Point of Impact (61 page)

Again, the impulse flew at him to call Howard.

It probably wasn’t too late.

He tried to imagine life after selling out: how nice it would be.

But then he remembered the time Tommy Montoya was forcing the gun barrel of his Colt Agent toward his head and he was a second from his own death, when Bob’s shot had come from nowhere and saved him.

Howard never saved shit. Howard only took.

Hugh Meachum only took.

Okay, Bob the Nailer, thought Nick. In for a penny, in for a pound, going to heaven, going to hell, I’m along for the ride, my friend. Here’s hoping you’ve got it today.

“All rise, all rise, the Fifth United States Circuit Court is now in session, the Honorable Roland O. Hughes presiding.”

Nick and Sally stood up, with two hundred others, including dozens of reporters, about half the New Orleans FBI office and Howard and his prosecuting angel, Kelso, at the prosecution table, which happened by absurd coincidence to be near Nick and Sally’s seats in the front row of the courtroom. Hugh Meachum sat behind the prosecutor’s table, in a three-piece gray herringbone suit. He had a little red bow tie on and Nick decided he looked three hundred years old.

Sam Vincent also stood. He was a slouchy grandpop with a face like a bowl of walnut shells, and not
much hair on his head. He wore a string tie and a pair of bottle-bottom glasses; his fingers were long and gnarly and dirty from the pipe he was continually stuffing when he wasn’t in court, and the thick lenses inflated his pale blue eyes when they fixed on you, so they were as large as shark’s eyes. He was nearly eighty and had won the Silver Star in the Battle of the Bulge in World War II.

“You may be seated,” said Judge Hughes, a stern black man in his fifties. “Now ladies and gentlemen, first I want to warn you that although today’s case has national implications, it is first and foremost a case of law and it will be treated as such. I warn spectators, particularly those of you with the press, to conduct yourself with the proper decorum or I will clear this courtroom in one minute’s time, is that understood?”

His booming voice was met with silence.

“Now, today we are having, at the defense’s request, a preliminary hearing in the matter of the
Government
v.
Bob Lee Swagger
; in which Mr. Swagger is accused of murdering a Salvadoran citizen, the Archbishop Jorge Roberto Lopez, on federal property, namely the presidential podium erected in Louis Armstrong Park March first of this year. For you spectators let me explain: this isn’t a formal trial, it’s a hearing to make certain the government has, in my judgment, enough evidence to warrant the formal trial. So there’s no jury. The two attorneys will be arguing for my benefit. Furthermore, the defense is not entitled to bring evidence, but only to attack the evidence the government presents. Now, gentlemen, I want these arguments to be swift and clean. I don’t want procedural detail cluttering up the proceedings. You may save the logrolling for the trial, assuming there is to be a trial, and before you object, Mr. Vincent, please note I only said
if
there is to be a
trial. I’m not prejudiced. Now you may bring in the accused, bailiff.”

And so Bob was led into the courtroom.

In a bright blue prison jumpsuit, with his hands manacled before him, and secured by a chain around his waist that was connected in turn to leg irons, he shuffled in, hair clipped short and face raw and white. He was calm, however, as calm as the last moment Nick had seen him, sitting next to Julie on the floor of Hard Bargain Valley, his face sealed off behind the war paint as Howard’s SWAT team surrounded him.

God, he looked so, so
fallen
.

“Your Honor”—it was Sam Vincent—“is it strictly necessary to humiliate my client, who has yet to be convicted of a single crime and who was a decorated Marine hero of this country, by festooning him in chains like a common thief?”

“Your Honor,” answered Kelso, just as fast, “Mr. Swagger has a known propensity for both extreme violence and escape. These precautions are merely prudent.”

“Ah,” said the judge, “Mr. Swagger, are you duly uncomfortable or humiliated?”

“Sir, it doesn’t matter to me,” said Bob.

“All right, we’ll undo the manacles, but the leg irons stay. Is that an adequate compromise, gentlemen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is, Your Honor.”

“Bailiff, would you make the adjustments. Now, Mr. Kelso, your opening statement please.”

“Ah, thank you, Your Honor.”

Manfully, Kelso strode to the center of the courtroom.

