Ben had protested his innocence to both Sheriff Collier and Deputy Gustafson ever since they picked him up, based on Mac’s identification of Ben as the “instigator.” The sheriff was not impressed. And Gustafson was treating Ben even more coldly than he had when they met.
After delivering a stern lecture on the evils of drinking and carousing, Sheriff Collier excused himself and left Deputy Gustafson to handle the actual incarceration. Vick eyed Ben as he passed down the corridor, but he remained silent. What must be going through the kid’s mind? Ben wondered. Just when you think it can’t get any worse, you see the deputy putting your lawyer behind bars.
Gustafson locked the locals in one of the vacant cells, then put the ASP men in the other. To Ben’s surprise, Gustafson closed the door to the cell and locked it while Ben was still outside.
Maybe there was hope yet. “Does this mean you’re letting me go?”
“Dream on,” Gustafson said curtly.
“Can you at least undo my handcuffs?”
“No.” Gustafson’s face was like a rock. No sign of warmth or humanity was apparent.
“You know, I didn’t lay a hand on anyone,” Ben said. “I had nothing to do with that fight.”
“That’s not what Mac said.”
“Mac was too busy crying over his pinball machine to get his story straight. I’m telling you, I’m innocent. And I can’t afford to spend all my time before the Vick trial in jail.”
“Don’t sweat it. The sheriff’ll let everyone out in the morning. After you’ve had a chance to sleep it off.”
“Sleep what off? I never finished my first beer.”
Gustafson whirled Ben around and grabbed him by the throat. “Look, you piece of crap, I’m doing the best I can to control my temper. So just shut up and don’t try my patience.” He shoved Ben down the corridor and out of sight of the cells.
“I don’t understand. What have I ever done to you?”
Ben could see right off the bat that he should have remained silent. Gustafson was seething; his rage was already on the verge of boiling over. “You remember that car your boys torched two months ago because you mistakenly thought it belonged to the Vietnamese?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Well, my little sister was on the sidewalk beside the car. Got caught in the explosion. She almost died—been having health problems ever since. Her face was ruined.”
“But that wasn’t me!” Ben protested.
“When something horrible like that happens to your sister, it just does something to you. Tears you apart. Makes you go a little crazy.” He looked up at Ben. “Makes you want to kill the man responsible.”
“I’m telling you, I never hurt—”
“She was beautiful,” Gustafson said, stony-eyed. “But now she’s—” With the sudden fury of a hurricane, Gustafson whipped out his billy club and pounded Ben on the back. The sudden pain was so shattering that Ben found he couldn’t make a sound. His knees weakened; his back felt paralyzed.
“My little sister never hurt anyone. That’s for goddamn sure. So don’t come crying to me for sympathy.”
Ben leaned against the wall for support. “But I … wasn’t involved … didn’t even know …”
“Liar.” Gustafson pounded him again, this time on the rib cage. “Admit it. Admit you knew about the firebombing!”
“I’m just”—Ben gasped—“a lawyer.”
Gustafson spun him around and shoved him face-first into the wall. Ben’s cheek scraped against the speckled concrete. “All the worse, as far as I’m concerned. At least the boys in Cell Block B believe in what they’re doing. You’re just in it for the money.”
Ben’s reply was smothered as Gustafson jerked him away from the wall. The next blow from the billy club caught Ben on the side of the head. He fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.
Gustafson rammed the club under Ben’s throat, drove his knee into Ben’s spine, and pulled upward. His knee burrowed into Ben’s back while the club flattened his larynx.
Then, abruptly, Gustafson removed the club and let Ben’s head fall to the floor. Ben braced himself for the next blow, but it never came. Instead he heard the sound of Gustafson’s boots moving down the corridor.
Wasn’t he afraid Ben would try to escape? Ben almost laughed. He couldn’t even move. The thought of trying to stand up hurt him more than he could bear.
