Davis drove down Valley Road, then turned onto Mountain. There was no other traffic as he shot through a narrow chute of windswept drifts. Davis slowed as he passed his secret hiding spot, a rock formation near the runaway truck exit. This is where he had set himself up to trap Ruth.
* * *
“I have nothing else to say, Officer,” Ruth declared. “I told you everything at the quarry.”
“Get out of the car,” Davis ordered.
“What?”
“Out ofthefuckin’ car!”
Ruth’s eyes went wide. “Why? What did I do?”
“Get out of the car, or I’ll drag you out!”
Ruth complied.
“Lean forward and spread your legs!”
“Why?“
Davis grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Against the door!”
“But—”
“Shut the fuck up and do what I say, shithead!”
Ruth unsteadily assumed the position. “What have I done?”
Davis frisked him. ‘You know what you did, you stupid fuck!”
“No, I don’t!”
Davis patted him down hard, then went through his pockets “What the fuck is this?”
Ruth tried to turn his head.
“Stay put!” Davis was examining something in his hand.
“Transporting an illegal substance? That’s a crime.”
“No,” Ruth protested. “It’s not illegal.”
Davis laughed and tossed the contraband into his squad car.
“I need that, “ Ruth complained.
“Shut up!”
“Butyou don’t understand—”
Davis yanked Ruth’s shoulder, turned him around, and jammed his finger in his face. “No. You don’t understand. I run this part of the county. That’s my quarry, and this is my road. I make the rules!” Davis suddenly walked away and opened the cruiser door.
Too shaken to speak, Ruth stood by his car.
The officer started up and pulled alongside. Ruth’s face was a pasty white. “Have a nice day, sir,” Davis said. Then he drove away.
Davis was on the access road to the mobile home park now. A few rusty mailboxes and silver trailers to pass, and he’d be home.
Davis roared around the corner and slid to a stop in front of his snow-piled unit. He got out holding a book King had given him and walked to a small storage shed in the backyard. The snow had drifted against it, and Davis kicked and shoveled his way to the locked door. In a minute, he was inside, rummaging through piles of debris. Soon he emerged with a small cardboard box.
Davis entered his trailer and went straight to his desk, where he turned on the light and dumped out the contents of the box. A tiny cellular phone and three plastic bottles rattled onto the December calendar mat. This was his secret take. He’d confiscated these unreported and unrecorded objects from Ruth during his private sting. The phone was a clone job that he’d tried to connect to the 911 call the night of Joseph Brown’s death, but records showed that this phone was not involved. The pills were prescription, so they were legal, and, at the time, insignificant.
He opened the U.S.F.D.A. Official Registry of Pharmacology and selected a pill bottle. He raised the small canister, scanned the label, and turned to the index.
Davis flipped to the correct page and located the entry.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Phenothiozene,” the heading read. “Anti-depressant and anti-psychotic narcotic. Recommended for usage with severe manic depression and schizophrenia patients.”
“Goddamn motherfucker,” Davis cursed. King was right. Ruth was one fucked-up mess. But even they didn’t know how bad off he really was.
Brownie locked the door of the police lab from the inside. He had entered the service bay with his passkey and made his way down the hall without being seen. He’d been barred from the premises since the indictment. But it was after eleven P.M., and the cop crew was at minimum strength. No one would know he was there.
Brownie walked to the Teletype machine and switched it on. He was in the dark, but there was enough light coming through the frosted glass door to make out the keyboard. He sat down and switched the instrument into quiet mode. Then he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and input the five names on his list.
The Fugitives show had run earlier that night, and the producer had called to say they were already receiving tips. By the next day they should have a rundown on the leads. But in the meantime, Brownie had some follow-up work of his own to do.
The Teletype allowed retrieval of criminal records from around the United States. If the correct name, reference number, date of birth, and social security number were entered, a list of prior crimes and convictions could be obtained. But the problem was aliases. Criminals usually gave false names, false birth dates, and other misleading information. In some smaller jurisdictions the cops didn’t bother submitting all of their cases to the FBI master file. That meant that a crime committed under a false identity might not show up on the person’s official rap sheet.
Brownie selected “SEARCH” and “ALL CRIMINAL JUSTICE REGIONS.” This ensured that the names submitted would be run against every record database there was. If a crime was committed under any of the aliases, it should show up.
Brownie completed his entries and sat back. It should take about an hour to complete the electronic circuit.
The Teletype purred as a sheet of paper emerged. Brownie tore it off. “NORTHEAST,” the printout said. “NO KNOWN RECORD.” Brownie crumpled it and put it in his pocket as the machine sent its inquiry to another geographic area.
The official book on his father’s death had been closed long ago. The autopsy report had finally clinched it. The fibers embedded in his wrists had been identified as cotton similar to the shirt he was wearing, and the “natural cause” verdict was unassailable. The fingerprint test on his skin was not even attached, so the scale markings weren’t considered. And after Ruth was killed it was all but forgotten. For everyone but Brownie the cause of Joseph Brown’s death was no longer an issue.
There was another sound in the machine. Brownie tore off the next sheet. “SOUTHWEST,” the report said, “NO KNOWN RECORD.”
