Raising Cain

by Gallatin Warfield

  “I’ve never felt this way,” he told Jennifer, “so helpless. By statute and ethics there’s nothing we can do. We’re legal eunuchs. We can’t work with King, and we can’t work for Brownie.”

  “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “There’s a change of status.”

  The sun had seared a hole in the clouds, and orange fire glowed behind the ridge.

  “As in prosecutor?”

  “Right. As prosecutors we’re sidelined. There would have to be a drastic change.”

  “Drastic,” Gardner said. “You mean like quit?” Prosecution was his whole life. He’d been in the job since leaving law school, and he didn’t know anything else, didn’t want to know anything else.

  “You’d never do it, of course.”

  Gardner thought about it. Things had happened so suddenly he hadn’t had a chance to think. But now that the words were uttered, he realized Jennifer had a point. The only way to get back in the case would be to resign. And that was not something he was prepared to do. The concept was overwhelming, and scary as hell. He could never become a defense attorney, never become a Kent King.

  “Right?”

  “Right,” Gardner said.

  “We’ll find another way. Maybe we can help get Brownie a lawyer.”

  “That’s a thought, but he’ll have to be damn good to take on King.”

  “There’s one out there,” Jennifer said. “We’ll just have to find him. Or her.”

  Gardner smiled and put his arms around her. “Thanks, Jen,” he whispered. “Thanks for being there.”

  “It’ll work out,” Jennifer said.

  But Gardner wasn’t so sure. The winds of change were pounding against the door, and he was having trouble holding it shut.

  fourteen

  Judge Rollie Edgar Ransome pounded his gavel in the courtroom and called for order. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and a bond hearing had been scheduled for Brownie’s case.

  Gardner and Jennifer sat in the first row. The news had whipped through the courthouse like a brushfire, and they’d rushed over. The local judges were bailing out.

  “Look at King,” Jennifer whispered. The special prosecutor was smiling broadly, pleased with Ransome’s appointment.

  “Let’s get moving,” Judge Ransome told Willie Stanton. “I’ll hear from the defendant first.”

  Stanton stood up and adjusted his bow tie. He was a man of medium height, complexion, and build, reserved and polite. “We ask, uh, we ask Your Honor to consider setting a bond in this, uh, this case,” the attorney mumbled. Brownie sat beside him in prison orange, his arm in a sling.

  “Speak up!” Rollie retorted. “I can barely hear you.”

  Gardner’s stomach burned. So it begins. Brownie had told him about Stanton yesterday at the jail, and Gardner had almost blown a gut. He couldn’t believe it. Stanton was the least qualified candidate for the defense job. Gardner promised to get him an ace, but Brownie insisted on keeping Willie. And that didn’t make any sense at all.

  “Set a bond…” Willie repeated. “Want you to set a bond…”

  “What is the amount now?” Rollie asked, opening the file.

  “No bond,” King interjected.

  The judge glared at Willie, his jowls quivering as he breathed. “What do you suggest, Mr. Stanton?”

  Willie put his hand on Brownie’s back. “Your Honor, my client is a man of reasonable means. A man who has never before been charged with any crime. He is a resident of the county and has family and friends here. He is not going anywhere. Please consider something less than one hundred thousand dollars.”

  Rollie looked at King. “That sound acceptable to you?”

  King took his customary hands-on-hips go-to-hell stance. “No, it does not. This is a murder charge, and the defendant violated the public trust. He is trained in the use of weapons and would pose a substantial risk of danger to the community—”

  “Your Honor,” Willie tried to interject.

  “Let him finish, Mr. Stanton.”

  “Yes, sir,” Willie replied.

  “No bond status is appropriate,” King continued, “because of the nature of the charges, the dangerousness of the defendant, and the distinct possibility that he might leave the jurisdiction.”

  Rollie looked at Stanton. “This is a serious case, and your client’s background in law enforcement makes him savvy about violence. Tell me why I should risk it.”

  “He’s a good man, Your Honor.”

  “He may have been at one time,” Rollie replied, “but why should I take a risk on him?”

  Willie hesitated. “He goes to church,” he said finally.

  “So what?” Rollie replied.

  “So he’s not going to cause any trouble,” Willie answered.

  “Can’t you do better than that?” the judge asked.

  “Sir?”

  “Can’t you give me a reason to take the risk? Tell me anything, but make it germane to the issue. I’m trying to help you here. Why should I change the bond?”

  Willie put his hands on the back of his chair and looked at the ceiling for a moment. The courtroom was hushed and waiting. “Because I will vouch for him personally, Your Honor,” he said at last. “You have my word.”

  Rollie broke into a grin. “Well, that’s comforting to know. You’ll take responsibility for Sergeant Brown. We’ll all be safe.”

  King began to rise, but the judge waved him back down.

  “Anything further, Mr. Stanton?”

  “No, sir.”

  Rollie looked across the bench. “Bond status remains the same,” he declared, banging his gavel. “Remand the defendant to the custody of the sheriff!”

  Then Brownie was led away through an inner door without being allowed contact with anyone.