He heard Gustafson open the door and leave the cell corridor. Ben lay there on the floor, unable to move, unable to help himself, racked with pain.
And he realized, with sudden and terrible certainty, that he was absolutely, totally—
Alone.
14.
COLONEL NGUYEN SAT IN the center of the chicken barn that served as Coi Than Tien’s town hall. On his left, his old friend Duong Dang sat with the council of elders, the nominal governing body of their community. On his right, “Dan” Pham sat with his followers, principally the younger members of the settlement.
The two groups could not have been more polarized. It was the old guard versus the young Turks, the voice of conciliation pitted against the voice of resistance. And there seemed to be no middle ground that either side could accept.
Dang tapped a small gavel. “Now that we have resolved the guard-duty issue, we will address Dinh Pham’s suggestions about a possible response to last night’s incident.”
Pham leaped to his feet. “We must fight back! We must retaliate!”
Dang pounded his gavel. “You have not been properly recognized.”
“Everyone knows who I am.”
“That is not the point. It is a matter of courtesy, of tradition—”
“I’m not interested in traditions. I’m interested in retaliation.”
“There are proper ways to proceed—” “My grandmother was shot!” Pham shouted. His voice echoed through the barn, rattling the rafters on the roof. A horrible silence blanketed the barn.
Colonel Nguyen closed his eyes. As he had learned last night after the black pickup disappeared, some of the ricocheting pellets had pierced a window and struck Pham’s elderly grandmother. Although the injury was not itself terminal, at her age, any wound could be life threatening.
Dang stroked his white beard. “We all grieve with you for Xuan’s injury.”
“Grieving is not enough. It is time for action!”
Nguyen shook his head. There was such a difference between Pham and Dang. Dang still spoke in the old traditional ways; Pham had fully assimilated the slang and rhetoric of his adopted country. And what they said was as different as the way they said it. Dang spoke with caution, with concern for all possible ramifications. He was slow to anger, and equally slow to take action. Pham was younger in spirit and temperament; he was unwilling to accept the world as it was. There was more of America about him than of Vietnam.
Pham turned to address the entire assembly. “A gentle woman in her seventies who has never done harm to anyone was struck by a shotgun blast to her shoulder blade. What are we going to do about it?”
Nguyen watched Pham as he made his appeal to the masses. He was impressed with Pham’s bearing, his strength, his natural aptitude for leadership. At the same time Pham’s words filled him with apprehension. Nguyen knew Pham’s inflammatory speech could only lead Coi Than Tien in one direction.
Another elder, Vanh Truong, intervened. “I am told that your grandmother will recover.”
“Her shoulder blade is shattered!” Pham spat out. “This is intolerable!”
“It seems to me,” Dang said, “that we have a choice.”
“We must choose to fight!” Pham yelled, interrupting Dang. A spattering of cheers punctuated his cry, mostly from the younger men in the barn.
“That is not among the choices,” Dang said, maintaining a calm, even voice. “The choice is whether we remain and endure, or whether we move on.”
“Whether we run! That’s what you mean. Whether we run like cowards as we did before. Well, I for one will n
ot run!” More cheers and applause followed, even stronger than before. His support was growing.
“If we remain here,” Truong said, “we risk continued harassment.” He looked directly at Pham. “If we fight, we risk extermination.”
“And where will you go when there is nowhere left to run?” Pham demanded. “When the forces of hate have hounded us to the ends of the earth. What then?”
Dang waved his hands. “The decision to leave has not yet been made. This is simply an open discussion. We must consider our options.”
“I will not accept an option without honor!”
A smart boy, Nguyen thought. Pham was reaching out now, sounding a chord that would appeal to the older members of the community as well as the young. This was the turning point. If Nguyen was going to speak, he could delay no longer.
“Excuse me, Elder Dang.” Colonel Nguyen quietly interjected himself into the debate. “It is possible that honor can be found in all options.”
