Dark Justice (5 page)

“
Two
?”

“You heard me right. One for each victim. To be served consecutively, not concurrently. When the sentencing was over, he glared down at Sonny and said, ‘Your parole officer hasn’t been born yet.’ ”

“Why did he go all ballistic when Granny painted me as some political extremist?”

All traces of the sheriff’s smile faded. “Well, for that answer, why don’t you ask these fellows in the adjoining cells? I’m sure they could explain it better than I can.” And on that, he pivoted on the heel of his cowboy boot and left the cell block.

Ben hadn’t even noticed that there were two people, a man and a woman, in the cells on either side of him. He didn’t think they’d been there last night when he was first brought in.

“Hi,” he said, waving in both directions. “I’m Ben Kincaid.”

The woman to his left barely lifted a hand. “Cheers.”

The woman’s most eye-catching feature was her hair—lots and lots of it, wild auburn curls like untamed ivy. Even though it was cut chin-length, it radiated out from her head like a nun’s habit. She wore large round eyeglasses with wire frames, which lent width to her otherwise thin face. Freckles dotted her cheekbones. She was dressed in jeans and a collarless shirt. She was attractive, Ben thought, in a practical, no-nonsense sort of way.

The man, similarly dressed in grubby jeans and a T-shirt, was equally uncommunicative. Ben’s greeting evoked barely a grunt.

“Lovely place, isn’t it?” Ben said, gesturing about the cell. “I’m thinking of coming back here every year.”

He thought he detected a twitch on the woman’s face that might roughly translate into a smile, but it was gone before he had a chance for closer scrutiny.

“Either of you know a good lawyer in the area? I’m a lawyer myself, but I’m going to need someone else to explain to the jury that my so-called crime was an act of conscience. It would sound too self-serving coming from me.”

The woman’s head lifted a notch. “You committed a crime of conscience?”

Ben nodded. “Right. Animal rights protest.”

“No kidding?” Ben noted that her accent seemed more East Coast than Pacific Northwest. “I’m sorry. I figured you were in here for drunk and disorderly.”

“Uh, no.”

“Whaddaya know, Rick? He’s one of us.” She walked over to the side of her cell that adjoined Ben’s and gripped the bars. “Animal rights, huh?”

“Yeah. Some heartless
Homo sapiens
species bigot was planning to kill his cat, basically because she’d become an annoyance. So I broke into his place to liberate the feline prior to her execution date.”

The man on the other side approached the cell bars. “You committed a breaking and entering to save a cat? Maureen, I think this kid is definitely our kind of people.”

“Amen to that.” She stretched her hand through the bars. “My name is Maureen Williamson. My partner in crime is Rick Collier.”

Ben shook both hands. “So what are you two in for?”

“Disturbing the peace,” Maureen answered. “We staged a protest this morning on the courthouse steps, which supposedly violates a municipal ordinance—which I’m sure is unconstitutional, not that that kept them from using it to get rid of us. They’ll probably let us cool our heels for a day or so, then release us, hoping we’ve learned our lesson.”

“We’ve learned a lesson all right,” Rick said, “but not the one those pigs had in mind.”

Ben turned his attention back toward Maureen. “What kind of protest was this?”

“Rick and I are both members of Green Rage. Have you heard of us?”

A decided crease lined Ben’s forehead. “Of course I have. You’re an environmental group. A bit on the … extreme side.”

Rick snorted. “Compared to what? The Rotary Club?”

“You’re eco-terrorists.”

“That’s not true,” Maureen interjected. “That’s bad press generated by the logging interests.”

Rick cut in. “Don’t back away from the truth, Maureen. I’d rather we were eco-terrorists than some candy-ass sit-on-your-butt-and-negotiate Sierra Club group.”

“It’s a question of semantics. It’s true that Green Rage does engage in some activities that are not strictly speaking legal, just as your actions last night weren’t strictly speaking legal.”

“Wait a minute,” Ben said. “Rescuing a cat is hardly the same as—”

“You rescue cats; we rescue trees,” Rick said. “I don’t see much difference. Granted, we sometimes trash heavy equipment belonging to the logging companies. Tree cutters, that sort of thing. Sometimes we spike the roads to flatten their tires. Sometimes we spike trees—but we take every precaution to make sure no one gets hurt.”