  Gardner turned to Jennifer. “That’s it, then,” he moaned. “With Stanton in there, Brownie is fucked.”

  “What are you going to do?” Jennifer asked.

  “He has a lawyer, and he wants to keep him. So what can I do?”

  Gardner and Jennifer encountered King in the hallway after the bond hearing.

  King spoke first. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

  “Brownie’s no danger to the community,” Gardner fumed. “He’s the one in clanger. He’s already been stabbed.”

  “He could have avoided it,” King replied. “He declined segregation.”

  “I warned you…” Gardner said.

  King smirked. “Don’t threaten me.”

  “It’s not a threat; it’s a promise.”

  “You know Brownie’s not going to run, and he’s not going to hurt anyone,” Jennifer interjected.

  King turned. “That’s what Willie was trying to say. Brownie’s just a puppy dog in a blue suit.”

  “Give him a break,” Jennifer urged.

  King arched his back. “I don’t give breaks. Brown is guilty, and you better start realizing it. You hooked your wagon to a falling star.”

  “Show me your proof,” Gardner demanded. The evidence was still under wraps. Only the grand jury had seen it, and they were sworn to secrecy.

  “What?”

  “Show me your files. If it’s as locked as you say, I won’t bother you.”

  King sensed a trick. “No way.”

  “What are you afraid of?” Gardner asked. “You keep saying it’s open-and-shut. Let me see for myself. Can’t do it, can you?”

  “I don’t show my files to anyone outside the office.”

  “What are you hiding? Exculpatory evidence? Other suspects? What?”

  King found himself at a loss for words. He turned and began to leave. Gardner followed him down the hall. “You didn’t think about it when you took the job, but now you’re stuck. You’ve got evidence that goes the other way, that clears Brownie.”

  King kept walking.

  “That’s it!” Gardner said. “You have exculpatory evidence, and you don’t know what to do with it
!”

  King turned and raised his finger.

  “So the case is not as much of a lock as you say,” Gardner persisted.

  King started to reply but stopped himself. Instead, he hustled off down the hall.

  “What are you doing?” Jennifer asked. “Trying to piss him off even more?”

  “No,” Gardner answered. “I’m testing his armor.”

  “So what now?”

  Gardner looked at his watch. “You go to the office and try to work. Keep an eye on King’s new colleague.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Gardner had resolve in his eye. “I’m going to see a man about a job.”

  Brownie was in the detention center library, poring over a stack of technical manuals. His arm ached and his neck throbbed, but he had work to do. The bond hearing this morning had gone as expected: Willie Stanton was ineffective. He knew that going in. But there was a reason for keeping the lawyer’s services. He was a link to the Blocktown power elite and Brownie needed to keep that communication line open.

  Brownie picked up a book titled CellularWorld. He turned to the section on phone operations and read the first line: “Each unit transmits a unique ten-digit identification code to the receiving station on an eight-millisecond cycle.” He knew that. Cell phones were constantly transmitting and receiving while the power was on, identifying themselves to the cellular net. When a call was placed, the phone’s identification number ensured that it would be properly billed. Brownie read on: “Current research and development on ‘secure phone’ identification procedures lags behind the production curve. Over ninety percent of cellular phones in use today do not incorporate security devices which protect against interception of the ID number. This makes them more susceptible to cloning.”

  Brownie closed the book. He knew about cloning, too. Someone steals an ID signal from the air using a scanner, then programs the number into an unregistered phone. The calls are then billed to the registered owner of the phone, and the person who made the calls can never be traced.

  Brownie stood up and adjusted his sling. Then he made his way down the corridor toward the main cell block. The warden had told the guards to give him free rein, and the guards complied. Brownie was waved through the barrier that separated the housing area from the passageway to the dining hall and library. Soon he was outside of Henry Jackson’s cell.

  Jackson had been locked in for his “protection.”

  “Brown,” he said sullenly. “Did you tell them to do this to me?”

  “Would you rather be down in the south wing with Bobo?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t complain.” Brownie put his face against the bars.

  Henry eyed him cautiously. “You still want to talk about the car?”

  “No.”

  “I told you I didn’t see that one.”

  “I believe you.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “What do you know about cellular phones?” Brownie asked.

  Henry sat back on his bunk. “Shiiiit.”

  “I’m not after you, Henry. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “You always have been.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but I was doing my job.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Henry said sarcastically.

  “You fucked up, and I locked you up. That’s all it was.”

  “So now you know what it feels like,” Henry said.

  “I sure do.”

  “I’m not sorry for you.”

  “No doubt,” Brownie replied. “But maybe you can help me out. You help me, maybe I can help you.”

  Henry recalled the set-to in the gym. Brownie had stood up for him. “I don’t know nuthin’ about no cellular phones.”

  “Yes you do, Henry. Most of the cars you took were wired, and you disposed of the phones before you chopped them up.”

  “Maybe a few.”

  “Ever clone any of them?”

  Henry cocked his head. “Clone?”

  “You know what I’m talking about: stealing an identification number from one phone and keying it into one you took.”

  Henry walked to the bars and checked the hallway. What Brownie was talking about was a federal offense.

