Con Law (25 page)

‘Mr. Jones, we’re going to South Texas.’

‘Uh, Professor, I’d rather not.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I read it’s kind of dangerous down there, with the drug cartels.’

‘So?’

‘So … I’m afraid.’

‘Nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Jones.’

‘You’re not afraid. Of anything. Even dying.’

‘I’m afraid of not living.’

‘Me, too.’

‘No, you’re afraid of dying, Mr. Jones.’

A week later, Book and Nathan Jones rode the Harley to South Texas. Nathan had conducted an Internet search on Buster Koontz and discovered that his past was checkered, to put it mildly. He was a drug task force hired gun, moving from small town to small town, putting up high conviction rates and then moving on. But scandal lingered behind: allegations that he had committed perjury—one convicted defendant was released from prison when his family produced time-stamped videotapes that proved he was at work when the alleged buy went down; another was released because he had been in jail in another county for drunk driving when Buster testified he had made the buy. Their first encounter with Buster Koontz was less than cordial.

‘I want to commend Agent Koontz for his courage in wiping out the drug trade in our town. His remarkable work has resulted in twenty-two more arrests …’

The local
district attorney (up for reelection) was holding a press conference on the steps of the county courthouse to announce the latest victories in the war on drugs. Agent Koontz stood next to him and basked in the glory. Three print reporters and a camera crew from the Laredo TV station captured the moment. When the D.A. paused, Book jumped in.

‘Mr. District Attorney, are you aware that Agent Koontz produced the same remarkable results with drug task forces in seven other states over the last eleven years, but that many of the convictions based on his testimony are now being overturned because Agent Koontz committed perjury and fabricated evidence. That many of his colleagues on those task forces regarded him as a racist, a liar, a bully, a rogue cop, and even mentally unstable. That—’

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Professor John Bookman, University of Texas School of Law.’

‘And what brings you to our county?’

‘Injustice.’

The D.A. cut short the press conference and retreated to his office in the courthouse. Agent Koontz did not retreat. He fought past the reporters asking if Book’s claims were true and grabbed Book’s arm. Book eyed Buster’s hand and then Buster.

‘You don’t want to do that.’

‘What?’

‘Grab my arm.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m going to break yours.’

‘You threatening a police officer?’

‘I’m threatening a dirty cop.’

Buster released Book’s arm and escaped the reporters and camera by driving off in his black pickup truck. Book gave his information to the media. Once the story broke, the D.A. had no choice but to fire Agent Koontz and announce a grand jury to investigate his actions. Buster Koontz would never again carry a badge.

But in Texas, he could still carry a gun.

Book jumped
when the gun discharged. He wheeled around and saw Buster running from the courthouse and Nathan Jones slumped to the floor.

‘Call an ambulance!’

He dropped down and cradled Nathan’s head in his lap then felt his intern’s body for the wound. His hand came back bloody.

‘Nathan, what the hell were you thinking?’

His intern’s eyes blinked open.

‘Professor … you called me Nathan. Not Mr. Jones.’

He passed out.

Nathan Jones
had stepped between Buster’s gun and Book’s back. The bullet struck his shoulder; surgery saved his life, as he had saved Book’s. Buster Koontz was found later that day in his truck, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. His days as a cop were over, as were Nathan Jones’s days as Professor Bookman’s intern.

‘Wow,’ Nadine said. ‘And all I had to do was hit that guy with a beer bottle. What happened to all those people they sent to prison?’

‘The governor pardoned them. They’re back home with their families. Once that story hit the media, the letters started coming, never stopped.’

‘Those drug task forces are scary.’

‘They are. Bush tried to defund the task forces, but members of Congress don’t get reelected by being soft on crime, so they funded them anyway. After this case and several other scandals, the governor disbanded the task forces in Texas.’

‘Professor, I understand now, why we came. Why you had to come. Why you care so much about Nathan Jones.’

‘Nathan
saved my life, so I wanted his death to be something more than an accident, to have a greater meaning. To make sense. But it was just a senseless accident. Just a coincidence that he died the same day he mailed the letter. No one took the bait. There was no proof of contamination. No evidence of a crime. No murder mystery. That’s what we learned today, Ms. Honeywell.’