“Your Honor, the government will demonstrate very simply that adequate proof exists to conclude that at approximately twelve-nineteen
P.M
., on March first of this year, Bob Lee Swagger did in fact fire a shot from
an attic at Four-fifteen St. Ann Street in the French Quarter of this city, that, though aimed at the president of the United States, did strike and kill Archbishop Jorge Roberto Lopez, of Salvador, El Salvador. Mr. Swagger had the classic three-part
modus operandi
to accomplish such an act, that is, motive, opportunity and means, as we shall demonstrate. And that, Your Honor, should be that.”

“All right, Mr. Kelso. Thank you. Mr. Vincent.”

Nick’s heart sank a little when the old man stood on rocky legs, and essayed a little sally past the defense table where he sat alone with Bob. It was a contrast to the team of bodies that surrounded Kelso and Howard at the prosecution table.

“Well, sir,” he said, looking fully his eighty years, his rheumy blue eyes staring at nothing in particular, his suit a collection of bags that hadn’t seen a dry cleaner but had seen more than a few pipe cleanings, his clunky black shoes unshined, “I s’pose you could say we’ll show the other side and that this decorated war hero could not—”

“Objection, Your Honor, Mr. Swagger’s war record isn’t in question here and is irrelevant to the proceedings.”

“He’s got a point, Mr. Vincent.”

“Well, hell, sir, if they say he’s a shooter then damned if they oughtn’t to point out it was the U.S. Marines that taught him to shoot and who gave the boy a chestful of medals for it.”

There was an eruption of laughter at Old Sam’s zinger.

“Well stated, Mr. Vincent. But since there’s no jury here today and since I am in fact well acquainted with your client’s military record, perhaps we could forgo, in the interests of moving into the meat of the matter, any further references to Mr. Swagger’s wartime heroism,
and perhaps that would encourage the prosecution to forgo any time-consuming pattern of objections.”

“Well, I reckon that’s a tolerable deal,” said Vincent.

“Excellent. Mr. Kelso, it’s time for you to open your case.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

Kelso began by introducing into evidence a letter dated December 15, 1991, addressed to the president of the United States, in which Bob Lee Swagger argued in a strident, faintly irrational tone that he deserved the Congressional Medal of Honor for his exploits in Vietnam.

The letter was projected on a portable screen that Kelso’s minions quickly assembled.

“Your Honor, this document was what initially put Bob Lee Swagger on the Secret Service list of potentially threatening suspects and earned him an investigation, albeit a tragically inefficient one, by the FBI.”

Nick winced.

Object, he protested silently. Make the point that Bob was on the C-list, felt to be the least dangerous and that even the Secret Service guys had said he could be skipped.

But Sam Vincent and his client sat mute at their table.

“Your Honor, I have here the depositions of four handwriting experts in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the New Orleans Police Department, the New York City Police Department and one widely respected consultant, stating that they’ve identified—well, it varies, Your Honor—but between fifteen and thirty-one similarities in handwriting between this document and authenticated samples of Bob Lee Swagger’s penmanship.”

“Mr. Vincent.”

At last Vincent spoke.

“Your Honor, I know I can’t enter evidence, but if I could, I’d enter three depositions from handwriting experts in Los Angeles, London, England, and Chicago, Illinois, stating that the document is a forg—”

“Objection, objection, surely Your Honor can see that the defense is trying to enter evidence which is—”

“Objection sustained. Mr. Vincent, you do know the rules.”

“Sir, I do and I apologize. But, the truth is in handwriting analysis there’s just no way to know positively. You can have more experts than a mama possum has teats”—laughter from the spectators in the darkness—“and you won’t get any two of ’em to agree. And let me point out one last thing; Mr. Swagger unfortunately didn’t have the benefits of a fancy education like some among us. He’s a product of public schools in rural Arkansas in the 1950s, with no college experience. Thus his handwriting, as you all can see, remained somewhat in the primitive stage; it looks to sophisticated people as if it were written by a child. Now the one thing most handwriting experts agree on is that such a script—it’s called, oh, I think, ‘infantile cursive’ ”—he said this as if he were just making it up—“is indeed the easiest for any kind of accomplished forger to imitate.”