Brownie crumpled that one, too.
The Thomas Ruth case was settled also, as far as Brownie was concerned. He knew what really happened to the man, and that truth would never see daylight, regardless of how the jury ruled. But his father’s case was different. Someone had murdered him. And Brownie was determined to find out who it was, no matter what the fates hadarranged for his own future. He might end up in prison. But he would solve the case. And he would exact his revenge.
Gardner was on his third martini at Paul’s Place, the hangout he’d frequented in the gap between Carole and Jennifer. Country music still whined on the jukebox, and the singles still swarmed, but he was disoriented. He didn’t recognize one tune or face. It had been a long time.
“One more?” Big Paul asked.
Gardner looked at his favorite bartender. He was even bigger in girth than before, at least three hundred pounds. But his dark beard and baby face hadn’t changed. “No,” Gardner said. “Better not.” He was feeling the effects, and he had a long day tomorrow, preparing for trial.
“Want to talk about it?” Paul asked. Until Jennifer came on the scene, he’d been Gardner’s surrogate therapist.
“Why don’t you give me a beer,” Gardner requested.
Paul pulled a long-necker out of the cooler and placed it on the bar. Gardner took a sip and put it down. “Am I a fuckhead, Paul?” he asked suddenly.
The barman smiled. “Sometimes.”
Gardner took another swallow. “I try to do the right thing, but it seems I’m fighting everyone all the time.”
“It’s not easy to please people.”
Gardner pushed his stool closer to the bar. “I’m trying to hold it together, to learn this new job, to protect Brownie, to love Jennifer the way she wants.”
Pa
ul shrugged. “Maybe you’re trying too hard.”
“We were so close,” Gardner rambled on. “All of us. We took hits, but we kept it together. Now we’re falling apart.” Gardner chugged the bottle and plunked it down. “Another.”
Paulie raised an eyebrow.
“Another, Paul.”
A new bottle came up.
“Why should I fight?” Gardner asked. “Why?” He took a long swig.
“Because that’s you. You like to fight.”
“I really don’t. These things just happen.”
“You know what your problem is?” Paul remarked.
Gardner looked over his beer.
“You’re one of those control… control…”
“Freaks?”
“Yeah. You always have to have things your way. When you can’t get it exactly right, you blow up.”
“Bullshit!”
Paul put his hands on his hips. “See? You’re doing it now.”
Gardner finished his beer. “Doing what?”
“Being a fuckhead. You have the answer. You know the solution. Everybody has to listen to you. Why don’t you let someone else have an opinion once in a while, try to understand where they’re coming from—”
“Even if they’re wrong?”
“Even if,” Paul replied. “People got to be allowed to make mistakes. You can’t carry responsibility for the whole damn planet.”
Gardner stood up.
“Want me to get you a ride?” Paul asked.
“I’m okay.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.” Gardner started for the door.
“Take care,” Paul said.
Gardner waved behind his head and left the building. The air was frigid, and mountains of plowed snow in the parking lot glinted in the floodlights. Gardner suddenly felt isolated. He walked to his car and began to unlock it when a wave of dizziness struck. He hesitated with the key, then put it in his pocket. His place was only two miles away. He trudged out to the street and began jogging west. The hard-packed snow crunched under his feet. Gardner speeded up, and soon the jog was a full run. Breath streamed white from his nostrils, and his arms swung frantically. Gardner ran hard, and he didn’t stop until he reached the door of his empty house.
Part Four
TRIAL
twenty-two
Brownie’s trial began promptly on the morning of January eighth, a day of freezing temperatures, cloudy skies, and bitter winds. In the ornate amphitheater of courtroom one, however, the heat was on.
Gardner, Jennifer, and Brownie had each spent the previous day pursuing private agendas, working on solutions to their secret puzzles. The Fugitives producer had faxed some leads on Ruth’s identity, but Gardner was too busy with last-minute legal details to check them out. Because the state led off, there was still time to prepare the defense. That was a reprieve, a last chance to find support for the self-destruction theory.
By noon, the first stage of trial was almost complete. Jury selection had proceeded quickly as the lawyers culled and weeded the human pool. Now the jury box was full, and they were ready to move to the next event.
“Are you satisfied with the jury, Mr. King? “Judge Ransome asked. Buddha-like, he sat behind the bench, his robe a tent around him.
“We are, sir,” King replied. He was dressed in navy twill. Lin Song, impeccably groomed beside him, wore a dark green suit.
“What about you, Mr. Lawson?”
“A moment, please, Judge.” Gardner turned to Brownie. Lawyer and client were both wearing charcoal outfits and muted silk ties. Jennifer watched from the gallery, surrounded by off-duty police officers, reporters, and townies. “We only have two strikes left,” Gardner whispered.
Brownie looked at the twelve white faces in the box. “Whatever you say,” he replied.
“The next two on the list are even worse,” Gardner said. “This is the best we’re gonna get.”
Brownie nodded. “Go with them.”
“Well, Mr. Lawson?” Ransome was getting antsy.
