Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery (4 page)

“A MINUTE OF
your time, Counselor.” Tom Glasgow, Fremont County prosecuting attorney, stood in the doorway on the other side of the high-ceilinged corridor. The courthouse was empty, the double doors to the court itself closed. From the bottom of the stairs, Vicky could hear the outside door opening and shutting and the quiet tread of footsteps on the vinyl floor.

She stepped back from the courtroom doors and considered the prosecutor's request. Another plea offer, no doubt, and she had already turned down one offer. Glasgow would offer her client, Arnie Walksfast, a plea of aggravated assault with the stipulation that Arnie would get two years in prison. She hadn't said anything, just walked out of the prosecutor's office. She had no intention of pleading Arnie guilty to a felony. Now she could see the mixture of eagerness and stress in the prosecutor's face. He was tapping his knuckles against the door frame. Maybe Glasgow didn't have the case he thought he had. Brimming with confidence the last time they had met, certain she would accept the plea bargain.
We have Walksfast cold. Up to you how much time he gets.

“Okay.”

She crossed the corridor. Glasgow had already backed into the conference room. Two men seated at the long, shiny table stumbled to their feet. “You remember my assistants, George Reiner and Martin Lewis.”

The men nodded in her direction as she took the chair Glasgow held for her. He dropped onto the chair at the top of the table and opened a file folder. “As you know, we have witnesses who were present when Mr. Walksfast assaulted Richard Tomlin in the parking lot at the O.K. Bar. They will testify to the brutal beating the defendant delivered to an innocent man.”

“We are also prepared to call eyewitnesses.” Vicky placed both hands on the table. The two assistants shifted in their chairs. “Our witnesses will testify that Tomlin insulted, taunted, and finally assaulted my client because he is Arapaho, then followed him into the parking lot and assaulted him again. They will testify that my client was defending himself.”

Vicky took hold of the armrests and started to lift herself out of the chair. Another waste of time. She was eager to get inside the court and have a few minutes alone with Arnie before the judge started the trial. Floating like a gnat in the air was the possibility of Arnie opening his mouth, saying something he shouldn't say, and sending himself down to Rawlins without any help from the prosecuting attorney. She meant to caution him again to remain calm and answer only the direct questions.

“Hold on,” Glasgow said. “We have an offer in the best interests of your client.” The heads of the two assistant prosecutors bobbed up and down.

“Since when do you care about the best interests of my client?”

“Look, Counselor. Your client pleads guilty . . .”

“It will not happen.” Vicky was halfway to her feet.

“Misdemeanor charge of reckless endangerment.” He rapped his fist against the table and hurried on. “One year in jail. Beats a felony conviction and ten years in Rawlins. You interested?”

“Why would you do that?” She wasn't sure Arnie would agree to plead guilty to anything. He insisted he was not guilty, that Rick Tomlin had thrown the first punch inside the bar, that he had the right to defend himself.

“Interested or not?”

“You haven't answered my question.” Vicky glanced between the other two men, and in the way their eyes slid away from hers, she could sense the answer. “Let me guess. You've lost a witness. An important one, I'd say. Who is it? The so-called victim?”

“It looks as if Rick Tomlin has left the area. My office has been trying to get ahold of him for two weeks. His boss out at the Broken Buffalo said he packed up his saddle and knapsack six weeks ago and drove off. Tomlin was so adamant about testifying against Walksfast, I was sure he'd be here today. No such luck.”

Vicky was on her feet, heading toward the door. “I'm moving for a dismissal as soon as the jury is seated.” She turned back. “Once jeopardy attaches, you won't be able to bring my client to trial on this charge again.”

“Dismissal? I doubt the judge will go along,” Glasgow said. “You forget we have other witnesses willing to swear your client assaulted a man, knocked him down, beat his head against the asphalt, and might have killed him if they hadn't jumped in. Your client is still looking at ten years.”

“It's a risk, Glasgow. Like trying a homicide case without a body. I have a stronger chance of getting the charges dismissed.”

“Arnie Walksfast faced an assault charge last year and skated away. Won't happen this time.”

“He had asked for a lawyer, but the police continued to question him. Not smart to ignore a man's rights.”

