Perfect Justice (28 page)

“Who the hell else’s could it be? Unless your boy killed two people that night!”

“Move to strike,” Ben said. “Request that the jury be instructed to disregard.”

Judge Tyler promptly did so.

“Did Donald Vick say anything else to you that night?”

“Not a word. Totally clammed up.”

“So you’ve been claiming for weeks that Donald confessed, when in fact all he did was say that he didn’t like Vuong very much.”

“That’s not how I—”

“Thank you,” Ben said. “I have no more questions.” Ben suspected he had done all he could do with this witness who obviously sympathized with the prosecution. It was best to get him off the stand before he caused any more damage.

There was no redirect. For some reason, Swain was procrastinating about calling his next witness.

“Have you any other witnesses?” Judge Tyler finally asked.

“Yes,” Swain said. He rose, then turned to face the gallery. “The prosecution calls Daniel Dunagan to the stand.”

T
HERE HAD BEEN A
few gasps and twitters from the gallery before, but nothing compared to the stunned reaction that occurred now. Grand Dragon Dunagan was going to testify—
against
one of his own?

Ben had to amend his initial observation. Everyone in the gallery seemed surprised—except Grand Dragon Dunagan. He walked calmly to the front of the courtroom and took his seat in the witness stand. He closed his eyes as the bailiff read the oath, then answered in a booming voice, “So help me God.”

Swain made his way quickly through the preliminaries and established that Dunagan was the Grand Dragon of ASP.

“Now that’s kind of a funny title,” Swain said. “Why do they call you that?”

“It’s a million years old,” Swain said. He seemed embarrassed. “In the early days, all the Anglo-Saxon organizations used titles like that. Frankly I’ve been trying to get them to call me
President
Dunagan for years. But old habits die hard.”

Swain was nodding, as if he really bought into this. “You know, I think there may be some misunderstandings about what ASP is. Can you give the jury some background?”

“ASP is a legitimate, fully registered, lobbying organization designed to promote political change.”

“What changes do you advocate?”

“First let me tell you what we
don’t
advocate. We don’t advocate any laws that would hurt the non-Anglo-Saxon races. My motto is ‘live and let live.’ All we favor is separation, letting people work and play among their own. I know that may not be politically correct, but it’s the way this country worked for a good long time, and frankly most people think the world was better then than it is today.”

“How do you pursue your political goals?”

“By lobbying the government. And by establishing camps where people can get away and live among their own kind.”

“Do these camps stockpile weapons?”

“Yes. And we train our people how to use them, too. But only for defensive purposes. When you live out in the wild like that, with no easy access to law enforcement, you have to learn how to take care of yourself. But we absolutely do not engage in aggressive, violent, or terroristic acts!”

“Then ASP wouldn’t, for instance, firebomb a car?”

Ben couldn’t believe it. Swain was actually going along with this whitewash. He must’ve wanted Dunagan’s testimony in a big way.

“Absolutely not. We had no part in that.”

“And ASP wouldn’t set fire to someone’s home?”

“Of course not. I thought what happened out at Coi Than Tien the other night was tragic. Hell, I approve of Coi Than Tien—a community where the members of a single race live among their own. I think there should be more like them.”

“Was there anyone at ASP who felt differently about the use of violence?”

Dunagan took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “Well … I hate to talk about my own men. …”

“You’re under oath,” Swain reminded him.

“Right. Well … there was the defendant. Donald Vick.”

In the corner of his eye, Ben could see the jurors leaning forward, straining to pick up each word.

“Vick favored the use of violence?”

“Vick is a hothead. Always was. I’ve known him for years, and he’s always been the same.”

Ben stared at Dunagan in disbelief. What on earth was going on? Dunagan was selling his old buddy Lou Vick’s boy right down the river.

“What did Vick want to do?”

“Oh, there were so many nasty cockeyed ideas. … Let me think.” He paused for a moment. “Well, he was a big fan of planting burning crosses in Vietnamese front yards.”

The connection wasn’t lost on the jury. The murderer was fond of burning crosses, too.

“What else?”

“He was always picking fights. Like he did with this Vuong fella. For no reason at all. He was just a mean SOB, to tell the truth. He liked to toss a Molotov cocktail or two, also.”

