Dark Justice (45 page)

Pickens gazed across the courtroom. “Anything more, Madame Prosecutor?”

“Nothing, your honor. The State rests.”

“We’ll resume the trial Monday morning at nine with the defense.” He gave his closing instructions to the jury, then rapped his gavel. “Court is in recess.”

It seemed as if half the gallery rushed forward to defendant’s table—reporters asking questions, locals hurling epithets. Ben nodded to Christina, implicitly asking her to become a human shield while he and Sheriff Allen got Zak out of the courtroom. They had much to do.

As he left, though, Ben couldn’t help scanning the jurors, still transfixed in their fourteen chairs. Their faces were transparent; he felt as if he could see right through to their brains. He knew what they were thinking.

If they were voting today, here, now, they would find Zak guilty. Guilty of murder in the first degree. And they would recommend the ultimate sanction.

“F
IRST OF ALL,” BEN SAID
, keeping his eyes on the road, “we have to keep our heads together. Things always look bleak when the prosecution closes its case. The jurors’ minds will begin to change when we start putting on our witnesses. At the very least, they’ll begin to doubt.”

“I don’t know,” Christina replied. “I looked at those faces. And I didn’t see much doubt.”

Ben made a left onto the highway. “We still have Molly as an alibi witness. She can put Zak in an entirely different place at the time of the murder. And she has the most honest face I’ve ever seen in my life. How could anyone not believe her?”

“Maybe,” Christina said noncommittally.

“And we have the drug-pusher angle—Alberto Vincenzo.”

“You really think that’ll fly?”

“I do. Granted, I could use some evidence. But at least we have a theory. A good faith theory. A reasonable theory. It has to make the jurors wonder if the prosecution is giving them the straight scoop.”

They were taking advantage of the weekend break to drive their rental car to Seattle. Mike had finally gotten someone at the DEA to meet with them, although he pointedly made no guarantees about what would happen when they arrived.

It took Ben and Christina almost three hours to get to Seattle, but Ben didn’t mind a bit. They could both use a break from the drudgery of trial. For that matter, Ben was glad to be out of town. The longer he stayed in Magic Valley, the more claustrophobic it seemed. The walls were closing in on him. All the secrets and plots and conspiracies were like tentacles from some great unseen behemoth, slowly but surely tightening around his throat.

It was time for a change of scenery.

They arrived in Seattle just before three in the afternoon. As it turned out, the regional DEA office was about three blocks from the Farmer’s Market. They resisted the temptation to shop; they had work to do.

They found the office building and, with even more difficulty, managed to park. Then they found themselves killing time in the lobby, thumbing through
People
magazine articles.

It was almost four-thirty when a fortyish-looking woman stepped out the interior door. “Mr. Kincaid?”

“Right here,” Ben said, jumping to his feet. Together, he and Christina followed the woman back to her office.

It was a nice-size office, and decently decorated, too, which Ben was glad to see—it meant they hadn’t drawn someone at the absolute bottom of the DEA totem pole. In fact, as the woman—Madeline Chessway—explained, she was the regional administrator for narcotics-related investigations in the State of Washington.

“So,” Ben said, “if there’s a DEA investigation going on in the state, you’re going to know about it.”

“I think that’s a fair assumption,” she said, folding her hands on her desk. “Now what can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for information about Alberto Vincenzo,” Ben said. “He’s a drug dealer. And, I understand, the subject of a DEA investigation.”

“What’s your interest in Vincenzo?”

“I’m handling a legal matter for a client. A murder trial. And I think Vincenzo may be involved.”

“Well, if you think Vincenzo is going to be your star witness,” Chessway said, “you can forget about it.”

“All I want at this time is information,” Ben explained. “I’m trying to put a lot of puzzle pieces together. And I think knowing more about him might help me fill in the gaps.”

“Is this a drug-related homicide you’re trying?”

“That’s what I don’t know,” Ben answered.

“It isn’t so far,” Christina explained. “But we’re looking for alternative motives.”

“I see.” Chessway’s head bobbed. “It’s a fishing expedition.”