“Say you get a dismissal with jeopardy attached, which is unlikely, but maybe the judge enjoyed his coffee and cinnamon roll this morning and is in a real good mood. The chances are slim. Say it happens, your client will be back here before we've filed the case away. You interested?”

Vicky walked back and sat down. Arnie Walksfast was an alkie. He needed treatment. She had already gotten a substance abuse recommendation, hoping to persuade the judge to put Arnie into rehab if he was found guilty. “Reckless endangerment,” she said, “and time in rehab. No jail time and no fines.”

Glasgow tapped out a rhythm on the file folder and sent the folder skidding across the table. One of the assistants bent forward and coughed into his fist. The other kept his eyes fixed on the folder. After a moment, Glasgow tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “I can go for one year in jail, suspended except for thirty days in rehab and completion of other terms of probation, such as staying out of trouble.”

“Deal,” Vicky said.

*   *   *

DISTRICT JUDGE GREGORY
Hayword slumped behind the bench and peered through thick eyeglasses at the papers strung in front of him. He cleared his throat and readjusted the layout of the papers, as if he were unaware of anyone else in the courtroom. Vicky could hear the hush behind her, the handful of spectators holding their collective breath.

The judge cleared his throat again, looked up over the top of his glasses and called out the case number. “Arnold C. Walksfast,” he said.

Vicky stood and told the judge she was representing the defendant.

Glasgow was also on his feet. “We have agreed to a disposition subject to the court's approval,” he said. Then he laid out a guilty plea to reckless endangerment with any jail time suspended on condition that Arnie complete terms of probation and thirty days in rehab.

”Is this your understanding?” The judge was peering at Vicky.

She nodded Arnie to his feet. It had taken a while to persuade him to agree to a guilty plea. Part of the reason, she suspected, was his aversion to entering rehab. If he didn't take the plea, she had emphasized, he could face ten years in the state prison. He had been up on assault charges before, she had reminded him. Assault and public drunkenness and disorderliness, and had gotten off on a technicality. Did he really want to try the judge's patience with another assault charge less than a year later? And there was Glasgow, willing to cut what was a very good deal. Charges reduced from a felony to a misdemeanor. She had half expected him to postpone the trial until Tomlin could be found. It was obvious Glasgow believed that Tomlin had left the area for good.

“What is the factual basis for this change in plea?” Now the judge had turned to Glasgow.

“We were unable to locate the main witness. It seems he has left.”

“Left Fremont County?”

“That is correct, your honor. When we were unable to locate Mr. Tomlin, we spoke to Dennis Carey, his former employer at the Broken Buffalo Ranch. I'm sure you are aware that Mr. Carey was shot and killed last night on Blue Sky Highway. He told us Mr. Tomlin had driven off without leaving any forwarding address. He left about two weeks after the assault occurred. It's possible he was reluctant to testify against Mr. Walksfast because of the defendant's violent tendencies.”

“Your honor.” Vicky could feel her fists clenching.

The judge held up one hand, eyes still on Glasgow. “Let's not jump to conclusions. The fact is the man Mr. Walksfast is charged with assaulting is not here to testify. He could be in Montana, or Utah, or Colorado by now. Six weeks ago, you said? He could be in the Yukon. I'll go along with the plea.”

Now the judge fastened his gaze on her client. “Well? I'm waiting. How do you plea?”

“Guilty.” Vicky could sense the reluctance in the man beside her.

“Substance abuse recommendations, counselor?”

“Yes, your honor. Level three-point-five is recommended for my client. A residential program. As for a bed date, my client could check into the clinic in Riverton today.”

The judge was staring down at the papers scattered before him. “Mr. Walksfast,” he said, looking up slowly, “I am going to sentence you to one year in the Fremont County Jail. On the recommendation of the prosecutor, I am going to allow you to serve your sentence on probation. But I am imposing a condition. You must successfully complete thirty days in alcohol and drug rehabilitation at the White Buffalo Calf clinic in Riverton. If you mess up, your probation will be revoked and you will serve the rest of your sentence in jail. This is an opportunity for you to straighten out your life. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” The word sounded garbled, as if Arnie had suppressed a cough. “Your honor,” he added.

