Dark Justice (11 page)

She sighed. “You’ll get it. You’ll get it.” She slid out from behind her desk and sashayed across the office till she was standing even closer to him than before. “And then maybe, when this unpleasant mess is all over, you and I can relate to one another on a more … personal basis.”

Ben coughed. “What do you—”

She leaned closer. “Like I said, I’ve done some checking on you, Mr. Kincaid. You’re an impressive individual.” She touched his shirt, only for an instant, but more than long enough to send an electric charge coursing through Ben’s body. “I’d like to get to know you better.”

Ben took a step backward, bumping into the chair. “I’d better go,” he said, trying hard to modulate his voice. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

As he passed through the door, he caught a last fleeting glimpse of her, a look of sly amusement on her face, wiggling her fingers. “Stay in touch.”

C
OMPARED TO THE EXPANSIVE
layout of the district attorney’s spread, the public defenders office was a hole-in-the-wall in a separate building half a mile from the courthouse. Ben supposed he should be pleased that a town this small even had a public defender’s office, but he couldn’t help wondering how an operation this size could possibly do battle against an operation like the one he had just visited.

The outer office was just as small as he had imagined it would be—four desks crowded together in a room probably intended for one. Everyone was so busy they didn’t even look up when he entered.

Ben approached the desk closest to the door, where a woman in her mid-thirties was attempting to organize pleadings in an oversized black notebook. He cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a woman named Christina McCall.”

The woman gazed blankly at him.

“She’s about so high”—he held his hand maybe four feet off the ground—“with lots of curly red hair—”

“Ah. She’s in the room in the back. The sucker’s office.”

“The, uh—excuse me?”

Her eyes had already returned to the pleadings. “This is a small office, as you may have noticed. Us four girls are all administrative. We don’t actually have any lawyers on staff. Can’t afford them. Judge Pickens appoints lawyers as necessary. We call ’em the suckers.”

Ben’s chin raised. “And so the room in the back—”

“They usually need a place to review files and prep and whatnot. ’Fraid that’s the best we have to offer.”

“They work in this cubbyhole all through the trial?”

“Trial? I suppose they would.” She leaned toward the woman at the desk closest to her. “Imogene, when was the last time one of the suckers actually took a case to trial?”

Imogene thought for a moment. “Been three years now. Stanley Boxleiter. Convenience store holdup. He got creamed.”

The woman glanced back at Ben. “There you have it.”

Ben frowned. “I get the impression this office doesn’t have a tremendous win-loss record.”

“What can you expect from conscripted defense lawyers? Some of ’em aren’t even familiar with criminal law. They take any plea bargain that’s offered.” She snapped the binders shut on the black notebook and closed it. “But the real reason is Judge Pickens. The Time Machine. He’s … how shall I say it? A strong believer in law and order.”

“Favors the prosecution?”

“That would be one way of putting it. At any rate, he’s never had any problem listening to Granny talk. I’ve seen some poor suckers who never managed to finish a sentence.” Her hand suddenly moved to her mouth. “Omigosh. You must be that fellow from out of town who’s representing the terrorist?”

Yes, Ben thought, I’m the
sucker
who got that case.

Her eyes lowered. “You may want to consider a change of attire, at least when you go into court.”

“What, I should wear a football helmet?”

“I was thinking more like a bulletproof vest.”

Ben weaved through the crowded desks and found the closed door in the back. He pushed it open and stepped inside …

… and three steps later, his nose was pressed against the opposite wall.

“Welcome to Chateau Kincaid. Kinda cozy, huh?”

Christina sat behind the desk by the north wall. It was a small desk, but it was the only desk that could possibly fit in this tiny office.

“This is where we’re supposed to work?” Ben asked. “This is impossible.”

“You’re being negative. Don’t think impossible. Think … challenging. Quaint. Intimate.”

“No one needs to be this intimate. My jail cell was larger.”

“If you’d like, I could revoke your bail.”

“Very funny.” Ben took a folding chair that was leaning against the wall, unfolded it, and sat. “Christina, you know I’m not accustomed to a plush workspace, but this is ridiculous.”

