High in Trial (12 page)

“Hey!” I exclaimed. “I think that’s Flame!”

I was right. It was Flame, splashed with mud, covered in burrs, and trailing her leash.
Her owner was nowhere in sight.

~*~

ELEVEN

Six hours, thirty minutes before the shooting

M
iss Meg’s Diner opened at six a.m. for breakfast, and on weekday mornings that was
when everybody showed up: construction workers who had to be at the job site by seven,
out-of-town workers who had a long commute, doctors and lawyers and insurance agents
who opened their offices at eight but liked to see and be seen and didn’t want to
miss out on anything that was going on. On Saturday mornings, Miss Meg’s diner was
the place where the men of the town gathered between six and nine a.m. to solve the
problems of the world, the country, the county, and their own home town. More than
one mayor had been elected here before he was even nominated and county commissioners
quietly relieved of office before the scandal broke. There was a lot of loud talk
about what the President should do, what was really wrong with this country, how to
fix the economy once and for all, and who they really needed up on Capitol Hill. Meantime,
deals were quietly made under the table and contracts illegally awarded and nobody
said much about it because, after all, they were all friends here.

Hands went up and friendly greetings
were
called out when Buck came in just before seven, and he returned them in his usual
easy fashion. He liked to hang out at the diner with the morning crowd when he got
a chance; it was the best way to keep up with what was really going on around town.
The trouble was that he rarely got a chance anymore, and today was no different. This
was business.

Don Kramer Jr., Attorney At Law, was due in Saturday court at eight but had a vague
memory of the Berman case and agreed to meet Buck for breakfast. Don Jr., as most
people called him, bore such a striking resemblance to his father—right down to the
horn-rimmed glasses, center-parted hair, and red bowtie—that it was almost impossible
not to do a double take when they entered a room together. Even when they were separate,
it was easy to mistake one for the other, and Buck often had to look carefully before
he began discussing with one law partner a case that actually belonged to the other.

Don Jr. was sitting alone at a table for two, his briefcase on the floor beside him,
the remnants of a breakfast that had consisted of half a grapefruit, whole-wheat toast,
and oatmeal before him. “I glanced back over the case file while I was waiting,” he
said without preamble when Buck was seated, “to refresh my memory. What was it in
particular that you wanted to know?”

Buck glanced around, hoping to catch the eye of a waitress with a coffee pot. “Well,
for starters,” Buck said, “Berman claimed he was innocent right up until the trial.
What made him do an about-face and take a deal that ended up costing him more time
than he would’ve done if he’d copped to all three of the charges he was arrested on,
plus trafficking and hit and run?”

“He didn’t have much choice, I’m afraid. Frankly, after we lost our strongest evidence
I’m surprised the prosecutor even offered a deal. He could’ve been looking at the
death penalty.”

“What evidence?”

A harried waitress finally discovered Buck’s empty coffee mug and filled it with
an absent smile before edging her way through the crowd of tables to attend another
customer.

“The forensics report on his truck, the one he claimed was involved in a collision
with another vehicle at the time of the shooting.”

“I was wondering about that. What happened to it?”

“It disappeared.”

Buck’s brow knotted briefly as he sipped his coffee. “Did you subpoena the arresting
officer in Georgia? He could have testified to the banged-up front fender, at least.
It was in his initial report.”

“I did.” Don Jr. picked up a remaining corner of toast, buttered it neatly, and popped
it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed before finishing, “The judge disallowed
testimony about the condition of the defendant’s vehicle at the time of his arrest.”

Now Buck was surprised. “Oh yeah? How come?”

The other man pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I believe it had something to do with
weather conditions, unreliable evidence… It really didn’t make much difference because
without his pickup truck, or at least a forensics report, I didn’t even know what
I was looking for.”

“You were looking,” Buck informed him, “for yellow paint from the gas pump pylon that
would definitively place him at the scene of the crime. Anything else would’ve corroborated
his story, or at least given you reasonable doubt.”

The blank look in the other man’s eyes told Buck that, either that hadn’t been part
of the defense plan, or Don Jr. didn’t remember the case as well as he had indicated.

“What about the other car?” Buck persisted. “What kind of attempt did you make to
find it?”

“The usual. Repair shops, emergency rooms. But it was a bad winter and there were
a lot of fender benders, if I recall. With no one willing to come forward about a
hit and run, it was a dead end.”

“Any description of the driver?”

“My notes say the defendant claimed a woman was driving with a man in the car, but
that’s about it. He didn’t get a good look at the driver but swore up and down he’d
recognize the passenger if he saw him again. He gave us a description of the man,
but it was pretty general. There’s no denying he was under the influence at the time.
He would’ve hung himself on the stand, and if you ask me, the judge did him a favor.”

“What do you mean, by letting him plead to second?”

Don Jr. took a final sip of his coffee, blotted his lips neatly, and shook his head.
“He did more than that. The judge was the one who came up with the deal. He called
Gill–Gilly Rogers, he’s the one who prosecuted the case, may he rest in peace—Gill
and me into his chambers and told us he wasn’t allowing the arresting officer to testify
about the truck and that I’d have to build my case on the testimony of the defendant,
which, as we all knew, would be a waste of taxpayer’s money. So he strongly suggested
we reach an agreement and came up with one he’d approve. I guess you never got to
work with the judge, but he used to do things like that, informally, always working
to be fair to everybody. It sure did make the practice of law a lot easier back then,
I’ll tell you that.” And he smiled mirthlessly. “Of course, our billable hours weren’t
nearly as high as they are now, either.”

Buck sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “You said you didn’t have Berman’s truck for
evidence. What happened to it?”