Gardner stood. “I am not going to exercise my remaining strikes, but I find the jury as constituted unacceptable. I renew my objection to the exclusion of African-Americans from the array.” There had been three blacks in the entire selection pool, and King had removed every one with a peremptory challenge.
King started to reply, but the judge waved him down. “I’ll handle this, Mr. King,” he said. “Your objection is noted, Mr. Lawson, but if you do not choose to exercise your remaining strikes, you accept the jury as constituted. There has been no showing of impropriety. The section of the county this group was drawn from has a low minority population, that is true, but the process itself was fair. Objection overruled.”
“Mr. King conspired to exclude the residents of Blocktown from the jury pool,” Gardner argued.
“What evidence do you have of that?” Ransome asked.
“The jury commissioner just confirmed that Blocktown is out of the geographic area for jury selection one week in the entire year: this week. King specifically asked to begin the trial today so he could keep African-Americans off the jury. The motivation is obvious.”
King stood up. “He agreed to the date in chambers, Your Honor. I was willing to accommodate his schedule. I cannot be held responsible.”
Gardner felt his ears tingle. King had set him up; he had been planning to get this date all along.
“You did say that the date was acceptable,” Judge Ransome recalled. “Sorry, Mr.Lawson, your contention has no merit.”
Gardner sat down. Brownie was stuck with an all-white jury because King had pulled a bait-and-switch at the scheduling conference, and he’d been suckered into it. So much for thinking like a defense attorney. Brownie suddenly poked his arm. “It’s okay, Gard.”
But Gardner knew that it wasn’t. Twelve back-country whites were going to identify more with Thomas Ruth than with a black cop.
King had laid out the facts in his address to the jury: motive, handcuffs, shoes, the sighting of Brownie with Ruth on the day of the crime. Everything sounded so reasonable, logical, correct. But when Gardner gave his opening statement, he’d been met with a wall of skeptical faces, callused hands clasped on denim laps, inattentive eyes. After King’s presentation, suicide didn’t sound plausible at all.
“Call your first witness, state,” Judge Ransome ordered.
“The state calls Officer Frank Davis to the stand,” King announced. Gardner looked up suddenly. Davis was a prosecution liability. Why would they call him?
“State your name and address for the record, please,” the clerk said.
“Frank Davis, officer, county police, headquarters building, Travis Road.” He was in a crisp blue uniform, his hair wet and swept back.
“You may inquire, Counsel.”
King moved toward the witness stand. “What was your duty assignment in September of this past year?”
“Patrol, day shift.” Davis looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with Brownie and the jury.
“What did that entail, exactly? What duties did you perform?”
“Sector patrol, complaint response, routine police work.”
“Any other duties?”
“Investigations.”
“Did there come a time when you were asked to undertake a special investigation?”
“Yes, sir. I was instructed to look into a suspicious death.”
King glanced at Gardner, then turned to the witness. “Whose death, Officer?”
“Joseph Brown Senior. Father of Sergeant Brown.”
“Who requested the investigation?”
“I believe Sergeant Brown did originally, then Lieutenant Harvis assigned it to me.”
King turned toward Gardner and his client. “Can you point out the person you’ve referred to as Sergeant Brown?”
Davis aimed his finger at Brownie. “That man in the gray suit.”
“Let the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant,�
�� King said.
“So noted.”
“Now, Officer Davis, can you inform the jury what, if anything, the defendant told you during the course of the investigation?””
Yes, sir. He said he believed his father was murdered.”
Gardner glanced at Brownie. He’d never heard about this conversation.
Brownie made two fists and glowered at the witness.
“Did he say anything else?” King continued.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“He said he knew who killed his father.”
King leaned on the hardwood rail. “Who was it, according to Sergeant Brown?”
Davis turned. “Thomas Ruth.”
“Objection!” Gardner sprung to his feet.
“Grounds, Counsel?”
“Hearsay.…” Gardner was still reeling from the comment. Brownie maintained he’d never discussed his suspicions about Ruth with anyone.
“It’s not hearsay,” King interjected. “Statements of the defendant are admissible.”
“A moment, please, Your Honor.”
Gardner bent close to Brownie’s ear. “Did you ever say that?”
Brownie’s head turned slowly. “No. He’s lying.”
“Anything more, Mr. Lawson?” Ransome asked impatiently.
Gardner straightened up. “The defendant did not make that comment, Your Honor. I object!”
“It’s a dispute of fact, Mr. Lawson,” Ransome replied. “You can cross-examine or present contradictory evidence in your case if you wish, but the statement itself is admissible. Objection overruled. Next question, Mr. King.”
Gardner sat down hard. The trial was barely under way, and King had already drawn blood. He eyed the jury, four women and eight men. They were eased back in their chairs, relaxed. Davis was one of these people, one more farmer on the hayride.
“Relax,” Brownie whispered.
Gardner stretched his collar. The room was getting hotter. And the prospects for relief didn’t look good.
Jennifer left the courthouse and drove toward the Heights. She had watched helplessly as King revved up the prosecution machine and aimed it at the defense. They were in trouble, that was obvious. Between the jury, the judge, and the prosecutors, Gardner and Brownie were overmatched. And the trial had barely begun.
Raising Cain Page 27