Pham looked at him with dismay and disappointment. “Colonel Nguyen! Surely a warrior such as yourself does not say we should run.”
Nguyen diverted his eyes. “A brave man knows when to show his back to the enemy.”
“And what does that mean?”
He hesitated. “It means there is no honor in fighting if it costs us our souls. Or our families.”
“I cannot accept this. I cannot believe the great Colonel Nguyen would say these words.”
“What would you have us do, Pham? Would you have us kill someone? Exact your vengeance? We do not know who shot your grandmother.”
“Of course we do. It was those murderers from ASP. The pious assassins who go to church under our noses on Sunday morning, then set fire to our homes on Sunday night.”
Nguyen felt the heat radiating from all sections of the barn. “We do not know that for certain. It is conceivable that … there could be other motivations for last night’s attack.”
“Such as what?” Pham demanded.
Nguyen paused. It would be so easy, so much simpler if he could just tell them what he knew, what he had seen.
He glanced back at Lan, who was sitting with Mary and Holly. No. They would all be placed in danger. And Coi Than Tien couldn’t protect them. Coi Than Tien couldn’t protect anyone.
“I do not know,” Nguyen answered. “But there are many motives for violence. Hatred is only one of them.”
“Colonel Nguyen,” Pham said. “I mean you no disrespect. But you are wrong. You speak the words of a coward.”
“Pham!” Dang said harshly. “Think what you are saying! Colonel Nguyen is one of our most honored citizens. He is your elder.”
“Yes,” Pham growled. “And his elder wisdom got Tommy Vuong killed!”
There was an audible gasp, followed by a suspended silence. The unspeakable had been spoken.
“Pham,” Dang said, “you bring shame on us all. You do not know what you say.”
“I know what I know!” Pham fired back. “I know Colonel Nguyen was the last to see Tommy alive. I know he counseled Tommy to suppress his anger, to turn the other cheek. And look what happened.”
All heads turned toward Colonel Nguyen, obviously awaiting a reply. But none was forthcoming. The Colonel retook his seat. He did not like what Pham had said, but he would not dispute it. How could he? He had advised Tommy not to seek retribution against the man who attacked him in the bar. He had left Tommy just when he needed him most. If anyone could have saved Tommy, it was him. And he failed.
“Dinh Pham, you have disgraced this assembly,” Dang pronounced. “We must ask you to leave—”
“Fine. I’ll leave. But I won’t leave alone.” Again Pham turned to face the crowd. “Who is with me?”
The response was slow at first, just a few young men who were known to be Pham’s close friends. But then Thung Hieu, a man in his midfifties with three children, joined him. Then Elder Tran, whom the Colonel had known all his life. They were joined by women, mothers, even children. The sentiment spread like a dandelion in the wind. Pham’s isolated few became a majority, a defiant congregation that would not be driven from their homes again.
Pham marched proudly out the barn door. Over half of those in attendance followed.
Dang tapped his gavel faintly on his table. The sadness in his eyes was unmistakable. “Under these circumstances,” he said, “I see no reason to continue this meeting.”
Nguyen knew the significance of these events as well as Dang. All chance of solidarity, as well as all chance of negotiating a peaceful solution, were lost. Pham was the real leader of Coi Than Tien now. And he would lead his followers into direct confrontation with ASP. A confrontation that could only lead to death, mostly on the side of Coi Than Tien. All the valor in the world could not mitigate the effectiveness of well-organized hate.
Nguyen followed Dang and the remaining few out of the barn. He knew now that violence was inevitable. And at least in part, it was his fault.
15.
“WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED to you?” Ben staggered into the Hatewatch office, clutching his side. Belinda jumped up from her desk when she saw him and helped him to a chair.
“I’ve had a tough night,” Ben mumbled.
“No kidding.” Belinda took his head in her hands. His face was bruised and his left eye was swollen shut. A long red laceration highlighted his eyebrow. “Where’d you spend the night, a trash compactor?”
