visible public figure like himself, especially for a negro sheriff in a small rural southern town. He embraced using the term “negro”. It made other people uncomfortable and off-balanced like they had done something wrong, while he stood before them firmly grounded and impeccable. Relations on occasion over the years would try to tell him he should say “black” or later as the decades went by “African-American”. He’d just smile softly and tell them that the term might describe them, but he was seventy and didn’t need to change his ways. He was the law of the county, and that credential sounded much more impressive given the proper historical perspective of the achievement. Using a term other than negro seemed to undercut it.
As such, he always gave his property a real critical eye. He paused as he exited the Dodge Durango, noting his wife’s old Buick was in the carport on the side, and made his list. The gravel drive could use a grading after the spring rains he decided. The usual pothole had formed in the middle near the bottom. The white picket fence running along the drive and road would need a coat of paint when the weather became warm and dry. The house’s metal roof, which had been painted silver a couple of years ago, showed no signs of peeling or rust breaking through. Mortar on the weathered brick chimney look liked it had weathered another winter, although he wanted to get up there and be sure. All in all, it was simply maintenance he could mostly pass on to his grandsons. He wasn’t behind with anything. Chandler didn’t want to leave for fishing with anything hanging over him.
He looked up and down Caisson Road at the small ranchers and cottages, the lots sold off over the years to fund the farms through the hard times. It was quiet, the houses much too far apart to be considered a neighborhood. If you needed to borrow a cup of sugar from a neighbor, you were driving. During the civil war, when the railroad couldn’t run, the lonely country lane was rutted with wagon traffic and earned its name. After the war, the movement of goods returned to the restored railroad and later the interstate making it once again a quiet county backwater without enough traffic for any type of business to make it. Chandler thought it was the perfect retreat.
K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1 Page 11