BULLETS (10 page)

He showered and left to meet Melvin.

“First things first.
They’re dropping the charges,” Melvin said.

“All of them?”

“Every single one. No explanation, no apology, just that the entire list of charges against you has been dismissed. She called me at the ass-crack of dawn to tell me.”

“It’s not surprising. She say anything else?”

“She asked for your number. Wouldn’t say why. I told her I’d have to check with you before passing it on. Since you’re no longer a defendant there’s no reason not to talk to her, if you wish, but no real reason that you have to, either. I’m presuming she wants to know if we plan to file a civil suit against Sheriff Ted and the department. Are we?”

“I don’t know yet,” Slick said, though he did know the answer to that, he just didn’t want Melvin to know. He sipped some orange juice and thought about her, again. Melvin cleared his throat before continuing.

“I checked, as of today there are already three civil suits pending against the department here, all for false arrest and use of unnecessary force. There’ve been others, multiple suits, but they’ve either been dismissed or settled out of court. Most have been dismissed, but if you do have, shall we say, a pair of aces under your hat, as you mentioned previously, then she may be sniffing around to find out if they need to prepare to fork over a large settlement to keep us, or rather you, quiet.”

Melvin was the one sniffing around, Slick saw, practically licking his chops at the thought of a large cash civil suit settled at the Bendijo taxpayer’s expense.

“I’ll check in with her and let you know when and what I decide. I want to think about it. What about the other guys?”

“The charges against Manual Rodriguez and Luiz Carrera have also been dropped, which wasn’t at all surprising, the police department literally had nothing on them by way of evidence, the two men simply just had the misfortune to have had breakfast with Pedro Garcia that morning. They worked together, though they say they don’t know him all that well. They’re free and clear of the charges, but they’re in this country illegally, so they now face deportation back to Mexico.”

“And Pedro?”

“More complicated. He’s in a coma, still, which means he can’t even be officially indicted. The law here gets tricky as the accused has to be able to offer up a defense and, as it stands, he can’t even agree to let me represent him. He has no family, at least none here in Arizona. He’s also an illegal.

“So right now I’m trying to work out something with his public defender, who is more than happy to hand everything over to me if at all possible. Currently, we’re waiting for a judge to decide how we can do that or if Pedro can even stand trial in his current state, which seems unlikely due to the statutes on the matter. It’s a mess.”

“How’s the case against him? You get a look at it?”

“Yes, his public defender handed everything over, unofficially as of yet, of course, but he doesn’t want to touch it and hopes the judge lets me take over. It’s a good case for the prosecution. Not so good for Pedro.”

“And?”

“And technically I shouldn’t discuss details of his case with you.”

“Technically you’re not even Pedro’s lawyer yet.”

“True. But—”

“Just lay out the broad strokes, you won’t have to violate privilege for that. If he wants you to keep everything to yourself when he wakes up, that’s his right. I don’t have any issue with it, I just want to know what I’m buying.”

“And that’s ‘if’ Pedro even wakes up, his doctors think there’s a good chance he’ll never come out of that coma. Okay, well, he’s charged with the murder of a man by the name of Roger Carlson, he’s a farmer, one of the big ones in the area, he hires a lot of vegetable pickers during harvest season, and one of the men he’s hired in the past was Pedro, though it seems that Pedro hasn’t worked for him for a couple seasons.

“His body was found outside one of his work sheds, early on the same morning as Pedro’s arrest. Medical examiner puts time of death around midnight the night before. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head and torso.”

“Beaten to death?”

“Yes, with a shovel. It wasn’t a pretty sight, I’ve seen the photos. The bad news? They have the shovel, it was left on scene. And the shovel has Pedro’s prints on it. No one can really account for his whereabouts at the time of the murder, either. His buddies thought he was home in bed. No one knows for sure.”

“That’s not good.”

“As I said, good for the prosecution, not so good for Pedro.”

“Motive?”

