Perfect Justice (9 page)

Another elder, Vanh Truong, intervened. “I am told that your grandmother will recover.”

“Her shoulder blade is shattered!” Pham spat out. “This is intolerable!”

“It seems to me,” Dang said, “that we have a choice.”

“We must choose to fight!” Pham yelled, interrupting Dang. A spattering of cheers punctuated his cry, mostly from the younger men in the barn.

“That is not among the choices,” Dang said, maintaining a calm, even voice. “The choice is whether we remain and endure, or whether we move on.”

“Whether we
run
! That’s what you mean. Whether we run like cowards as we did before. Well, I for one will not run!” More cheers and applause followed, even stronger than before. His support was growing.

“If we remain here,” Truong said, “we risk continued harassment.” He looked directly at Pham. “If we fight, we risk extermination.”

“And where will you go when there is nowhere left to run?” Pham demanded. “When the forces of hate have hounded us to the ends of the earth. What then?”

Dang waved his hands. “The decision to leave has not yet been made. This is simply an open discussion. We must consider our options.”

“I will not accept an option without
honor
!”

A smart boy, Nguyen thought. Pham was reaching out now, sounding a chord that would appeal to the older members of the community as well as the young. This was the turning point. If Nguyen was going to speak, he could delay no longer.

“Excuse me, Elder Dang.” Colonel Nguyen quietly interjected himself into the debate. “It is possible that honor can be found in all options.”

Pham looked at him with dismay and disappointment. “Colonel Nguyen! Surely a warrior such as yourself does not say we should run.”

Nguyen diverted his eyes. “A brave man knows when to show his back to the enemy.”

“And what does that mean?”

He hesitated. “It means there is no honor in fighting if it costs us our souls. Or our families.”

“I cannot accept this. I cannot believe the great Colonel Nguyen would say these words.”

“What would you have us do, Pham? Would you have us kill someone? Exact your vengeance? We do not know who shot your grandmother.”

“Of course we do. It was those murderers from ASP. The pious assassins who go to church under our noses on Sunday morning, then set fire to our homes on Sunday night.”

Nguyen felt the heat radiating from all sections of the barn. “We do not know that for certain. It is conceivable that … there could be other motivations for last night’s attack.”

“Such as what?” Pham demanded.

Nguyen paused. It would be so easy, so much simpler if he could just tell them what he knew, what he had seen.

He glanced back at Lan, who was sitting with Mary and Holly. No. They would all be placed in danger. And Coi Than Tien couldn’t protect them. Coi Than Tien couldn’t protect anyone.

“I do not know,” Nguyen answered. “But there are many motives for violence. Hatred is only one of them.”

“Colonel Nguyen,” Pham said. “I mean you no disrespect. But you are wrong. You speak the words of a coward.”

“Pham!” Dang said harshly. “Think what you are saying! Colonel Nguyen is one of our most honored citizens. He is your elder.”

“Yes,” Pham growled. “And his elder wisdom got Tommy Vuong killed!”

There was an audible gasp, followed by a suspended silence. The unspeakable had been spoken.

“Pham,” Dang said, “you bring shame on us all. You do not know what you say.”

“I know what I know!” Pham fired back. “I know Colonel Nguyen was the last to see Tommy alive. I know he counseled Tommy to suppress his anger, to turn the other cheek. And look what happened.”

All heads turned toward Colonel Nguyen, obviously awaiting a reply. But none was forthcoming. The Colonel retook his seat. He did not like what Pham had said, but he would not dispute it. How could he? He
had
advised Tommy not to seek retribution against the man who attacked him in the bar. He had left Tommy just when he needed him most. If anyone could have saved Tommy, it was him. And he failed.

“Dinh Pham, you have disgraced this assembly,” Dang pronounced. “We must ask you to leave—”

“Fine. I’ll leave. But I won’t leave alone.” Again Pham turned to face the crowd. “Who is with me?”

The response was slow at first, just a few young men who were known to be Pham’s close friends. But then Thung Hieu, a man in his midfifties with three children, joined him. Then Elder Tran, whom the Colonel had known all his life. They were joined by women, mothers, even children. The sentiment spread like a dandelion in the wind. Pham’s isolated few became a majority, a defiant congregation that would not be driven from their homes again.