“A deputy will take you directly to the clinic.” The judge banged his gavel, then peered over his eyeglasses at the clerk. “Call the next case,” he said.

“I'm out of here,” Arnie said, starting to move past her.

“Hold on.” Vicky set a hand on the man's arm. She felt a sense of relief. Arnie was the kind of drunk who could sober up for months, then lose himself in days of raging drunkenness. His luck—their luck, she thought—had held again.

“It's all over. I'm in the clear. I told you I didn't do nothing wrong.”

Vicky nodded to the deputy who had walked over and stood waiting. “I need a few minutes with my client,” she said. “We have to check in at the probation office.” Then she motioned Arnie ahead, past the prosecuting attorney, who pulled his eyes away, as if he were looking away from an accident. The handful of spectators, Arnie's relatives, made their way into the aisle. Someone had opened the double doors to the corridor. She stayed close behind Arnie, willing him to keep moving toward the doors.

An elderly woman with short, gray hair and a pinched, smiling face reached for Arnie's arm as he passed and pulled herself in alongside him. Smiling! Betty Walksfast had heard what she had wanted to hear, Vicky thought. She had missed the rest of it: If Arnie messed up, he was going to jail.

A young woman, all white and blond with startled blue eyes, held back a moment, then darted after them, her nervousness as palpable as a ticking clock. Lucy Murphy, Arnie's current girlfriend. In the two years Vicky had represented Arnie Walksfast, he'd always had a girlfriend. Indian, Hispanic, white. Vicky moved to the side to make room in the aisle. She was aware of the scuff of footsteps falling in behind them.

They reached the corridor, and Vicky steered Arnie past the door marked Probation. Fifteen minutes later, Arnie had been assigned a probation officer. She led him back into the corridor through the relatives milling about. They kept going past a heavy glass door. Across the entry, down the sidewalk, and out into the parking lot, the deputy walking beside them. The young woman was on the other side, close to Arnie, his mother and the other relatives, all drawing the same conclusion. Arnie had done it again! Never should have been charged. Someone always out to get him; always blaming him.

Vicky stepped ahead and motioned Arnie toward her, away from the crowd. The deputy stayed a few feet back and held out his arm like a roadblock to keep the others away. “Give them a moment,” he shouted.

“I have to know, Arnie,” she said, keeping her voice low, her eyes on the brown, skittering eyes of her client. “Did you have anything to do with Tomlin's disappearance?”

“What? You're supposed to be my lawyer. You're supposed to trust me.”

“If he isn't in court, he can't testify against you.”

“How do I know where he went? I seen him one time at the O.K. Bar. Drinking a beer, minding my own business, and that sonofabitch started calling me names, pushing me around. ‘Go back to the rez, redskin,'” Arnie was tossing his head about like a pony fighting a halter. “I don't have to take that crap.”

“Look at me.” Vicky moved in closer. The tobacco and coffee-infused stench of the man's breath floated around her. “If you are lying to me, I will withdraw from your case. Do you understand?”

Arnie stared at her for a long moment, eyes narrowed, mouth hanging open, as if he were trying to grasp the implications. A front tooth was broken, sliced off at an angle, which made him look younger, a kid settling into his grown-up face. “I'm telling the truth.”

Betty dodged past the deputy, walked over, and grabbed her son's arm. “The judge cut you some slack,” she said. “Only thing that prosecutor wanted was to put you in prison.”

“We had our own witnesses. No way was I going to be found guilty.”

“We have two witnesses.” Vicky glanced at Lucy Murphy, inching her way like a shadow next to Arnie. “The prosecutor wouldn't have had any trouble proving one of them, your buddy Ernest Whitebull, was too drunk to be credible. You have to go to rehab immediately.” This for Betty, whose face was now frozen in comprehension.

Arnie shuffled from one foot to the other. “I need time to get my things together. Why do I have to go right away? Tell the deputy he can pick me up later.”

“Now, Arnie. The deputy doesn't take orders from me. I'd like to report to your probation officer how seriously you are taking this, how eager you are to recover, how sorry you are for the fight at the O.K. Bar.”