Book’s cell phone rang again. It was Joanie. She again pleaded for him to put their mother in a home. After a moment, he checked out of the conversation.

‘Book—don’t do that.’

‘What?’

‘Check out.’ She sighed. ‘Book, you’ve been my big brother for thirty-one years. You took Dad’s place when I was ten. You rode me to school on your bike, you protected me from bullies—’

His dad had taught Book the basics of self-defense in the backyard. After he died, the anger that consumed Book had given him strength. The school bullies were big and mean; Book was mad at the world. They didn’t stand a chance. But the anger threatened to destroy the boy, so his mother had put him in a taekwondo class, her version of anger management for her teenage son. It worked. Taekwondo taught him to control his emotions and to channel his anger into martial arts. He came to each class filled with anger and left with a sense of peace. He now taught the class to other angry young boys.

‘—but I’m married now. You need to consider what I think. And what Dennis thinks.’

‘I don’t care what Dennis thinks.’

‘He’s a doctor.’

‘He’s not her son. Or her daughter.’

She again sighed into the phone. ‘When are you coming home?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘What about the dead lawyer?’

‘It was just an accident.’

‘Good. Because I worry when—’

Book heard
the distinctive discharge of a shotgun below their window fronting Texas Street and dove for Nadine just as the glass exploded and buckshot peppered the opposite wall. She screamed. He covered her on the floor and heard a roaring engine and screeching tires outside and Joanie’s voice on the phone.

‘Book! Book!’

He stayed low and reached for the phone.

‘Joanie.’

‘Book, what was that?’

‘Gunfire.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘We’re okay.’

‘We who?’

‘Me and Ms. Honeywell.’

‘Who’s Ms. Honeywell?’

‘My new intern.’

‘What happened to Renée?’

‘She quit.’

‘Why?’

‘Gunfire.’

He disconnected his sister. Nadine had curled into the fetal position on the floor; her body was shaking uncontrollably. He brushed glass shards off her. She cried.

‘You’re okay, Ms. Honeywell. They weren’t trying to hurt us, not with a shotgun. They’re just trying to scare us off.’

‘I’m not crying about that.’

‘Then what are you crying about?’

‘Because
we can’t go home now. A fish just took the bait.’

Book opened his eyes, but lay still. It was morning, but something wasn’t right. Someone was in the room. Someone was in the bed. Someone’s arm was stretched across his bare chest. Someone’s face was plastered against his shoulder, covered by a mane of black hair. Someone’s drool wet his skin. He turned to the someone.

Nadine Honeywell.

He remembered now. Her window had been blown out by the shotgun blast. So she had slept in his room. He had offered her the bed, but she opted for the couch. She stirred awake and realized her position. She didn’t move.

‘I got scared on the couch.’

‘I said you could sleep in the bed.’

‘I did.’

She removed her arm, peeled her face from his shoulder, wiped her drool from his skin—

‘Sorry.’

—and rolled over onto her back. They both stared at the ceiling. She finally spoke in a soft voice.

‘I’ve
never slept with a man before.’

‘We only slept, Ms. Honeywell.’

‘I’ve had sex, once, but it wasn’t an overnight thing. It was a back-seat-in-high-school-with-a-jerk thing. I tried a few more times, but like I said, after I got my clothes off, turned out they were gay. Awkward moment.’

‘I bet it was.’

‘No. This moment.’

She lay silent, which made the moment even more awkward.

‘Sorry, Professor. In awkward moments, I tend to over-share.’

He decided to change the subject. ‘You want to run with me?’

She groaned. ‘Don’t tell me it’s only dawn?’

‘I’m afraid so. So how about it?’

‘Please, Professor. My generation does not run at dawn. We stay up late and sleep late.’

‘I’ll bring you breakfast.’

‘That egg, cheese, and ham baguette, waffle with chocolate syrup and whipped cream, Strawberry Banana Cabana smoothie, and a large coffee with real cream.’

‘Fear doesn’t dampen your appetite.’

‘A girl’s got to eat.’

‘I’ll be back in an hour.’

‘I’ll be here.’

Book got out of bed; he wore long boxers. Nadine pulled the comforter over her head and said, ‘Lock the door.’

