Perfect Justice bk-4

by William Bernhardt

  Vick looked away. “I’m saying I want you to plead me guilty. Got it?”

  “That isn’t what I asked. And look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  Vick obeyed, grudgingly.

  “Did you kill him?” Ben asked.

  “What do you care? I said I want you to plead me guilty. And that’s all I’m saying.”

  “If you really killed Vuong and you want to plead guilty, that’s your business. But if you’re just saying this to be noble or because you’re having a bad day, that’s different.”

  Vick turned and faced the back wall of his cell.

  “Wait a minute.” Ben pressed his nose through the cell bars. “I have more questions to ask.”

  The only response was a faint rippling of Vick’s shoulder blades.

  “How can I represent you if you won’t talk to me?”

  No change. Ben glared at Payne. “I don’t believe this. I want to know—”

  “We can chat later.” Payne pointed to his watch. “We’re already five minutes late for the pretrial. Judge Tyler will be madder’n a wet hen.” Payne hustled Ben down the corridor.

  “But—” Ben blinked uncomprehendingly as a closed door separated him from the cold shoulders of his new client. What had he gotten himself into?

  Payne whisked Ben to the county courthouse on Main Street in less than five minutes. The courthouse looked like a sepia-toned image from a history book—an oversized white-and-red brick town center. It was easily the largest building in Silver Springs, and by far the most interesting architecturally. A cornerstone near the front door told Ben it had been constructed in 1892. Ben wondered how a town this size ever became the county seat. Must be a small county.

  Two men were already in the judge’s chambers when Ben and Payne arrived. Ben assumed the man sitting behind the desk was the judge. He had a distinguished, rugged face and a closely cropped head of gray hair. The other man was considerably younger, close to Ben’s age. Ben would normally have assumed he was the district attorney. The only detail preventing that conclusion in this instance was that he was bouncing a baby on his knee.

  “Watch this, Judge,” said the man. He smiled at the child, who appeared to be perhaps a year and a half old. “Sweetheart, what do doggies say?”

  “Foof-foof,” came the reply.

  “Exactly right,” the man said, applauding. The little girl beamed. “Okay, honey, what do ducks say?”

  “Wack-wack.”

  “Very good!” The man looked up. “She’s two for two.” He turned the girl around to face the judge. “Okay, here’s the tough one. Tell Judge Tyler what judges say.”

  “Ovewooled.” She giggled happily.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Judge Tyler replied. He reached across his desk and patted her on the head. “Amber, I believe you must be the smartest little girl in all of Reeves County.” The judge clapped enthusiastically. Amber turned red and hid her face in her hands.

  Ben watched in amazement. What the heck kind of pretrial conference was this?

  Payne stepped through the doorway and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Judge. Are you ready for us now?”

  “Of course we are, Mr. Payne. Come on in.” Judge Tyler gave Payne a big friendly smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

  Ben and Payne took the two available chairs. The judge’s chambers were, to put it kindly, intimate; to put it bluntly, minuscule—basically a closet tucked away behind the courtroom. There was enough room for a desk and four chairs and very little else. Ben and the man he assumed was the DA were shoulder to shoulder. The little girl began playing with the sleeve of Ben’s shirt.

  “Who’s your friend, Mr. Payne?” the judge asked.

  “This is Ben Kincaid, your honor. He practices law over in Tulsa County. I’m going to ask that he be admitted pro hac vice”—Ben winced at the pronunciation—“so he can assist me with this case.”

  “I see.” Ben felt the judge give him the once-over. “Does Mr. Kincaid have experience with cases of this nature?”

  “Oh, yes,” Payne replied. “He’s a murder-trial expert.”

  Ben pressed his fingers against his temples. He was really going to have to sit down with Christina and explain the principle of false advertising.

  “A murder-trial expert. My word.” The judge continued his silent appraisal. “Wouldn’t find no one like that around here. ’Course, we haven’t had a murder in twelve years. Why don’t you tell us about yourself, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “Well … I’ve been practicing law for several years now in Tulsa—”

  “Several years? You look to be—what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

  “I’m … thirty-one, your honor.”