“Close. City jail.”
“Jail? You? What was the charge?”
“Drunk and disorderly.” Ben grimaced; talking only exacerbated the aching in his side. “I’m … sorry, Belinda … I know you didn’t want me back here …”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re hurt.”
“But what if Frank and—”
“Frank and John will be out all morning.”
“It’s just—” Another sharp shot of pain blazed through his rib cage. “Didn’t … think I could make it back to the campsite, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“I said, don’t worry about it. Who did this to you?”
“The Right Honorable Deputy Gustafson.”
“Oh, God. Why was he after you?”
Ben rubbed the soreness in his side. “Wanted me to admit I was in on an ASP firebombing.”
“Why the hell didn’t you? It’s not as if you were under oath.”
Ben shrugged. “Principle of the thing.”
Belinda shook her head. If Ben wasn’t mistaken, just the tiniest trace of admiration crept back into her eyes. “Principles can get you beaten up badly with a redneck like Gustafson.”
“You know him?”
“He’s come around here a few times, trying to get us to do some stupid thing or another. Did he tell you about his sister?”
“I believe he mentioned her, yes. Although he let his club do most of the talking.”
“How long did he beat you?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I kind of faded out there toward the end. When he was done, he just left me lying on the stone floor. I couldn’t move a muscle. About an hour later he dragged me into Cell Block B. With three members of ASP.”
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Did they hurt you?”
“No, worse.” Ben touched the cut on his face gingerly. “They were nice to me.”
A faint smile played on Belinda’s lips. “You poor kid. Let me get a first-aid kit.” She ran to a room in the back of the office, then returned with the kit and a washcloth. She applied a medicated Q-tip to the cut over Ben’s eye.
“Ow!” he said. “That stings.”
“Don’t complain. It’s good for you.”
“Haven’t I been tortured enough?”
Belinda ignored him and continued dressing his wounds. She was being extremely kind, Ben thought. Was it possible his first impression hadn’t been altogether wrong? Was it possible that there might still be some attraction—?
“How was your bed?” Belinda asked.
“No beds.
No cots, no metal bunks. We slept on the floor. Which became particularly unpleasant after my drunken roommates began vomiting all over the place.”
She lifted his shirt and examined the ugly blue-black bruise on the side of his rib cage. “My God, that’s terrible. Did he break a rib?”
“I don’t think so. He seemed to be pretty good at inflicting pain but stopping short of any permanent damage.”
“Permanent damage leads to lawsuits. A few bruises can be written off to an alleged escape attempt. You are going to sue, aren’t you?”
“No way.”
“Ben, he violated your civil rights!”
“What else is new?”
“If it’s a question of money, Hatewatch could subsidize the expenses—”
“No. I’ve got enough problems without any new lawsuits.”
She removed a gauze bandage from the kit and wrapped it around his chest. “Vick case not going well?”
Ben watched as she expertly tended to his wounds and abrasions. She obviously had some medical training. Which was not surprising. Given her choice of vocation, she probably came face-to-face with violence on a regular basis. “The Vick case isn’t going at all. No one will talk to me. No one will help me. My own legal assistant won’t help. I can’t even get a room for the night.”
Belinda finished wrapping his chest and pulled down his shirt. “Can’t say I feel sorry for you. Your client is pond scum, Ben.”
Ben tucked in his shirt. “C’mon, Belinda, you’re a lawyer. You know the process doesn’t work unless both sides are represented.”
“True. But that doesn’t mean you have to represent every dirtbag on earth.”
“No one competent would represent this dirtbag. It was either me or a probate attorney who doesn’t know abstracts from arraignments.”
“Still—”
“If we’re not going to give the man a fair trial, we might as well not give him a trial at all. Is that what you want? Conviction without a fair trial?”
“In the case of Donald Vick, I won’t shed any tears.”
Perfect Justice Page 7