We happened to be sitting in the window of the coffee shop in plain view of the street. The door burst open and a tumbleweed blew in, caught a gust, spun around in a crazy wind-driven dance, and landed at our booth. It turned out to be the aforementioned Katharine, poetry in motion, motion in motion. Her black hippie hair was probably halfway down her back when it hung down, but I bet that didn’t happen often. Right now it spun out wildly around her head. She had fine features, a creamy complexion, sparkling black eyes, a face that might have been ethereally beautiful if it weren’t lividly angry. It was the face of a younger Elizabeth Taylor and she had the figure that went along with it: short legs, wide hips, and breasts that were unrestrainable. She made the most of it in a long denim skirt and cowboy boots. This was not a lanky, long-legged, blue-jean woman. Superficially, she had that romantic, hippie look that had also become endangered, but she was an angry, angry woman, a woman maybe who preferred the meat around the heart. It’s hard to tell what glue binds any two people together. She was angry, March wasn’t. Was that enough? But they were a couple, I could see that—March’s eyes turned soft and unfocused as she moved up close.
“Those assholes,” were her first words. She moved fast and she talked fast, too. “Assholes, assholes, assholes.” It was at least one too many. “Sandy Pedersen got what he deserved, all right. It couldn’t have happened to a better poacher, and whoever did it deserves a medal. But Betts is accusing you? You? What kind of an asshole would think you did it? God, it makes me sick.” She pounded the table, sending the Rio Grande over its banks onto the saucer. There is an abandon that is abandon.
“Katharine, simmer down a minute. This is Neil Hamel; she is going to be my lawyer.”
She cast a look in my direction, noticing for the first time that another human sat there. “You?”
And then there is the perfect control. “Me,” I said. “No one has officially been accused of anything yet.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why is Greg Porter waiting in the lobby with handcuffs in his lap?”
“He’s not waiting any longer,” said March.
Porter ambled over and hovered beside our table in his law enforcement suit, staring with embarrassment at his feet. He shuffled a bit, looked up. “I don’t like this any more than you, old buddy, but I’ve got to read you your rights.”
“Go ahead,” said March.
Katharine brought her anger under control, at least she didn’t swear at Porter or punch him out. But the hot fury in her eyes gave fair warning of what was to come.
5
WAYNE BETTS, THE prosecutor, had filed an arrest warrant and had twenty-four hours to bring March before a magistrate. I took the same twenty-four to prepare and file a motion to admit me to the bar of the district court for this case. Time was of the essence. March had called Marie; she was waiting for me in Mitchell’s office. There seemed to be plains people and mountain people in Montana. Marie was of the plains, calm and competent, focused on the middle distance. She wore polyester pants and had a sensible haircut. Her kids had been raised and she was ready for the next challenge. As Montana doesn’t have suburbs, the women missed out on being stuck there with the kids, the television and the washer-dryer, with not enough to do and no respect for not doing it, the phase when modern appliances took the status and dignity from their work, when women were considered amusing toys and adapted their behavior accordingly. But being cute has no value on a ranch. My impression was that Montana valued humor in men, competence in women. Marie was competent and she wasn’t ambivalent about it either. She just did what needed to be done, quickly.
“You can count on me to help March,” she said.
She had already tracked down Tom Mitchell by phone before he went out sailing in Baja. “I told him March wants you to represent him at the bail hearing. He doesn’t see any problems with bail, but he’ll call back in a few days to see how it’s going. He can’t believe anyone—even Wayne Betts—would charge March with murder. Neither can I.” She shook her head. “I checked with the court and they said you can file the motion without local counsel accompanying you.”
“Thanks, Marie.”
“No problem. I’m glad to have something to do.”
She knew more about preparing the document than I did; between us we were ready in time. Since I had the degree and had passed the bar exam, I was the one who went to court. I would have preferred to see the prosecutor before the bail hearing, but there wasn’t time.
Fire Pond, located at the juncture of the Rockies and the plains, handled the affairs of both: the legal issues involving poaching and wildlife manipulation in the mountains, the commerce of the plains. It was a calm town of about fifty thousand people with big trees, Victorian houses, wide avenues. Even though the front had blown on and the big blue had reappeared, the traffic moved slowly and no one was on the street. The courthouse had been built in the days when the West was won, when they were good at erecting buildings and eliminating Indians. It was a massive stone building with pillars and a cupola that brought the bright Montana sunshine into the depths of the stone. There were tufted black leather sofas in the lobby and large potted plants in brass pots on the patterned tile floor. A curved staircase with a railing of polished wood ascended to the second floor, where the courts waited.
I climbed the stairs and found a guard sitting on the landing. “Afternoon, ma’am.”
“Afternoon.”
“I’m afraid I have to go through your purse,” he said politely. It was a formality that had to be endured these days when no one trusted anyone, especially a lawyer. The federal government wanted to be sure I wasn’t bringing a Magnum into district court to waste a judge or jury if the verdict didn’t turn out right. The guard felt through my purse, squeezed a pack of Marlboros, picked up my wallet and the change fell out.