“That’s murkier. It could be anything. He was once employed by the man, after all, and is no longer. Carlson employs illegal workers pretty regularly, and employers like that have been known to take advantage of their workers, but so far there’s nothing to suggest that’s the situation with Carlson. According to the report, Carlson had a few out of the norm political beliefs but was well liked in the community. I won’t know for certain until I get deeper into the case. At the moment, it reads to me like they have nothing for motive and aren’t too worried about it.

“They have the murder weapon with his prints, Pedro has no alibi, at least not that I’ve been able to find thus far, and add to that he’s an illegal—the police figure they have a slam dunk with what they have. And between you and me they do. If Pedro wakes up and provides an alibi, a verifiable one, we’re good. But if he just went home and went to bed by himself, like most every normal person would do, he’s officially fucked.”

“Love it when you lawyers toss the legal jargon around.”

“If he wakes up, I’ll bust my ass for him, with or without an alibi. I’m good at this, Jon. You and I don’t know each other but I’m one of the best defense attorneys in the state, that’s why Thumper called me. But I’m no miracle worker, in the end it comes down to a jury, and I don’t have to tell you what a jury will think when confronted with the evidence the police have now. An upstanding local farmer murdered by one of his illegal workers? My advice would be to go for a plea and cut a deal if there’s one to be had. The headlines on the trial alone will doom Pedro.”

“Yeah, it’s a helluva story, isn’t it?” Slick thought about that.

“It may be all moot. My gut tells me that the judge will say that they can’t try him if he doesn’t wake up. It’s likely that he may not.”

“What time was the farmer’s body found?”

“Uh, let me see…” Melvin checked his notes. “A few minutes before six.”

“Had Pedro ever been arrested before?”

“Not in this country. I’ll check with Mexican authorities to see about a criminal record there, but it seems unlikely. According to his co-workers, the two I’ve spoken to, he was quiet and law-abiding, shy even. Devout Catholic, single, went to church every Friday night, Saturday and Sunday. He’d been here for five years and, like many illegals, he tried hard to stay out of trouble.”

“Carlson’s body was found at six in the morning, right? More or less. And Pedro was arrested in the diner sometime after eight?”

“Eight-twenty.”

“That’s pretty fast police work, ain’t it?”

Melvin thought about that and nodded. “Real fast.”

“Too fast. How’d they identify him so quick? If he’d never been arrested before, his prints weren’t in the system. Yet in two hours they knew who he was and where he was. Two fucking hours. You think the cops here are that good?”

“I don’t know of cops anywhere who are that good. Nothing in the arrest report, either. It’s pretty sparse, in fact. I’ll double-check, but it could be an opening. Good catch. You could be a good lawyer.”

“I make more money at cards than you do at law. But thanks anyway.”

Melvin was less than amused by that comment but ignored it. “So are you going back to … where is it you live?”

“New York City. No. I’m not going back, not just yet.”

“Really?” Melvin raised an eyebrow. “You’re staying here?”

Slick could see that Melvin thought this boded well for his potential civil suit against the department. “A little while, anyway. I’m not ready to go just yet.”

“You mentioned yesterday that you might have … what was your phrase for it, for the aces in the hole?”

“Bullets.”

“Bullets, yes. You mentioned you might have something to that effect with regard to your encounter with Sheriff Ted?”

“I might. I might not.”

“You can tell me, you know. I am your lawyer, after all.”

“Not anymore. I don’t need a lawyer now, right? But if I do, I’ll give you a call. You have my numbers, I have yours, and if things change I’ll be in touch.”

Slick stood and walked out, leaving a perturbed Melvin to deal with the check. It wouldn’t be much, at least from his end. There hadn’t been much for him to eat there.

S
lick pulled into
the long drive leading to the Carlson ranch. He wasn’t sure what type of reception he’d get there, but thought it might be worth at least seeing where it happened and if anyone would possibly talk to him. Except for the work barns and a modest but well-maintained ranch house, there was nothing but lettuce fields as far as the eye could see.

He parked and climbed out of the car. No one around, no workers, no dogs, it was very quiet. He sensed movement in the house, a flutter of a window shade. He shut the car door and made his way up the front walk. The front door opened before he got close and a woman in her fifties stepped out, one foot and hand inside.