  “Huh. Guess you look young for your age.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “You practice with some big firm?”

  “I did, sir. A few years back. We had a parting of the ways.”

  The judge arched an eyebrow. “Where are you now, some corporation?”

  “Well, I’ve done that, too … but it didn’t work out.”

  “For such a young fella, you seem to have trouble keeping a job.”

  “I’ve been maintaining a solo practice for some time now, your honor. I think I’ve found my niche.”

  Judge Tyler placed a finger across his lips. “I don’t normally cotton to big-city lawyers strolling in to try our cases. They always seem to think they know more about how I should perform my job than I do. But given the gravity of the charges, and Mr. Payne’s lack of experience with criminal matters, I’ll allow it. You are hereby admitted to act as counsel for the defendant in the present case.”

  “Thank you, your honor.” Ben made a mental note to avoid acting like a big-city lawyer, whatever that meant.

  “Why don’t we welcome Mr. Kincaid with a drink?” the judge said exuberantly.

  “A drink?”

  Judge Tyler opened his bottom desk drawer and removed a bottle of Scotch. “I’m afraid Mabel took all my glasses, gentlemen. We’ll have to drink from the same bottle.”

  “Fine by me,” Payne said.

  The judge thrust the bottle under Ben’s nose. What was this, some weird initiation rite? Well, when in Rome …

  Ben raised the bottle and swallowed. The whisky seared his throat and made his eyes water. Tough drink for a guy whose staple was chocolate milk.

  Ben passed the bottle back to Judge Tyler. “I apologize for my informal attire and unkempt appearance, your honor. Mr. Payne just contacted me about an hour ago and I haven’t had a chance to dress appropriately.”

  The judge waved his concerns away. “Don’t give it a second thought, son. I don’t give a rat’s ass what people wear outside the courtroom. You could show up in swimming trunks for all I care.” He grinned. “Of course, little Amber might be somewhat shocked.”

  Ben did his best to play along. “Nice little girl,” he said, nodding in her direction.

  “That she is,” the proud daddy replied. “She’s our precious gift from heaven. Marjorie and I had been trying for years to have children. No luck. Then, just as we had given up hope, God sent us this perfect ray of sunshine.” He rubbed noses with Amber. “That’s what you are. You’re a perfect ray of sunshine.”

  “You two haven’t been properly introduced,” the judge said, as he passed the bottle. “This here’s Henry Swain. You can probably get away with calling him Hank. I’ve known Hank since he was a pup. His father and I used to go deer hunting together.”

  “I see.” Ben began to be concerned about this tight-knit little legal community. “You must be the district attorney.”

  “That he is,” the judge answered for him.

  “Good.” Ben rose to his feet. “Shall we go into the courtroom now?”

  “No need for that,” the judge said. “I think we can handle this right here.”

  “Here?”

  “I don’t see why not. We like to handle cases informally in Reeves County, wheneve
r possible. Tell you the truth, there’s not much I need to know. I’ve read the file.”

  Ben was stunned. “You’ve read the district attorney’s file?”

  “I like to know what’s going on.”

  Ben thought it prudent not to comment. At least not yet. “Why has my client been denied bail?”

  “That was my decision,” Judge Tyler said firmly. “This is a capital crime, after all, and your client has no permanent ties to this community. Not to mention the fact that some folks might like to throw a rope around his neck and swing him from a cottonwood tree. No, I think he’s best right where he is.”

  “When I visited him, I wasn’t able to enter his cell.”

  “That’s my order, too. We have good reason to believe he’s a dangerous character. I’m not letting anyone in there unless a peace officer is present. And since I assume you want to talk to your client in private, you’ll just have to do it from the other side of the iron bars.”

  Ben drummed his fingers on the chair. “When’s the probable cause hearing, your honor?”

  “I’m not much for those big dog-and-pony shows,” the judge muttered.

  “But, your honor—the probable cause hearing is my chance to learn about the state’s case.”

  “Hell, son, they’ll tell you whatever you want to know. There’s plenty of evidence. Hank’s got statements from half a dozen people who heard your boy threaten to kill that Vuong kid.”