“Maybe so, but it’s all we’ve got. Our client can’t afford to rent office space for us, and last I looked our firm coffers weren’t overflowing either. It’s going to have to do.”

“Swell.” Ben crossed his legs and tried to pretend he was comfortable. “What have you managed to find out?”

“Nothing you probably don’t already know. But I haven’t had a chance to read the files yet. I will. The murder occurred on July thirteenth. The victim, Dwayne Gardiner, was shot. Soon after, he was caught in the explosion of a huge piece of logging equipment, a tree cutter. He burned to death.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None have turned up. The case against our client is based on his hostility toward loggers and his known proclivity for torching logging equipment, although I have a hunch there might be some forensic evidence pointing toward him as well.”

“There must be,” Ben said. “There wouldn’t be a case otherwise.”

“My thinking exactly. And we have to anticipate that there may be other connections as well. Our client has been in town for at least six months now, since the injunction fell and WLE Logging started building roads to get into the old-growth forest. It’s entirely possible Zakin knew the victim or had some other tangential connection.”

“I’ve talked to Zak. He says he didn’t know the guy.”

“Really? Well, the prosecution must have something.”

“Agreed. We have to figure out what it is.” He paused, relishing the pleasure of dropping a bombshell he knew and she didn’t. “By the way, Zakin is a former client of ours.”

“Right. The Chesterson Chimp case.”

“You remembered?”

She looked at him incredulously. “Of course I did. I knew who he was the instant I heard his name. How many George Zakins did you think there could be?”

“I can’t remember the name of every client.”

“I can remember that one. So how is he?”

“Oh, about the same. He’s changed location and cause, but that’s about it.”

“I remember we believed he didn’t kill the research doctor in the Chester-son case. What about here?”

“He says he didn’t do it. And I think he’s telling the truth.”

“You’re a horrible judge of character.”

“Don’t remind me.” Ben glanced down at the desk, which was covered with file folders on all but one corner, which held the telephone—a big black old-style phone with a dial.

“Is the phone connected?”

“It is,” Christina replied. “Unfortunately, there’s no budget for phone calls.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s your nickel.” She picked up the receiver and handed it to him. “Wanna phone home?”

“Right.” Ben took the receiver and dialed his office in Tulsa.

Someone picked up on the seventh ring. “Ben Kincaid Law Office.”

“Hey, Jones, stop messing around on the Internet and get to work.”

“Boss!” Ben heard some clicking noises on the other end that sounded suspiciously like a modem switching off. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. Is Loving there?”

“I’ll put him on.”

Ben heard some garbled shouting in the background. A few moments later, someone picked up an extension phone. “Skipper, is that you?”

“It’s me, Loving.”

“How’re ya doin’? How’s the book tour? I kept tellin’ Jones you’d call soon. It’s not that he’s forgotten about us, I told him. It’s just that he doesn’t have time, what with fending off autograph hounds and appearing on talk shows. Right?”

“You hit the nail on the head.”

“Where are you?”

“In Washington State. Tiny place called Magic Valley.”

“So you’re making time for the little people, too. I think that’s great.”

“Look, both of you—there’s been a surprising development. I’ve taken a case up here.”

“You have?” Jones said. “What a hustler you are, Boss. What kind of case?”

“Murder. First degree. Anyway, Jones, I need some research, and I need it quick. We’ve already missed the preliminary hearing.”

“Say no more, Boss. I’m on it.” He hesitated a moment. “Can I, uh, do it from here?”

“With the Internet and fax machines, I don’t suppose it much matters where you are. Got some pressing engagements?”

Loving made a deep chortling noise. “He doesn’t have any engagements. He just doesn’t wanna leave his sweet patootie.”

“She is
not my
sweet patootie!” Jones barked.

Ben smiled. “So, Jones, you and Paula are still going hot and heavy?”

“Well, they’re still going,” Loving said. “I doubt if it’s very hot.”

“Butt out, buster!” Jones fired back. “I’ll have you know we are very hot.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We’re like spontaneous combustion. Steam practically rises every time we—oh, why am I telling you this, anyway?”

“My sentiments exactly,” Ben said. “Could we steer this conversation back to the matter at hand? I’m also going to need an investigator.”