“I used to charge people to get in,” he winked, putting the change back, “but they won’t let me do that no more.”
I filed the motion with no problems. At the bail hearing I could see that March’s incarceration was already beginning to tell on him. His eyes were not nearly so clear as they had been yesterday. It’s not natural for a naturalist to be in captivity. He needed sleep, but even more he needed his freedom; I intended to get it. For the moment it seemed it was just a matter of posting bail.
I gave him my reassuring, don’t-worry-I’ll-have-you-out-of-here-on-bail-in-no-time attorney’s smile, but it was a sham because Betts held the cards and he played them all. My client, he said, posed a clear and present danger to the community, there was a likelihood he would kill other people, the offense was extremely serious, the prosecution had a strong case. March had the means—his fingerprints had been found on the trap that killed Pedersen. Betts had already obtained a search warrant and found four more wolf-wipers in March’s shed. He had the motive—he was known to be hostile to poachers. He had the opportunity—he had openly admitted visiting the site. Therefore, there would be no bail. I argued. I lost.
March was right, someone wanted very badly to pin this on him. I’d say this for Betts, he moved fast. I’d also say he overreacted.
I made the point that a former ranger accused of killing a poacher would not be safe among the general prison population, many of whom probably were poachers. It was agreed that March would be given his very own cell in the county jail where he could be kept for thirty days before he’d have to be indicted by a grand jury, in other words, before someone other than Wayne Betts would think he was guilty. A very dejected March was led back to prison. I was glad Katharine hadn’t shown up and pulled her madwoman act. March’s depression was enough for me to cope with. “Don’t worry,” I said before he was led off. “I’ll have this out with Betts and be by in the morning.”
******
Wayne Betts had naturally fair skin that had been unnaturally mottled by too much exposure to the big sky, a perfect candidate for Retin-A. I thought about suggesting it while he gave me the reasons it was necessary to incarcerate my clie
nt, March Augusta—the big three: means, motive, opportunity. The accused admitted publicly that he’d been to the aerie, his fingerprints were found on the wolf-wiper that killed Pedersen, wolf-wipers were found in his shed. That and his identification of the body at a great distance were all solid evidence to Wayne Betts.
“He did have an excellent pair of binoculars,” I said.
Betts widened his wide blue eyes until the irises fluttered and darted like moths in a jar. They were the sort of technicolor that some people admire, but I find unnatural.
“What about character?” I asked.
“Character?” His butterfly eyes didn’t have the sharpness of the mountains or the calm of the plains either. They came from someplace else.
“Are you from Texas?”
He cracked his knuckles, a sound that sent a lizard racing down my spine. “How did you know that?”
We know about a few things in my state: sun, low riders, chile, Texans. “I’m from New Mexico,” I said. “A neighbor.”
He smiled but there was no joy in it or in my presence either. The man was not at ease.
Nevertheless, at ease or not, it was time to get down to business. “You can’t seriously believe that my client is capable of murder. He’s a gentle person, a fine, upstanding citizen, a naturalist who cares deeply with every fiber of his being about preservation, not killing.” It was hyperbole, but what could you expect in a federal prosecutor’s office?
“This wouldn’t be the first time someone in Montana killed over an environmental issue.” He opened his eyes even wider, implying perhaps that a Montana lawyer would know that.
“We have environmentally related crimes in New Mexico, too,” I said, and continued my line of reasoning. “My client has never been in jail, has never even been accused of a crime. It is highly irregular to hold a person of such good reputation and moral character without bail. Montana is my client’s life. His business is here. It is obvious that he is not going to flee the state.”
He cracked his knuckles again, sending the lizard back up.
“It’s not obvious to me,” he said slowly. “Incidentally, it’s not the first time your client has been in trouble with the federal government.”
“For what? Refusing to kill a bear?”
“For refusing to obey orders. He was an employee and an employee has obligations to his employer.”
So that was why I worked for myself. Maybe Betts was overzealous or badly in need of a conviction. Maybe it was a personal vendetta, but who could dislike March? If it was a reaction to March’s lawsuit, it was an overreaction. The government could certainly afford whatever it had lost. My overriding impression was that in the cave behind the butterflies, something was lurking.
“I don’t need to remind you that there are rules of discovery. If you know something about my client’s guilt or innocence that I don’t, I am entitled to that information. I can always file a motion if need be.”
“I am not concealing anything about your client,” he spoke very slowly, enunciated very clearly and cracked his knuckles again.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
He laid his hands on the table. “Any further questions?”
“Not for you,” I replied.
******
I went back to the Aspen Inn, where Avery and the birders were waiting for news of their incarcerated leader. Spending a night in the wilderness hadn’t done Avery any harm. In fact, he looked ten years younger than he had the day before yesterday, when he’d already looked fifteen years younger than he was. His eyes were electric and there was a little dance in his step. “What a night that was,” he said, “what a night. I haven’t spent a night in the wilderness in several years. How magical it is. Where’s March? Has he been released?”
It’s a rare pleasure, a good mood. I hated to be the one to destroy it. “March is still in jail and being held without bail.”