  “The fact that he made a threat doesn’t prove—”

  “The boy practically confessed when the sheriff arrested him. And his motive is obvious. Do you know how Vuong died?”

  Ben had to admit that he did not.

  “He was killed by two crossbow bolts, one to the chest, and the other to his neck.”

  Ben checked Payne for confirmation. “A crossbow bolt?”

  “Yes,” the judge replied. “That’s what you call them big-ass metal arrows crossbows shoot. Made a mess of that kid, let me tell you. The killer fired from close range. And then planted a great big ol’ burning cross right over Vuong’s head. Piece of the cross fell down and caught the body on fire. Good in a way—the flames cauterized the neck wound. Unfortunately they also burned his body to a crisp. Those ASP sumbitches just don’t have no mercy in them.”

  “Your honor, I believe you’re jumping to conclusions—”

  “What other conclusion is there?”

  Ben took a deep breath. There was no sense in alienating the judge. But he couldn’t let him walk all over his client’s rights, either. “I must insist that we have a formal in-court probable cause hearing. So I can cross-examine Mr. Swain’s witnesses.”

  “He’ll give you the names of all his witnesses. You can talk to them whenever you want.”

  Ben tried to remain composed. “Sir, I want a court reporter in here. So we can make a record for the appellate court to review.”

  The judge leaned across his desk. “Mr. Kincaid, I’m afraid you are beginning to get on my nerves. Are you suggesting that you’re already planning to take me up on appeal?”

  “I have to consider the possibility, Judge. This case just isn’t being handled according to the proper procedures.”

  “Goddamn you big-city lawyers!” Tyler pounded his fist on his desk. “You’ve been in my chambers for less than ten minutes and you’re already telling me how I should handle my cases!”

  “I have to do my job—”

  “Fine. Do your job. But stay the hell away from mine.”

  “My client has an absolute right to a probable cause hearing—”

  “Not anymore.”

  Ben blinked. “What?”

  “Mr. Payne has already waived the hearing and agreed to proceed to trial.”

  Ben spun around and faced Payne. “Is that true?”

  Payne grinned sheepishly. “Did I do bad?”

  Ben slapped his palm against his forehead. “I don’t believe this. …”

  “I thought it would help move matters along. …”

  “Judge,” Ben said, “I was retained to advise Mr. Payne on criminal procedure. If you aren’t going to follow the procedures, then I’m of no use to him. I’ll have to withdraw from the case.”

  “That motion will be overruled.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. You asked to be admitted and I allowed it. I’ll not permit you to turn around a few minutes later and withdraw. What is this, some kind of game to you? In, out, in, out. I don’t allow lawyers to do the hokey-pokey in my courtroom.”

  “You can’t force me to stay on this case!”

  “Mr. Kincaid, I suggest that you refrain from telling me what I can and cannot do. If you do not proceed with this case to the full extent of your abilities, I will hold you in contempt of court. And let me inform you that our sheriff takes my contempt orders very seriously. Got it?”

  Ben bit down on his lower lip. “Got it.”

  “Now let’s not have any more of these improprieties.”

  “Improprieties? From me?” Ben knew he should remain silent, but he just couldn’t. “I came here expecting an impartial hearing, and instead I got a judge who won’t follow procedure and a DA who’s baby-sitting!”

  Tyler’s jaw clenched tightly shut, but he still managed to speak. “Let me put a bug in your ear, Mr. Kincaid. You may think we’re just a bunch of hicks out here. You may think I’m some redneck judge who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Well, I went to law school just like you, mister. I run a clean courtroom, and your boy’s going to get a fair trial, whether I particularly care for him or not.”

  “I never meant to suggest—”

  “Let me tell you something else. This town wasn’t always the happy hamlet I’ve lived in the past thirty years. Back in the Fifties and Sixties, we had the KKK crawling all over us—protests, race riots, lynchings. It was a hellhole. Town barely survived.”