“Do you know how fast our forests are disappearing?” Maureen added. “If clear-cutting continues at the current rate, by the year 2020 there will be no forests left. Think about that—
no
forests. And 2020 isn’t that far away.”

“Still,” Ben said, “there must be peaceful alternatives that don’t put people in jeopardy.”

Rick snorted, even louder than before. “Jesus! Listen to Pollyanna over there. And he calls himself an activist.”

“I’m not any less an activist just because I don’t want to risk hurting people.”

“That’s exactly half right,” Rick said, jabbing his finger in Ben’s direction. “You don’t want to take a risk. But it isn’t other people you’re worried about. It’s yourself. You don’t want to upset your own cushy, complacent lifestyle.”

Ben felt his dander rising. “You don’t know anything about me. How can you—

“I know your type. I’ve been dealing with you all my life.”

“Boys, boys, boys,” Maureen said, “this squabbling doesn’t do anyone any good. Ben, the reason Green Rage moved into this area is because the loggers are on the verge of destroying what’s left of the once-immense Magic Valley forest. There’s a huge old-growth forest surrounding Mount Crescent that has been protected for decades, but earlier this year the Forest Service sold the lumber rights to WLE Logging.”

“The worst in the business,” Rick added. “WLE—We Log Eternally.”

“They claim they won’t cut the old-growth trees, but the fact is, they will. They already have. It’s the strategy they’ve employed to destroy dozens of other forests. They lie, cheat, deny—and then when they’re found out, they pay some trivial fine and reap a huge profit. We believe there may be some indigenous species in this forest that live nowhere else.”

“Like Bigfoot?” Ben chortled.

Maureen ignored him. “A forest is more than a collection of individual trees. The forest is a complex living organism. Take away any element of that organism and the whole suffers. And eventually dies.” She drew in her breath. “We believe some of the largest cedar trees left on this planet may be in this forest—bigger than the one in Forks. And these people want to cut them down just to make a quick and easy profit. It’s obscene, Ben. We have an obligation to try to stop it.”

“Trying to stop it is fine. Noble, even. But not if you resort to—”

“Ben, all over America, our trees are dying, because humans are killing them. It isn’t just the cedars of the Northwest. It’s the sugar bush of Vermont. It’s the dogwoods of the Catoctin Mountains in Maryland. It’s the aspens of northern Michigan and the forested hollows of Appalachia. We’re killing the trees, ravaging our forests to provide pulp paper for advertising supplements and junk mail. We asked the government to stop it, and they refused. We asked corporate America to stop it, and they said, ‘Go screw yourself.’ Citizen groups just don’t have the clout.” She paused, folding her arms firmly across her chest. “I don’t like breaking the law any more than you do. But it’s like Edward Abbey says—at some point, you have to draw a line in the sand and say, ‘Thus far and no further.’ ”

Ben shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong. I admire your commitment. I just can’t countenance any activities that risk lives.”

“Destroying the forests risks lives—all our lives,” Maureen said. “The forest is part of the worldwide organism. Everything is connected. If we take away the forests, we alter the composition of the atmosphere, global weather, cause species extinction. How long do you think our species can survive after the trees are gone?”

“ ’Sides, can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs,” Rick chuckled.

“Yeah. That’s what Timothy McVeigh said, too.”

“Ben,” Maureen said, “surely you can see the difference between planting a bomb for the express intention of taking lives, and planting a spike to
prevent
taking lives—tree lives.”

“Ends don’t justify means.” Ben sat down on his bunk, frustrated. This wasn’t going at all the way he wanted. He decided to try to reboot the conversation. “So why were you protesting in front of the courthouse? Shouldn’t you have been chaining yourself to some old-growth trees?”

Maureen’s mouth twitched again, and this time he was almost certain it was a smile. “One of our members—our leader, in fact—has been incarcerated. Accused of a crime he didn’t commit. And Judge Pickens has set a bail so enormous he has no chance of getting out before trial.”

Somehow this didn’t surprise Ben. “What’s his name?”

“George Zakin. He goes by Zak.”

Zakin, Ben thought. Zakin. The name seemed familiar to him. As unusual as it was, he should be able to remember where he’d heard it. His memory must be in low gear.

“What’s he charged with? Destruction of property?”