“What for?”
“Murder.”
There were quacks and croaks and expressions of outrage.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Avery. “I’ve known March for ten years—he didn’t murder anybody. He ruined his career as a ranger because he couldn’t bring himself to kill a bear.”
“Unfortunately, Betts, the federal prosecutor, doesn’t see it that way.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get him out. What are you all going to do?” Now that the expedition had become a bummer, I thought they would probably turn tail and go home. But people who fly thousands of miles and hike another seven to see one bird dive-bomb another are not likely to be intimidated by a mere murder; exhilarated was a better word.
“Stay,” said Muriel the wren.
The jay: “We’ll lose our discount fare, if we go home early.”
Burt Collier: “Got nothing to do at home anyway at this time of year.”
Marcia: “Maybe we can help March out.”
Cortland James, however, hadn’t said anything at all. “How’s your cold?” I asked.
“Much better, thank you. The day’s rest was beneficial.”
“I’m John King” came from the remaining birder, the one I hadn’t met yet. It was easy to see how he’d been attracted to ornithology—he had a beak to equal any in the bird kingdom. From one point of view he was an extremely homely man. His nose was grotesque, his legs were too short, his hair was mouse gray and falling out, but he had a kind and melodious voice. After talking to him for a few minutes, it was all you’d notice.
“You look tired,” he said.
“It has been a trying day.”
“Why don’t we all get some dinner and let Neil rest up.”
I guess I looked like I needed it. “Thanks.”
“Tomorrow I’m going to give my lecture and show my slides of the Arctic.”
There was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. They wanted to get back out in the field and see some more prey get zapped. Slides seemed pretty tame now. John King took charge, however, and led them away. “You relax and get a good night’s rest,” he told me.
I had the use of March’s van—he wouldn’t be needing it where he was—and I went down the road to an Albertson’s that was the size of a large airplane hangar. I stocked up on Red Zinger and Lean Cuisines.
I went back to my motel efficiency, turned on the oven, took out my bottle of Cuervo Gold. I put some ice in a glass, poured the Gold over the ice, put a vegetable pasta in the oven, sat down and picked up the telephone book. It’s one way to rest up. I looked at the Hamels first: there was Rebecca Hamel, Edward Hamel, Michael Hamel and the Louise and Bill Hamel family with a separate phone for the teenagers. Next I tried the yellow pages. Under “lawyers” there was a three-quarter-page ad that emphasized serious injury and wrongful death—vehicular, machinery, pharmaceuticals, railroad, power line, aircraft. No wolf-wipers. Tom Mitchell was listed only as an attorney at law, no specialty for him, no credit for Marie. I went through the rest of the names—nobody I knew from law school or anyplace else. At the moment, I was on my own in Fire Pond up against the infinite resources of the federal government with a falsely accused murderer to represent and as yet only a dim notion of how to do it. The yellow pages were sprinkled with little boxes containing helpful hints and words of wisdom. “Obstacles should be regarded merely as obstacles, not as stopping-places—Frederick William Nichol.” I turned the page. “Life is the art of drawing without an eraser.” Or swinging without a net, dancing on thin ice. I turned once more: “REMOVING GUM FROM HAIR—Rub in a dab of peanut butter. Massage the gum and peanut butter between your fingers until the gum is loosened. Remove with facial tissue.”
I thought about writing the Kid, but what would I say? Miss you, be back when I solve a murder? Wish you were here? I decided to wait a few days and see how the cards fell. No one was expecting me till next week anyway.
I picked up Joan’s journal, skipped Personal and turned to Falconry, the art of training hawks to hunt that has been practiced someplace
in the world in every age from the unwritten past to the overwritten present.
Records show that falconry was in China 2,000 years B. C. Bas-reliefs from the Middle East dating back to 1700 B. C. show falconers carrying hawks on their wrists. In all that time there has never been a total lapse in the practice of the art. The Crusaders brought the sport back with them to Britain and Western Europe around A.D. 860, where the species were allotted according to rank: Eagles were flown by emperors, gyrfalcons by kings, peregrines by earls, goshawks by yeomen, sparrow hawks by priests, while commoners got the kestrels.
Female has always been the falconer’s favorite sex. White gyrs the rarest and most prized bird. Philip the Bold ransomed his son for twelve white gyrfalcons that probably came from Greenland, known then as the land of the white falcon. It took two years to round them up.
Birds are bred in captivity or taken from the nest as fledglings, but the highly prized falcons, the ones with the most spirit and best hunters, are the passager birds taken from the wild after they have learned to fly and hunt. A significant effort goes into teaching them to unlearn their native cunning and fear of man. Among the wildest and shyest of creatures, they must be taught against their better instincts to trust the falconer.
Once the bird is trapped, a soft leather hood is placed over its head and tied on. Jesses (leather thongs) are attached to its legs as a way to control it. A leash may be attached to the jesses. A furious and frightened bird will resist by bating (wildly beating its wings), hissing and cakking. Keeping the hood on and the bird in darkness helps to calm it.
Raptor Page 5