“Like the one that exploded a car on Maple and burned three people?”

“Well …” Dunagan said slowly. “Since that happened … I’ve had to wonder. …”

Swain returned to counsel table and thumbed through his legal pad. Ben knew he didn’t need to check his notes. He was just taking his time, letting all this sink in before he moved on to the next topic.

“Mr. Dunagan, do you know where Donald Vick was on the night of the murder?”

“No.” He folded his hands calmly. “He left the camp early that afternoon. Told some of the boys he had something to do. Didn’t specify—acted real mysterious about it. Of course, now I realize he was going to pick that fight in the bar—”

“Objection!” Ben interrupted. “Lack of personal knowledge.”

“Right, right,” Judge Tyler said. “Sustained.”

Swain picked up right where he left off. “Mr. Dunagan, do you stock crossbows at your camp?”

“Oh, yes. As I said, we have to defend ourselves.”

“Have you seen the particular crossbow that has been identified as the murder weapon in this case?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Do you have an opinion as to where that crossbow came from?”

“I’m afraid I do.” He sighed, then looked directly at Vick. “It came out of our armory.”

“And who would have access to your armory?”

“It’s not a prison camp. Anyone could get in if they really wanted to.”

Swain leaned in for the clincher. “Including Donald Vick?”

Dunagan looked as if his answer filled him with regret. “Including Donald Vick.”

Ben saw the jurors settle back in their seats. He had the disturbing feeling they thought they had heard enough.

“Thank you, Mr. Dunagan.” Swain turned toward Ben and smiled. “Your witness, Mr. Kincaid. Good luck.”

B
EN CONSIDERED WAIVING CROSS-EXAMINATION
altogether. Dunagan apparently was determined to destroy Donald Vick, and if that was the case, the sooner he was off the stand, the better. But Ben had to try to keep the jurors from making up their minds before the defense called its first witness.

On the other hand, there was no point in pretending he was friendly with this man. So he didn’t.

“Are you trying to tell this jury that ASP is just a peace-loving, civic-minded bunch of regular guys? Kind of like the Peace Corps? Or the Boy Scouts?”

“Well,” Dunagan said, “I see no cause for sarcasm.”

“Grand Dragon Dunagan, isn’t the ASP motto ‘The only good gook is a dead gook’?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And of course, Ben couldn’t prove he was lying, since he hadn’t pocketed any of the man’s propaganda.

“Isn’t it true that you and your followers are expecting a big race war any day now?”

“Some people do believe that will happen, including people who are not members of ASP. I just hope it doesn’t come to pass.”

“Come on now. Isn’t it true you’re setting up all these armed camps so that when the big war hits, you can take over and turn the South into a gigantic whites-only country club?”

“Your honor,” Swain complained, “I don’t see the relevance of this. Mr. Dunagan is not on trial.”

“Agreed. Move on, counsel.”

“Your honor,” Ben said. “Mr. Swain opened the door to this line of questioning. It goes to the witness’s credibility.”

“I said move on, counsel!” Tyler’s bushy eyebrows moved together till they formed a straight line across his face.

Ben gritted his teeth and changed the subject. “Didn’t you tell me that your armory didn’t have any bolts that fit the crossbow that was stolen?”

“It seems I was mistaken. After I talked to you, I was informed that—”

“I don’t want to hear any hearsay,” Ben said, cutting him off. He didn’t know what Dunagan was about to say, but it didn’t sound helpful. “Is a crossbow difficult to fire?”

“Hell, no. All you do is point it and pull the trigger. A five-year-old could do it.”

“Do you train your men in the use of the crossbow?”

“Of course. Including Donald Vick.”

“Despite your haste to single out Donald, the fact is, all your men had access to the crossbow and knew how to use it, right?”

“That’s true.”

“Thank you. I have—”

“But of course, all the other men were in camp, where they were supposed to be, at the time of the murder. The only man missing was Donald Vick.”

Ben squeezed his eyes tightly closed. It would be pointless to object. The jury had already heard it.

He couldn’t think of any more questions to ask. And every second Dunagan remained on the stand, prospects looked a little dimmer for Donald Vick. “No more questions, your honor.”