“Far worse,” Maureen answered. Her eyes fell, and her voice grew somber. “Murder. In the first degree.”

“M
URDER?” BEN’S JAW LITERALLY
fell with surprise. “What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything. He’s accused of planting a bomb in a tree cutter rigged so it would explode as soon as a logger turned the ignition.”

“And someone was killed?”

“Yes. Horribly. In flames.”

“Good God! Surely that’s proof enough of why your extremist tactics are unacceptable.”

“But we didn’t do it!” Maureen said. “Zak didn’t do it. We’re being framed.”

“Who would want to do that?”

Rick pressed his face between the bars. “Who wouldn’t, chump? This whole one-horse town is supported by the logging industry, which is busy replacing humans with more efficient machines and blaming Green Rage for the layoffs. We’re like the Antichrist around here.”

“Surely they understand—”

“All they understand is that they’re out of a job, or might be someday soon. Some of these families have worked in the logging industry for generations. They literally don’t know anything else. It’s as if we marched into town and wanted to burn down their church.”

“It’s pathetic,” Maureen said. “People consider us terrorists. But we’ve been assaulted right and left since we moved into this area. We’ve been beaten up, had our camp destroyed, had our personal belongings stolen. We can’t even walk down the street alone; we always travel in groups. Have you seen those yellow ribbons all around town?”

“Yeah,” Ben said. “I have.”

“That’s WLE’s Nazi-like yellow ribbon campaign. Businesses are supposed to display the yellow ribbons to show solidarity with the logging management against the so-called environmental threat. Anyone who doesn’t display the ribbons could find themselves on the wrong end of a boycott or out of work or with a store that’s been burned to the ground. Truth is, we’re not the terrorists—they are.”

“Still, it’s hard to believe anyone would frame your leader for murder.”

“If they thought it would get Green Rage out of their forests, I’ll bet half the people in this town would do it. And someone did.”

“The police must have some evidence.”

“Of course they have evidence. Otherwise the frame wouldn’t work. But I know this for a fact. Zak is not responsible for that logger’s death.” She stopped for a moment, catching her breath. “You know, Ben, if you’re a lawyer—”

Ben held up his hands. “Wait just a minute. I’m just passing through.”

“We’ve been searching desperately for someone to take Zak’s case, but of course none of the locals will touch it with a ten-foot pole. The court appointed some schmuck, but he doesn’t exactly have his heart in it. If you took over the case—”

“Stop right there. I can’t do it. I’m in the middle of a book tour. Also, I’m in jail.”

Her eyes widened. “A book tour? You’re—a writer?”

“Well, it’s only my first book.”

“Nonfiction?”

“Yes.”

“Ben, that’s perfect! You’re—you’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

“I am?”

“Yes! You’re perfect. Zak needs someone to take his case. Someone who’s committed to the cause, to the truth. Someone who cares whether justice is served. And Green Rage needs a scribe. You could wear both hats!”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“You’re a writer. You must know how important publicity is. God knows the logging companies have their propaganda machines working full-time, painting us as black, evil marauders. You’ve been exposed to it yourself—as soon as you heard the name Green Rage, you thought eco-terrorist. That’s what the loggers want.”

“Or perhaps it’s just the truth.”

“But you could change all that. You could expose the world to our point of view. Make them see things the way we do. Make them understand that time is short, that if we don’t take action now, it will be too late.” She looked at him eagerly. “What do you think?”

“I don’t see how—”

“Aww, forget it, Maureen,” Rick growled. “Look at this chump. He’s not going to stick his neck out for us or anyone else. He’s got his comfy little lawyer world. Probably a nice swimming pool and a big screen TV. He’s not going to put himself on the line for us.”

“That’s not fair,” Ben protested. “You don’t know—”

“Please consider it, Ben,” Maureen implored. “You don’t know what a difference this could make. I can’t explain it totally. I—I just have a sense that if you were on our team, sending the world our battle reports from the front lines, that might be just what we need to win the day. And God knows Zak needs you. If you don’t help, he’s going to end up railroaded, spending the rest of his life in prison. Or worse.”

Ben didn’t answer. She was staring at him, waiting for a response that wasn’t coming.

“Please, Ben. I don’t mean to pressure you, but I think you could be the best thing that happened to the environmental movement since Rachel Carson. You could make all the difference.”