  Judge Tyler swiveled his chair around and gazed out the window. “Maybe I wasn’t as strong back then as I should’ve been. Maybe I didn’t do all I could’ve done. Well, I’m not making that mistake twice. I’m not letting this … ASP gang tear apart my town. I’m—”

  “ASP is not on trial, Judge—”

  Tyler rose to his feet. “Mr. Kincaid, do not interrupt me again!” He allowed an uncomfortable silence to pass before he returned to his seat. “Since your client’s friends came to town, they’ve been terrorizing folks and frightening everyone half to death. If this continues, pretty soon Silver Springs won’t be a safe place to raise precious little girls like Amber anymore. Well, I’m not going to let that happen. Not again. Do you understand?”

  Ben nodded. He sure as hell did.

  5.

  COLONEL NGUYEN SAT ON the makeshift porch of his home in Coi Than Tien and gazed up at the stars. The sentinels of the night. So calm, so unchanging. When he was younger, he knew the names of all the constellations. He knew where to find the brightest stars in the sky and how to follow their progress. Now he had no time for such amusements. Now when he looked at the sky, it was only to wonder if there could really be someone up there, someone overseeing this cruel and bitter world.

  He glanced at his wife, Lan, and their eighteen-month-old daughter, Thuy, whom they called Mary. Their four-year-old, Huong (Holly), was already asleep. Lan held Mary in her lap and rocked her gently. Mary’s tiny eyelids were fluttering; soon she would be in the land of dreams. Her face was the very image of contentment; it made Nguyen’s heart swell. If only life could always be thus. If only contentment was not merely for those blissfully unaware.

  The porch wasn’t much of a porch, just as their home wasn’t much of a home. It was a Quonset hut, actually, bolted together from surplus corrugated metal. The porch was no more than a thin stretch of dirt; Nguyen had built a wooden railing around it to create the illusion of a real porch.

  It embarrassed the Colonel to have his wife and children live in such conditions. Back in the homeland, his family had been wealthy, important. T
hey had the best of everything. But that was a different country, a country that no longer existed. And it was a long time ago. So long now that, as he gazed at the stars and cast his mind back, he could barely remember it.

  Lan eased out of her rocking chair. Mary’s soft, rhythmic breathing assured them she was soundly sleeping. Lan tiptoed inside the hut to put her down for the night. Nguyen couldn’t help but smile; he loved nothing more than watching his wife and daughters. When he recalled how close he had come to losing his wife, to never having any children at all, he shuddered.

  Back in Vietnam, Nguyen had been one of the most important men in the South Vietnamese army. He had personally served in the Airborne and in Special Forces; he had commanded a unit of over twenty thousand combat troops. His men had seen some of the bloodiest action in the entire bloody war. Many of the most critical South Vietnamese victories came as a direct result of Nguyen and his soldiers.

  When Saigon fell to the North Vietnamese, Nguyen reluctantly fled the country. He hated the thought of leaving his homeland; he could not imagine being separated from the soil of his birth. But the North Vietnamese had not hidden the fact that they intended to “chastise” high-ranking South Vietnamese officers, particularly those responsible for critical military victories. Nguyen had two choices: flee Vietnam or face incarceration, torture, and death.

  The Americans were precious little help. Nguyen didn’t blame them personally. They were caught short like everyone else when Saigon fell, as their many plans and schemes were destroyed. In the utter turmoil and chaos that followed, he was separated from Lan. He managed to get out before the fall; she didn’t.

  Colonel Nguyen made his way to America and took a series of hard-labor jobs—sweeping floors, washing dishes, shoveling out horse stalls. Most of his spare time was devoted to trying to get Lan to America. He contacted all the proper agencies and authorities; no one could offer any assistance. He became more and more despondent as he became more and more afraid he would never see her again.

  In the meantime Lan had somehow managed to evade the Vietcong rover packs more than ready to exact revenge upon the families of high-ranking officers who had slipped through their fingers. In time, she managed to fight her way onto a boat full of refugees. Boat was a generous description given by the press; raft would have been more accurate. She was shoulder-to-shoulder with a hundred castaways desperate to escape Vietnam or the harsh refugee camps established in Thailand and other Asian countries. But Lan never complained. She was certain that the boat, any boat, would take her to her husband. To freedom.