“That’s not so,” Ben said firmly. “We’ve already received some information from … an informant suggesting a link between Vincenzo and the murder victim. We’re just trying to learn more.”

“Well, in any case, there’s no way I can help you.” Chessway was a sturdy woman; not fat, but substantial. Her body language suggested that she was not to be trifled with. “DEA files are confidential.”

“I’m sure that’s the standard procedure,” Ben said, “and with good reason. But this is a special case.”

“We can’t make special cases.”

“Surely when there’s a murder trial—”

“Am I supposed to believe your trial is more important than our work? I don’t know you, Mr. Kincaid. I don’t know if you’re trustworthy. If I give you confidential information, I could put an entire investigation at risk. Not to mention any number of DEA agents.”

“Look, if you want me to swear some kind of oath—”

“What are we, children? You gonna cross your heart and hope to die?” She shook her head. “Sorry, Mr. Kincaid. No go.”

Christina edged forward. Ben was happy to let her take the lead. She had much better people skills, and he knew he was flopping. “Ms. Chessway, I don’t think you understand. If we don’t get this information, an innocent man could be convicted. And executed.”

Chessway matched her note for note. “No, ma’am, I don’t think you understand. Thousands of innocent people die every year due to illegal narcotics. I will not comment on any ongoing investigations. That is the DEA’s policy and I will honor it.”

Ben was incensed. “You’re willing to let a man die because of some … policy?”

“What makes you so sure there’s an investigation involving this Vincenzo?”

Why was she playing coy? Ben wondered. Ben could tell she recognized Vincenzo’s name the instant he uttered it. “I’ve received some … information,” Ben said guardedly. “I know the prosecutor has a file.”

“Then ask the prosecutor to produce it.”

“I did. She refused.”

“Take it up with the court.”

Ben shook his head. “The prosecutor denies knowing anything about any such file.”

“Maybe she doesn’t.”

“No, she’s lying. I’m certain there’s a file. Or was. She may have destroyed it by now.”

“If you believe the prosecutor has engaged in misconduct, you should complain to the judge.”

“I’ve complained. The judge isn’t sympathetic.”

Chessway leaned back in her chair. “Then I really don’t see what I can do.”

“You’re refusing to help?”

“I’m refusing to reveal confidential information.”

Ben could feel his anger rising. It seemed like everywhere he went, everywhere he turned, there was some panjamdrum of officialdom standing in his way. All these so-called public servants were supposed to be acting for the public good. Instead, they were hiding behind their desks and playing games while an innocent man was being pushed closer to a lethal injection.

“I want to speak to someone else,” Ben said.

“I’m sorry. I’m the only person with any supervisory authority in this area.

“Then I want to speak to your superior.”

“I don’t have a superior in this office. You can file a complaint with the D.C. office.”

“I don’t have time for that.” Ben gave it one last try. “Let’s make sure we understand one another. When this trial starts Monday, I intend to argue to everyone in earshot that Alberto Vincenzo was involved in this crime—maybe even that he was the true murderer. And when someone starts complaining that I don’t have enough evidence, I’m going to explain that there’s a reason for that. And the reason is that all the evidence is in the hands of the government—and they won’t give it to me!”

“Mr. Kincaid—”

“The press will of course pick up on that and start asking questions. I’ll have to tell them everything. I may even give them your name.”

“Mr. Kincaid—”

“And this is what I’m going to tell them. If the prosecutor has information she’s not providing, she’s guilty of a gross violation of the discovery code. If she’s destroyed the file, she’s guilty of obstruction of justice, which is a felony. The only way I have of catching her is to get information from you. And you won’t cooperate.”

“Perhaps you should take this up with the attorney general.”

“Believe me, I will. But that won’t exonerate you. By your inaction, you may be condemning an innocent man to death.”

“Are you suggesting your client really didn’t do it?”

“I assume every client is innocent. I have to. That’s what defense attorneys do. And I want that information!”

Chessway stiffened. Her chin rose. “Mr. Kincaid, I don’t believe we have anything left to say to each other.”

“I do.” Ben stood up and leaned over the woman’s desk. “If George Zakin is convicted because you wouldn’t help, I’ll make you wish you’d never been
born
!”