“All right, Mr. Vincent,” said the judge, “I’ll allow that, and keep it in mind, but please remember you are only permitted to attack the government’s evidence, not introduce your own.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How can they win if they can’t introduce evidence?” Sally whispered into his ear.

“He’s got to show that their evidence doesn’t add up to what they say it does,” Nick said.

Meanwhile, Kelso struck back quickly.

“Your Honor, I’m not here to indulge in comedy or groundless conspiracy speculation, even when they
amount to the same thing. I’m here to argue a point of law. And although this isn’t the forum where absolute truth is to be decided, I think Your Honor will concede that I’ve made exactly what the law demands of me at this point in the proceedings: that is, I’ve established a reasonable argument for motive. It was enough for the Secret Service and the FBI to begin to monitor Mr. Swagger and it should be enough for the court.”

“Young man, it’s not necessary for you to tell me my job,” said Judge Hughes. “But let’s just say your observation isn’t without merit, even if it was delivered to this court in a fashion dangerously close to contempt.”

“I apologize, Your Honor.”

“Then you may proceed with the second part of your argument.”

“As Your Honor pleases,” said Kelso. He retreated briefly to his table.

“We’re not doing too well, are we?” whispered Sally.

“No, I’m afraid we’re not. I thought this old man would have something
more
than tit for tat stuff.”

“Nick, I’m scared.”

“Just hang on. My part is coming up next and—”

But Kelso had returned to the center of the floor.

“Your Honor,” he said, “I’d like to enter into evidence the sworn statement of a New Orleans police detective named Leon Timmons. Detective Timmons is not here because, tragically, he was slain in the line of duty last April. But it was Detective Timmons who heroically interceded as Bob Lee Swagger was—”

“Your Honor, I object,” said the old man, stirring himself to Biblical wrath. “This here evidence is hearsay, beyond the reach of cross-examination. Moreover this ‘heroic’ detective has been named in several internal affairs reports of the New Orleans Police Department of having suspected ties with organized crime in the greater—”

“Your Honor, Leon Timmons won three commendations for valor under fire in his eighteen years with—”

“And he drove one of them damned German convertible sports cars that cost more than sixty thousand dollars on a salary of twenty-two thousand five hundred per year—”

“Your Honor—”

“All right, all right, gentlemen, quit your squabbling,” Judge Hughes said with a groan. He paused.

“Mr. Kelso, don’t you have a
live
witness?”

“Shit,” said Nick to Sally.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s end this here. You put your sworn testimony into evidence and I’ll read it at my leisure and if the issue is still in doubt, rule then on its admissibility.”

“That’s fine, Your Honor. I feel my next witness will clear up any doubts
anybody
will have about the viability of the government’s case.”

Suddenly a bailiff was standing next to Nick.

“Mr. Memphis. From Mr. Utey.”

It was a note.

Nick unfolded it.

It said,
Last chance. As you can see, Bob is lost. You can still turn this to your benefit and the Bureau’s advantage. Don’t throw your life and that poor girl’s away for nothing that can be helped anyway
.

“What is it, Nick?” Sally whispered.

So here it was.

The whole thing come to this.

His life could be so fine.

Bob was gone anyhow; that was clear. Old Sam Vincent was a cracker-barrel windbag. The evidence was overwhelming. RamDyne had won. He looked behind the prosecution table and saw Hugh Meachum sitting there, his face serene, his blue eyes opaque.

“The prosecution calls Mr. Nicholas Memphis.”

Nick leaned to Sally.

“It’s a note from a ghost,” he said, crumpling it, and walked to the witness’s box without looking at Howard.

Nick took the oath without a lot of emotional investment and tried to find a comfortable position in the hardwood chair. He could see Bob, ramrod stiff, all Marine, staring not at him but into space; and sitting beside him, his slouch carrying with it a suggestion of collapsed feed bags heaped in the barn corner, old Sam Vincent, his jowls slightly rising and falling as he breathed heavily, his eyes enormous behind the thick glasses.

“Your current employment, Mr. Memphis?” asked Kelso.

“I’m currently unemployed. As of yesterday.”

“And until yesterday?”

Nick summed himself up quickly: twelve years, Federal Bureau of Investigation, special agent.

“And can you tell us your duties on the date of March first, of last year?”