Pham marched proudly out the barn door. Over half of those in attendance followed.

Dang tapped his gavel faintly on his table. The sadness in his eyes was unmistakable. “Under these circumstances,” he said, “I see no reason to continue this meeting.”

Nguyen knew the significance of these events as well as Dang. All chance of solidarity, as well as all chance of negotiating a peaceful solution, were lost. Pham was the real leader of Coi Than Tien now. And he would lead his followers into direct confrontation with ASP. A confrontation that could only lead to death, mostly on the side of Coi Than Tien. All the valor in the world could not mitigate the effectiveness of well-organized hate.

Nguyen followed Dang and the remaining few out of the barn. He knew now that violence was inevitable. And at least in part, it was his fault.

“W
HAT THE HELL HAPPENED
to you?” Ben staggered into the Hatewatch office, clutching his side. Belinda jumped up from her desk when she saw him and helped him to a chair.

“I’ve had a tough night,” Ben mumbled.

“No kidding.” Belinda took his head in her hands. His face was bruised and his left eye was swollen shut. A long red laceration highlighted his eyebrow. “Where’d you spend the night, a trash compactor?”

“Close. City jail.”

“Jail?
You?
What was the charge?”

“Drunk and disorderly.” Ben grimaced; talking only exacerbated the aching in his side. “I’m … sorry, Belinda … I know you didn’t want me back here …”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re hurt.”

“But what if Frank and—”

“Frank and John will be out all morning.”

“It’s just—” Another sharp shot of pain blazed through his rib cage. “Didn’t … think I could make it back to the campsite, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“I said, don’t worry about it. Who did this to you?”

“The Right Honorable Deputy Gustafson.”

“Oh, God. Why was he after you?”

Ben rubbed the soreness in his side. “Wanted me to admit I was in on an ASP firebombing.”

“Why the hell didn’t you? It’s not as if you were under oath.”

Ben shrugged. “Principle of the thing.”

Belinda shook her head. If Ben wasn’t mistaken, just the tiniest trace of admiration crept back into her eyes. “Principles can get you beaten up badly with a redneck like Gustafson.”

“You know him?”

“He’s come around here a few times, trying to get us to do some stupid thing or another. Did he tell you about his sister?”

“I believe he mentioned her, yes. Although he let his club do most of the talking.”

“How long did he beat you?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I kind of faded out there toward the end. When he was done, he just left me lying on the stone floor. I couldn’t move a muscle. About an hour later he dragged me into Cell Block B. With three members of ASP.”

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Did they hurt you?”

“No, worse.” Ben touched the cut on his face gingerly. “They were nice to me.”

A faint smile played on Belinda’s lips. “You poor kid. Let me get a first-aid kit.” She ran to a room in the back of the office, then returned with the kit and a washcloth. She applied a medicated Q-tip to the cut over Ben’s eye.

“Ow!” he said. “That stings.”

“Don’t complain. It’s good for you.”

“Haven’t I been tortured enough?”

Belinda ignored him and continued dressing his wounds. She was being extremely kind, Ben thought. Was it possible his first impression hadn’t been altogether wrong? Was it possible that there might still be some attraction—?

“How was your bed?” Belinda asked.

“No beds. No cots, no metal bunks. We slept on the floor. Which became particularly unpleasant after my drunken roommates began vomiting all over the place.”

She lifted his shirt and examined the ugly blue-black bruise on the side of his rib cage. “My God, that’s terrible. Did he break a rib?”

“I don’t think so. He seemed to be pretty good at inflicting pain but stopping short of any permanent damage.”

“Permanent damage leads to lawsuits. A few bruises can be written off to an alleged escape attempt. You are going to sue, aren’t you?”

“No way.”

“Ben, he violated your civil rights!”

“What else is new?”

“If it’s a question of money, Hatewatch could subsidize the expenses—”

“No. I’ve got enough problems without any new lawsuits.”

She removed a gauze bandage from the kit and wrapped it around his chest. “Vick case not going well?”