  “You did clone some phones, didn’t you, Henry?” Brownie prodded.

  “Might have,” Jackson whispered.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Gardner drove west through a light rain as autumn leaves floated down to the slickened road. The cornfields were stubble now, and rolls of hay lined the meadows. It was time to take stock of things.

  The windshield wipers slashed across a sign pointing south from Mountain Road: THE HEIGHTS. Gardner turned onto a two-lane snaking up the steepest ridge in the county. He’d been here six months before when another crisis was afoot and he needed advice. So he’d come to the mountain, to the wise old man who lived at the top.

  Gardner’s car strained as it reached the tin mailbox inscribed with Gothic letters. He entered the short driveway and parked beside a Jeep. A thin stream of smoke threaded the raindrops above the log cabin.

  Gardner ran to the porch and knocked on the door. Soon a round face with laugh-lined eyes and a balding forehead appeared. “Judge Thompkins,” Gardner said. “Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  The retired judge smiled. “Gardner! Come in, son.”

  Gardner wiped his feet and entered the house. It was cozy and warm, decorated with antiques and a lifetime of collectibles.

  “Come, sit.” The judge motioned him into the den. A stack of hardwood crackled in the stone fireplace and the air smelled of pine needles and dried flowers.

  They sat in matching leather chairs. An open book lay on the side table next to a pipe in a wire stand. Thompkins picked it up and lit it. “I had a notion I might be seeing you,” he said.

  Gardner smiled weakly. The judge was a widower with no children. He had taken a liking to Gardner long ago in court.

  “You heard the news,” Gardner said.

  “Hard not to,” the judge replied, puffing on his pipe. “The papers have given it a ride, that’s for sure. Kent King a prosecutor. Who could have imagined?”

  Gardner inhaled the apple-flavored smoke. “He’s got Brownie by the balls.”

  The judge expelled a white ring through his pursed lips. “You, of course, believe he’s innocent.”

  “I do.”

  “So it’s a question of allegiance to your career as a prosecutor or to your friend. You’re feeling the strain.”

  Gardner nodded.

  “You’re at a crossroads, and you have to decide which way to travel. On one side is Brownie, on the other side is the life you’ve carved out for yourself.”

  “And there’s no middle path.”

  The judge blew another circle. “There never is,” he said. “Remember the Alvarez case?”

  Gardner recalled a mean little Mexican accused of molesting his stepdaughter. “Never forget it.”

  “You fought me tooth and nail on that one. Tried to put in inadmissible evidence, ranted and raved like a lunatic. I even called you a persecutor, not a prosecutor.”

  Gardner sighed. “Don’t remind me.”

  “I’m not,” Thompkins said. “You were doing your job as you perceived it, an all-out advocate for the state. You were trying to get a conviction and were focused on that and nothing else.”

  “I thought that’s what I was supposed to do,” Gardner replied. “Put my head down and fight for my side.”

  “You were fighting too hard. You lost sight of the truth.” Judge Thompkins had acquitted Alvarez on insufficient evidence. Then he’d reprimanded Gardner for overreaching. Later, the girl’s mother admitted to the abuse.

  “You made your point then: I screwed up,” Gardner said. “What’s your point now?”

  “There are two sides to every issue. You’ve spent your whole life arguing one side….” His voice trailed off.

  “And?”

&
nbsp; The pipe smoke formed a halo above the judge’s head. “Maybe it’s time to look at things from the other perspective.”

  Gardner sat in silence for a moment.

  “You understand what I’m saying?”

  Gardner nodded.

  “Sometimes you just have to step out of the plane, free-fall for a while, let the wind hit you in the face. It can be exhilarating.”

  “If you jump voluntarily,” Gardner replied. “But what if you’re pushed?”

  “It’s the same either way. Change is not always bad.”

  Gardner fell silent again, and Thompkins puffed his pipe. “What about logistics?” he finally asked. “Jumping is one thing; landing is another.”

  The judge crossed his legs. “You want to know how to make the transition?”

  “Brownie is currently represented.”

  “So I hear.”

  “I can’t just walk in.”

  “What’s Brownie’s attitude? Does he know what you’re contemplating?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wants to keep the lawyer he’s got.”

  The judge wrinkled his brow. “Why?”

  “I don’t know why. The Blocktown community put up the cash. Maybe it’s a race thing. Maybe he doesn’t want to insult them.”

  “So you have two logistical problems,” Thompkins said. “One, how to neutralize a retained lawyer; and two, how to substitute yourself.”

  “That’s it.”

  “As to problem number one…” The judge leaned back in the chair and pulled on his pipe. “The attorney in question is a gentleman of color with an affinity for the bow tie and a lack of courtroom presence, correct?”

  “Willie Stanton.”

  “How many jury trials has he had?”

  “Six, maybe.”

  “How many felonies?”

  “None.”

  “What’s his success rate?”

  “Zippo.”

  Thompkins put down his pipe. “There is one avenue that could be pursued. It has little precedent, but it could resolve problem number one….” He then outlined the procedure.

  Gardner took it all in, recording the hows and wherefores in his mind. “And what about problem two?”