Chessway appeared stunned. Even Christina looked shocked. A tense silence permeated the room for untold seconds.

Chessway stuttered. “Is that some kind of threat?”

Ben grabbed his briefcase and headed toward the door. “I don’t make threats.”

B
EN RETURNED TO HIS
office just after dark. After he and Christina returned to Magic Valley, he’d caught a quick supper at a diner off Main Street. A quick supper and a boring one. He’d never liked dining out by himself. But Christina had informed him she already had plans for the evening. Probably off having a tutti-frutti soda with the sheriff, Ben mused. Or maybe he finally managed to get her back to his place.

Which left Ben alone.

Well, he had work to do. It would be nice to have Christina’s company, but he knew she would get her work done before the trial resumed. He just needed to make sure he got his own work done.

Out of habit, he headed toward the alley in the back of the building. As he approached the fire escape, he recalled that the last time he’d been here, he’d found Peggy hiding behind the Dumpster.

A smile played on his lips. Very melodramatic, he thought on reflection, if unlikely. But he couldn’t complain; her brave rendezvous had turned his case around.

He reached for the bottom rung of the ladder.

And heard a rustling noise behind the Dumpster.

He gripped the metal rung and froze. Could this be happening
again
?

“Peggy?” he whispered. At least before, it had not been pitch-black in the alley. Now it was. He couldn’t see who or what was back here with him.

“Peggy?” he said again. The short hairs on the back of his neck were bristling. He couldn’t make up his mind. Should he race up the ladder? It seemed safest. But if he’d done that before, he would never have heard what Peggy had to say.

“Peggy?” he repeated urgently. His knees were beginning to tremble.

“I ain’t no Peggy.”

The deep voice boomed out from the trash. Ben felt his entire body tense.

“Who is that?” Ben asked. His voice didn’t sound nearly as strong as he wanted it to.

There was no answer—nothing verbal, anyway. But he began to detect movement, a dark silhouette moving toward him. A very large silhouette.

“Wh-Who is it?” Ben repeated. “Speak up.”

The huge silhouette kept moving till it was barely a foot away from him. That close, Ben was able to perceive a few distinctive features. Huge, muscled shoulders. Long black hair. A scar over his right eye.

“Vincenzo,” Ben said, almost under his breath. “You’re Alberto Vincenzo.”

Vincenzo’s face was like a rock, solid and unsmiling. “I am.”

“And what do you want?”

Vincenzo placed his fists on his hips. “I hear you’re runnin’ around tellin’ people I committed some murder,” he growled. “And that makes me very, very angry.”

Maureen blinked, then blinked again. It was becoming difficult to see. A light rain had started falling, barely more than a mist, but it was fogging her wire-frame glasses. With every passing moment, she became a little blinder. It was a situation she hadn’t anticipated. Without her glasses, she couldn’t see. And she couldn’t wipe off her glasses—since at the moment she didn’t have the use of her hands.

There were four of them, she and Al, Deirdre and Doc, all lined up across the road, chained to three barrels. These were standard shipping barrels, except they had been filled with cement—all but a narrow passage at mid-height where a four-inch PVC pipe ran through the diameter. Once the barrels were in place, the Green Rage team positioned themselves between them, put their arms through the pipes, and linked up. They used chains to lock in their arms. Given time, they could remove themselves by releasing the chains, but it was impossible for a third person to force them out.

Al, just out of the hospital, was beside her. She had told Al to stay at their new base camp and rest, but he had insisted; he wanted to be a part of this. Given all he had been through, she didn’t see how she could deny his wish.

It was a desperate action, but it was their last chance. A convoy of trucks and equipment was scheduled to move into the largest section of the old-growth forest this evening; once they were in place, the conflict would be over. The loggers would have won. The forest would be as good as dead.

They couldn’t let that happen. At least not without a fight.

The loggers driving the trucks had been mad as hell when they saw the Green Rage team chained across the only road in, but short of out-and-out violence, there wasn’t much they could do. After exchanging angry words and nasty names, the man driving the lead truck told them he was going after the sheriff.