Ben watched as she expertly tended to his wounds and abrasions. She obviously had some medical training. Which was not surprising. Given her choice of vocation, she probably came face-to-face with violence on a regular basis. “The Vick case isn’t going at all. No one will talk to me. No one will help me. My own legal assistant won’t help. I can’t even get a room for the night.”

Belinda finished wrapping his chest and pulled down his shirt. “Can’t say I feel sorry for you. Your client is pond scum, Ben.”

Ben tucked in his shirt. “C’mon, Belinda, you’re a lawyer. You know the process doesn’t work unless both sides are represented.”

“True. But that doesn’t mean you have to represent every dirtbag on earth.”

“No one competent would represent this dirtbag. It was either me or a probate attorney who doesn’t know abstracts from arraignments.”

“Still—”

“If we’re not going to give the man a fair trial, we might as well not give him a trial at all. Is that what you want? Conviction without a fair trial?”

“In the case of Donald Vick, I won’t shed any tears.”

“Then you need to ask yourself if the ASP members are the only fascists around here.”

Belinda frowned. She packed up her first-aid kit, then placed it on her desk.

Ben reached out and took her wrist. “Belinda, I’m desperate.”

She tried to shrug him away.

Ben turned her head with his finger and made her look at him. “I need your help. I can’t do this alone.”

Her movements slowed; her face showed her confusion. Ben noticed, however, that she did not remove his hand. “I’m not going to help you get a murderer off the hook.”

“I’m not asking you to. I just want you to help me investigate. You were planning to investigate the case anyway; you told me so. We might as well do it together.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise. We’re not on the same side.”

“We both want the same thing. The truth.” He looked at her pointedly. “Isn’t that right?”

Belinda thought for a long time before answering. “I suppose if I accompanied you, people might be more willing to talk.”

Ben quietly released his breath. “That’s the spirit.”

“But I warn you, if we uncover any evidence that incriminates your client, I’m going straight to the DA with it.”

“Understood.” He leaned back in the chair, careful not to strain any sensitive muscles.

Belinda rubbed her hands together. “Let me take care of a few emergencies, then we can get started. If you’re up to it.”

“I will be. Just give me a minute to pull myself together.”

“Fine. Anything else I can do for you?”

Ben tried to open his swollen eye. “Well … you could uncancel our dinner date. …”

B
ELINDA AGREED TO DRIVE
Ben back to the campsite so he could change clothes and collect some supplies. During the drive over, Ben saw Christina from the road; she was in the middle of the lake fishing. She must’ve left Mary Sue’s early to launch another assault on the local fish stock.

She had seen him, too, not that it made any difference. She glanced up briefly, then returned her attention to the fish.

Ben crawled into his tent, changed clothes, and retrieved enough supplies to get him through the day. On his way out, a sudden burst of wind whipped across the campsite. The gust was so strong it made Ben lean to one side.

“Is a tornado approaching?” he asked Belinda.

“I don’t think so.”

The wind intensified, blowing dirt and debris into their faces. Ben heard a steady, rhythmic chopping noise. It seemed to be coming from the sky.

“Up there!” Belinda shouted, pointing just over their heads. “It’s a helicopter!”

“More than that,” Ben added. “It’s a police helicopter.”

“Why is it flying so low?”

Ben squinted into the sun. “I think it’s coming in for a landing.”

“Why would a police helicopter be landing here?”

“Guess I should’ve paid those parking tickets.”

They watched as the helicopter descended into a large clearing near the lake. The aircraft touched down and the whirring blades slowed. The insistent chopping noise gradually faded. Just as the copter was almost still, Ben heard a loud internal crash, followed by the sound of metal grinding against metal. Finally the helicopter coughed and sputtered to silence.

“I think that chopper is due for an overhaul,” Belinda commented. “Any idea who the pilot is?”

“Well,” Ben said as he ran toward it, “I only know one guy who’s certified to fly these buggies. …”

The tall, dark-haired man who clambered out of the cockpit was wearing an unseasonably heavy overcoat and flight goggles. A cross between Sam Spade and Junior Birdman. Undeniably, it was Homicide Detective Mike Morelli. Ben’s friend. And ex-brother-in-law. To the extent the two descriptions weren’t mutually exclusive.

“Damn, damn, damn.”

“Mike! What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”