“You a reporter?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” Slick said.

“You ain’t a salesman either.”

“No, ma’am, definitely not.”

She stared at him a moment and he at her. She wore jeans and a t-shirt, her hair up in a bun, a well-preserved woman but just as obviously barely holding it together. She finally nodded and opened the door all the way.

“Thirsty?”

“I surely am.”

“Come on inside then, too hot out here.”

Slick followed into the air-conditioned coolness of her house and noticed, once inside, that she held a shotgun in her free hand, the one she kept inside the house, partially hidden. She leaned the weapon against a counter once she got to the kitchen.

“For reporters?” he asked.

“And salesmen. You like iced tea?”

“Love iced tea.”

She took out a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator, poured them both a glass.

“You want sugar with that?”

“No, thank you.”

“You ain’t from the south, then. But neither am I and that’s also the way I like it, too. Straight up, with a slice of lemon and really cold.”

“Me too.”

She handed him his glass and they both took a deep drink. She leaned against the counter, staring at him. “I’m Doris Carlson, but you probably know that, since you drove all the way out here to my house.”

“I did know that. My name is Jon Elder. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

She cocked her head at his name. “You’re the fella, one of them that was arrested the day they arrested Pedro for murdering my Roger.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ted thought you might have something to do with what happened to Roger, but then they found out that you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, right?”

“Pretty much, yep.”

“If I recall, Ted also told me you hired some fancy lawyer for Pedro, too.”

“I did, though it seems as though he might not live long enough to need a lawyer.”

“I heard that, too.” She sighed and took another drink.

Slick looked around. A picture of Roger, Doris and a young man stood on the mantle. Next to it was another picture of the same young man, older and much more serious in a Marine’s uniform. Doris caught his look and nodded to it.

“Our son, Jim.”

“Fine looking young man.”

“Yeah. He was.” She took another drink of tea. “He died in Iraq, nine years ago. Roadside bomb. Died protecting our country from Iraqi weapons of mass destruction that turned out not to exist. Now, of course, those who got us into that particular war say that it was never about that, but that’s a load of shit, ain’t it?”

“It surely is.”

“Roger was really proud when Jim enlisted, so proud, he’d served, too, and he talked to our son all the time about his service, and it had its affect. Jim idolized his father and wanted to be like him, that’s why he signed up. It changed Roger when Jim died. He was never into politics before that, other than maybe making conversation over the newspaper. But our son dying in a war that we were fighting for no real apparent reason, that changed him. I think it’s why he took all these other young fellas, our workers, under his wing, gave them jobs, advice, money. He blamed himself and was trying to make up for what happened to Jim. He went way over the bend.”

“How so?”

She regarded him for a moment then took a few steps over to a nearby door and opened it. What was once a pantry had been converted into a small office. “Take a look for yourself.”

There was a small desk, covered in notebooks, Post-it notes and old coffee cups. Multiple clippings were taped over all the walls. Slick glanced at a few of the headlines from the printouts. Much of it was anti-war and conspiracy theories regarding nine-eleven. There were also a few pictures of the World Trade Center falling, along with arrows designating suspicious points of interest. Behind the door hung a big poster of George W. Bush on the wall, covered with darts.

“Ever seen anything like that before?” she asked.

“A couple times. I live in New York City. The tragedy affected people in a lot of different ways.”

“That it did,” she said. “Some got rich off it, some didn’t and a few lost everything. That’s what Roger used to say. But he didn’t really pay attention to the details until we lost Jim. After that, I think he got lost in them.”

She took another drink. “So what brings you out here, Mr. Elder?”

“Call me Jon. I’m here because I want to know what happened.”

“With my husband? Why?”

“Some sheriff nearly caved in my skull and I’m of a mind to find out if there was a worthy reason behind it.”

“Ted cracking your skull, or my husband’s murder? Them’s two separate things, and no worthy reason behind either, in my opinion. First one is just a result of Ted’s ignorance, the second, well, I honestly can’t make sense of it, not at all.”