“Say no more, Skipper,” Loving said. “I’m on the first plane out.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. I haven’t let some librarian wrap a ball and chain around me.

“Loving,” Jones barked, “you’re a sexist cretin.”

“Jones,” Ben interjected, “could you drop by my apartment after work this evening and pass the word along to Joni? She’s keeping an eye on my cat and Mrs. Marmelstein. Tell her I’m sorry, but I’m going to be gone a little longer than I anticipated.”

“Will do, Boss.”

Loving guffawed. “If Paula will let him out of her sight long enough.”

“
Loving
!”

“Well, boys,” Ben said, “it’s been a real, um, pleasure talking to you. Christina will fax you the details on the case. Stay in touch.” He hung up.

“Everything status quo back home?” Christina asked.

“Totally,” Ben said. “A little too much so, actually.”

Christina pushed out from behind the desk. “Well, I have tons of work to do, and so do you. But we’re not going to get it done tonight. Maureen wants us to come to the Green Rage camp.”

“Why? I told her I’m not going to do anything—”

Christina held up her hands. “She’s not expecting you to torch any heavy equipment. She just wants the rest of the group to meet you. She wants their approval of your involvement.”

“Approval? Why?”

“I gather they’re a little guarded about who they let in the organization.”

“What, they’re afraid I might learn the secret handshake?”

“No, they’re afraid of FBI agents and logging company spies.”

“Look, I’m not joining Green Rage. I’m just acting as defense counsel.”

“Just the same, the location of their camp is secret. They’re going to pick us up, blindfold us, and take us out there.”

“
Blindfold
us? Christina, are you thinking maybe taking this case wasn’t the brightest thing I ever did?”

She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Ben. I’m used to it.”

R
ICK SHOWED UP AT
the appointed time—with the blindfolds. After a token effort at talking him out of the cloak-and-dagger routine, Ben and Christina submitted. As far as Ben was concerned, this was taking security measures way over the top, but Rick insisted.

The blindfolds were thick and black, perfect for keeping out all traces of light and clinging close to the face, eliminating that peephole down the line of the nose available with most blindfolds. Once they were securely vision impaired, Rick loaded them into the backseat of his Jeep. At least Ben assumed it was his Jeep. It could’ve been a San Francisco trolley car for all he could tell.

At first Ben attempted to keep track of the directions—first a right turn, then a left, drive for about a mile … but it was pointless. After ten minutes, he was hopelessly confused, and he’d been told it would be a good half hour before they arrived at the Green Rage camp. He couldn’t retrace their trail even if he wanted to. And honestly, why would he want to? If they didn’t want him there, he didn’t want to be there.

After fifteen minutes or so (he couldn’t see his watch), Ben sensed they were entering a different environment. He couldn’t explain exactly how he knew, but he knew. A difference in the climate, perhaps, but it was more than just temperature. There was something about the air itself—the thickness, the crispness. The smell. And the sounds—

“We’ve entered the forest,” Rick said. His voice came from the front of the Jeep, whipped back like the wind rushing in Ben’s face. “Another fifteen minutes or so and we’ll be at the camp.”

“I thought so,” Ben said. “Everything seemed different somehow.”

“You’ve entered a different world,” Rick answered. “You’ve left behind the artificial world of the city—concrete, smog, Burger King. You’ve entered the forest primeval—pure, natural, untouched. At least for the time being.”

Ben and Christina sat in silence as they rode the rest of the way. Time seemed to pass more slowly. Ben paid more attention; he soaked in the sweet scent of pine, the musty smell of the earth.

Eventually Rick brought the Jeep to a stop. As the engine died, Ben could hear the soft play of voices, not far away. And a million other sounds as well: birds singing, the wind whistling through the trees, the chirp of the crickets, the mournful cry of the hoot owl.

“We’ve arrived.”

Ben felt the rise of his seat as Rick jumped out of the front. He felt fingers brushing against his face, and an instant later, he could see again.

Ben stepped off the Jeep and did a full circle, absorbing his new surroundings. The sun was setting, but he could still see clearly. It was green everywhere he looked, green and more green. They were surrounded by an enclosure of trees, tall pines that stretched up to infinity—or at any rate a good deal higher than Ben could see.