Ben returned to his seat at defendant’s table. He just hoped that he had sewn enough seeds of uncertainty to keep the jury from making up their minds.

But he doubted it.

A
FTER LUNCH, THE COURTROOM
reassembled itself with relative calm. Or at any rate, this time no rocks came through the windows.

“Any further testimony from the prosecution?” Judge Tyler asked.

“One more witness,” Swain said. “But he’ll be brief. The State calls Richard Litz.”

Richard Litz was a nondescript man with brown curly hair and a bushy brown mustache. He was wearing glasses with tinted lenses. Ben didn’t have a clue who the man was. And judging from the expressions on the other faces in the courtroom, neither did anyone else.

Except Henry Swain. “Mr. Litz, would you please tell the jury what you do for a living?”

“I’m the order clerk for Domestic Soldier in Hot Springs.”

“And what is Domestic Soldier?”

“Domestic Soldier is a mail-order supplier of equipment for outdoorsmen. Tents, compasses, hiking boots. You name it, we carry it.”

“Would your inventory include weapons?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Crossbows?”

“Definitely. All shapes and sizes.”

“And bolts?”

“Wouldn’t be much point in selling the crossbows without the bolts, would there?” He chuckled at his own little joke.

“Have you ever supplied any equipment to the ASP camp just outside of Silver Springs?”

Ben was beginning to see where this testimony was leading. And he didn’t like it a bit.

“Yes, many times. They’re regular customers.”

“Do you carry the bolts for the”—he held up Exhibit A and read the label—“KL-44 Carvelle crossbow?”

“Yes. We’re one of the few in this country that do. It’s a fairly rare item.”

“Do you sell those bolts to the ASP camp?”

“Normally not. But we did get an order from them for that item just a few weeks ago. First and last time ever.”

“Now, this is important, sir, so please take your time before answering.” Of course, Swain wasn’t really telling the witness this next bit was important; he was telling the jury. “When did this order come in?”

“July twenty-first. They were delivered on the twenty-fourth.”

“Right. And the crossbow murder occurred on the twenty-fifth.” Swain nodded thoughtfully, then returned to counsel table. He was almost there when he suddenly stopped and pivoted around to face the witness. “One last question, Mr. Litz. Who placed the order for the crossbow bolts on the twenty-first?”

“A man named Donald Vick.”

The murmur in the courtroom crescendoed. Judge Tyler banged his gavel and demanded silence.

“That’s all,” Swain said. “Pass the witness.”

Ben strolled to the witness box, thinking all the way. “You take phone orders for a mail-order company, right?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So you didn’t actually see Mr. Vick when he ordered?”

“True …”

“He was just a voice on the telephone.”

“That’s true, but—”

“Then it could’ve been anyone,” Ben said. “Anyone could’ve claimed to be Donald Vick.”

“I guess that’s true,” Litz said. “But I know who picked the order up.”

“What? I thought you said you delivered them.”

“Right. I delivered them to the ASP man who came for them on the twenty-fourth. And that was the man sitting right there in the gray coveralls.” He pointed directly at Vick. “I saw him with my own eyes.”

Swain jumped to his feet. “Let the record reflect that the witness has indicated that the pickup man was Donald Vick.”

“It will so reflect,” Judge Tyler intoned. “Anything else, Mr. Kincaid?”

Damn. Ben hated to end his cross on such a negative note. But he wasn’t prepared for a follow-up question. The coffin was nailed tightly shut.

“No, your honor.”

“Redirect?”

“I see no need,” Swain said, displaying his understandable confidence to the jury. “And the prosecution rests.”

“Very well,” the judge said. “We’ll start up again tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock with the defense case. Court is dismissed.”

He banged his gavel, and instantaneously the silence was broken. The exodus from the gallery was swift. Only the jury remained seated. And their eyes, Ben noticed, all twenty-four of them, were focused on Donald Vick.

Ben leaned forward, blocking the jury’s view, and whispered into Vick’s ear. “Why in God’s name did you pick up those crossbow bolts?”

“That was my job. I made all the supply runs.”

“You did?” If he had known that, he could have brought it out during cross. Now it was too late. “Why you?”