A look that was part rueful, part puzzled crossed Don Jr.’s face, and he gave a small
shake of his head. “Talk about your crazy snafus. Somebody screwed up and forgot to
tag it as evidence. It went up for auction before the trial, can you believe that?”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “I’m no lawyer, but that sounds like grounds for a mistrial
to me.”

“If we
had gone to trial,” agreed Don Jr., “I would’ve argued that being able to examine
the truck was essential to our defense and I would’ve moved for a mistrial. But we
never got that far. In fact, I didn’t get the notice that the truck had been mistagged
until a month or so after we’d struck the deal. You know how it is, trying to deal
with those Georgia boys.”

Buck gave a noncommittal shrug.

“I told the kid we wouldn’t have a chance if we went to a jury, and that was the truth.
Still, it took me right up to the wire to convince him to the take the plea. The ungrateful
little punk kept going on about being framed, about the judge being out to get him,
the cops stealing his truck…”

“Framed?” Buck said. “By who?”

Don Jr. shrugged. “He never got that specific. You know how it goes. I suspect the
drugs
had
made him paranoid by then, among other things. Like I said, he was a cocky son of
a gun, the kind that will spend his life blaming everyone but himself for his problems.”

“So he took the deal, but he didn’t like it, even though the judge was going out of
his way to cut him some slack.”

“He didn’t see it that way. He said he was innocent.” Don Jr. finished his coffee.
“They all say they’re innocent.”

Buck asked, “Did he ever make any threats? Against you or anybody else involved with
the case?”

The attorney seemed surprised. “Defendants rarely threaten their attorneys, Sheriff.
It tends to weaken their chances in court.” He thought for a moment. “No, I don’t
recall him threatening anyone in particular. Just the usual—he was being framed and
somebody was going to pay, that kind of thing.” He hesitated. “There was one thing.
He asked to see me a couple of years after he was sent up. He said he had new evidence
and wanted to reopen the case, but he wouldn’t even tell me what it was unless I could
make sure to move the trial to another county. I explained to him it didn’t work that
way, and I never heard from him again.” He picked up his briefcase and stood. “I’ve
got to get to the courthouse, Sheriff. Anything else?”

Buck shook his head absently. “No. Thanks, Don.” Then he turned in his seat. “Say,
Don.”

The attorney looked back.

Buck said, “So you think if you’d gone to trial the jury would’ve brought back a murder
one verdict, right?”

“No doubt about it. Local crime, local witnesses, local man dead… no doubt about it.”

“Judge Stockton never was known to be soft on crime. Why do you suppose he pushed
the deal?”

Don Jr. frowned a little. “I wondered about that myself at the time. The only thing
I can figure is that he wanted the fellow off the streets and didn’t want to go to
trial.”

Buck murmured, “I wonder why.”

He shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know, will we? Have a good day, Sheriff.”

*    *    *

“Are you sure that’s the right dog?” Miles said. “They all look the same to me.”

I couldn’t help slanting him an exasperated look. “Of course they do.” But, in fact,
he did have a point. If it hadn’t been for the bright yellow flames embroidered on
her leash, I wouldn’t have recognized her either, and I’d still had to check the ID
tag on her collar to make certain. Not that it mattered. Whether it was an agility
star or a house pet, a lost dog was top priority.

We’d waited for some time, listening for the sound of a frantic owner calling her
dog, and then walked across the field, expecting Marcie to come running up at any
moment. As the minutes went by and more people came out into the parking lot or crossed
into the field to walk their dogs, I asked if anyone had seen Marcie, but no one had.
Worse, no one knew what room she was in.

“She must have given up and gone back to her room,” Miles said. “You should have the
front desk call her.”

If I’d lost Cisco in an open field next to a strange hotel far from home, I couldn’t
imagine just giving up and going back to my room. But it was getting late, and Cisco
was competing in the first event, and I didn’t know what else to do. “Yeah, okay,”
I said. “I guess so. They can at least leave a message for her if she’s still out
looking. Go on to breakfast. I’ll meet you there.”

“Do you want me to take Cisco to the room?”

Cisco was over the excitement of the new dog and was once again sniffing the grassy
field, pausing to look up with pricked ears and happy eyes every time a car door slammed
in the parking lot or another dog headed excitedly in our direction, pulling its owner
behind. Flame, with the energy-conserving good sense of most border collies, lay down
at my feet, waiting for what was going to happen next.

“No, I’ll do it.” I didn’t want to give Cisco his breakfast until after he’d completed
his first run, and Miles was notorious for sneaking him treats.

Miles nodded toward Flame. “What are you going to do with that one?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. I clucked my tongue to both dogs, pulling Cisco into heel
as we started back across the field toward the parking lot. “I guess I can take her
with me to the trial and leave her in the car until Marcie gets there. It shouldn’t
be very long before she gets the message. I’ll leave my cell phone number too.”

I glanced at my watch and noticed to my dismay that it was almost seven. “Uh-oh,”
I said. “I don’t think I have time for breakfast.” I turned a beseeching look on Miles.
“Would you do me a huge favor and grab a couple of pastries to go from the breakfast
bar? And more coffee.”

He gave me a look filled with forbearance. “I could be having eggs Benedict watching
the sun rise over the ocean right now. So glad I cancelled my meeting.”

“And bacon,” I added, struggling to keep both dogs under a reasonable semblance of
control. “For training treats.
Hey
!” I stopped dead and glared at the dogs, both of whom were straining and pulling
at their leashes, eyes fixed upon the thick copse of woods that separated the field
from the highway, having apparently caught the scent of a rabbit or a squirrel. “Cisco,
watch me!”