An hour later,
Book had run five miles around town and then stopped off at SqueezeMarfa. He bought breakfast and headed back to the hotel. He turned the corner off Lincoln Street and onto Highland Avenue and saw a Presidio County Sheriff’s Department cruiser parked out front of the Paisano one block down. He broke into a run and sprinted past the front desk—

‘Another night, Professor?’ the desk clerk asked.

‘Every night until further notice.’

—and up the stairs and down the corridor to his room. He found Nadine in the shower. Steam filled the bathroom.

‘You okay?’

‘Professor!’

‘Sorry.’

He placed the breakfast on the kitchen counter then went next door to Nadine’s room. He found Sheriff Munn standing at the blown-out window and a young female deputy digging with a pocketknife into the sheetrock on the opposite wall. Her blonde hair was pulled back but strands fell into her face; she wore a snug-fitting uniform that emphasized her curves and carried a big gun in a leather holster. She looked like Marilyn Monroe in a deputy’s uniform. She smiled.

‘Well, hidee there.’

She put a hand on her holstered gun and jutted her hip out. She gave him a once-over and a coy look; he wore only running shorts and shoes. He caught a faint whiff of perfume, not standard equipment on most of the law enforcement personnel he had encountered. She blew hair from her face.

‘And who might you be, cowboy?’

‘He’s the professor,’ the sheriff said from the window. ‘Dig, Shirley.’

Book walked over to the sheriff, who jabbed his head in Deputy Shirley’s direction.

‘Niece.’

He had a jaw full of chewing tobacco. He turned back to the window, leaned into the open space, and spit a brown stream outside. Book peeked down to see if the sidewalk below was clear of pedestrians.

‘Well, they’re damn sure gonna have to replace this window,’ the sheriff said.

‘That
qualify as foul play?’

‘Reckon it does. Where’s the gal? She okay?’

‘She is. She’s next door in my room.’

The sheriff’s eyebrows rose; he grunted.

‘No,’ Book said. ‘It’s not like that. She was too afraid to sleep alone, so she slept with … Never mind.’

‘Overnight maid downstairs, she heard the gunshot, saw a dark pickup speed away,’ the sheriff said.

‘Maroon?’

‘I asked. She couldn’t say. I take it you talked to Billy Bob, know the color of his truck.’

‘We talked.’

‘You learn anything?’

‘I don’t like him.’

‘That ain’t exactly breaking news.’

‘Sheriff, Nathan Jones was murdered.’

The sheriff launched another stream of tobacco juice through the broken glass.

‘Maybe. Or maybe those boys at Padre’s don’t appreciate getting their butts kicked by a professor, decided to let you know. And by the way, I figure those boys got what they deserved, but don’t you figure you can run around my county playing Rambo—
comprende
, podna?’

‘Birdshot, Sheriff,’ Deputy Shirley said. She examined a small pellet. ‘Number eight, probably from a twelve-gauge shotgun.’

The sheriff grunted then spat again.

‘If they wanted to kill you, Professor, they wouldn’t have used birdshot. They just wanted to encourage you to go home.’

‘When can we go home?’

‘When we find out who murdered Nathan Jones.’

They were
eating breakfast on Rock’s rooftop patio. Nadine finished off the baguette, waffle, and smoothie and then sipped her coffee.

‘And how are we going to do that?’

‘Someone took the bait last night. I think I know who. Now we’ve got to reel that big Aggie fish in.’

She sighed.

‘I don’t
like the sound of that.’

Sam Walker sat behind his desk wearing the same cap but a different Hawaiian shirt when Book and Nadine walked into
The Times of Marfa
office. He looked up and smiled as if an old friend had reentered his life.

‘Well, hello, Professor. You’ve certainly made an impression around town.’

‘Not a good one, apparently.’

‘Sold out this week’s edition, first time ever. Don’t reckon the roller derby would’ve sold out.’

‘Sam, you said I could trust you.’

‘You can.’

‘You ran the story.’

Sam stood and came over to the counter.

‘Professor, I figure you’re a pretty smart fella, knew what you were doing when you showed me that letter. Figured you wanted me to run the story, stir the pot in Marfa.’

Book fought a smile but failed.

‘We talk slow out here in West Texas, Professor, but that doesn’t mean we think slow.’