Point of Law (31 page)

“I can’t wait to see the look on the bastard’s face when the judge reads the charges and sets bail.”

“Let’s hope he can’t make it,” I say. For a lawyer, Kim certainly doesn’t have a lawyer’s usual cynicism. I guess she hasn’t had much exposure to the criminal process. Maybe she doesn’t realize yet that the rich and famous get special treatment. Unlike the masses, for instance, they don’t have to spend time in jail while waiting for their trial to start.

“Ha! I talked to the Forest Service supervisor and I told them where the Anasazi ruin is and that it’s everything Cal had claimed and more—they’ve put the exchange of deeds on hold. Then I called friends at a couple of banks, too. With the swap a nonevent, they’re going to seize the assets he put up for the loans. Every dollar David Fast’s ever made is going down the drain. He won’t be able to make a ten-dollar bail.”

Instead of sharing her elation, I think about all the sad, angry years Kim’s spent here in Tomichi, waiting for the chance to start her vendetta. To get her revenge. All the years living in the same town with the man who humiliated her and caused the loss of her eye. All the years of waiting for something like this. I hope it’s been worth it. Fast is unlikely to serve more than a few years in prison. The average homicide defendant receives only about six years—eligible for parole in two. And Fast, because of no prior convictions, and because the wealthy and famous, even when their money is gone, get special consideration, will likely do even less. And that’s if he’s convicted at all. Look at O.J. Simpson and all the other rich and famous defendants. Justice isn’t the same for them.

“Remember what you said to me about the law, in the hot spring after the fight? You said it’s a joke. Well, have a little faith, Anton. It may not be perfect, but it’s going to work.”

I nod without enthusiasm.

“You’ll come with me, won’t you? To the arraignment?”

“Of course,” I tell her, masking my reluctance. What I really want to do is sleep with my arms around her the way we had in the canyon by the lake, but without the cold and the fear. I wish that coffee-colored eye would shine for me instead of with the sparkle of her vendetta’s culmination.

Kim’s friend the veterinarian is more than happy to see us when we come to pick up Oso at noon. Even from outside the building, in the parking lot, I’d been able to hear him bellowing. The outraged roars grow louder as she leads us through the lobby, where her other clients grasp their terrified pets close to their chests, and then into a kennel. Oso stands in a large cage near the gate. He’s swaying on his feet from the sedatives they’ve given him in pieces of meat shoved through the fence. A nylon muzzle strains to contain his jaws as he thunders. His left hind leg is heavily bandaged and he holds it in the air, close to his stomach.

Because of the drugs, he doesn’t recognize me at first. I put my fingers through the chain link and then jerk them back when he attempts to snap at them. The sound is like a bear trap slamming shut. “Easy, boy, it’s me. C’mon, Oso, it’s me.”

Finally quiet, he tilts his massive head to one side, staring at me through glassy yellow eyes. Then he snuffs at my fingers. His tongue is dry and rough when it emerges from the muzzle to lick them. And the stumpy tail begins to swing.

“Get this thing out of here before he ruins my business,” the vet tells us. She’s already explained that she removed thirteen shotgun pellets and miscellaneous metal fragments from his hip and leg. Several of them had been buried deep in the bone. He’ll recover, but it will take a few weeks of rest. And he’s likely to be a little cranky during that time, she says with a nervous laugh.

Kim pays the bill with my credit card while I sit on the cage’s concrete floor and rub Oso’s chest. Not surprisingly, we’re asked to leave by a rear door. After we get Oso into the backseat, Kim forgets about my bad ankle and starts to climb into the passenger seat. The anticipation of seeing Fast at the defendant’s table has blocked out all of her other thoughts.

“Do you mind driving again?” I ask her. “I would have Oso do it, but if people see him behind the wheel, they might think
road rage.
”

Kim laughs and apologizes for her forgetfulness. We switch seats. With growing excitement, she drives us back to the courthouse for the arraignment.

FORTY-FOUR

D
AVID
F
AST SHUFFLES
into the courtroom with the other prisoners for the afternoon’s arraignments. But unlike the five other men in orange jumpsuits, he wears slacks, a coat, and an open-collared shirt. His short, graying hair is combed and moussed. He isn’t even chained to the orange-clad men, although he is handcuffed. Despite the damage evident on his tan face—a swollen mouth from where Kim had broken his front teeth with the barrel of his own pistol and the black eye from Roberto’s blow just hours before—he looks surprisingly unaffected. He still maintains his arrogant posture.

There is a low murmuring from the packed gallery all around me. The room is full to the bursting point. A few of them are probably reporters, as they have notepads balanced on their knees, but the rest appear to be regular citizens who have come to stare at the wonder of the town’s favorite son in chains.

I take some satisfaction from that.

Beside me Kim squeezes my hand and waves at her reporter friend from the Denver TV station. Earlier the judge had refused to allow the reporters to bring either video or still cameras into the courtroom—not because she hadn’t wanted the publicity, but because there simply wasn’t room. When we walked into the building, we’d seen the cameramen smoking cigarettes and fuming in the street near the media vans.

As the prisoners take their seats in the jury box, with the same overweight and overage deputies guarding them by standing at each end, I turn and look at Kim. Her good eye gleams back at me. With Fast indicted, the swap is history and her valley is free. She squeezes my hand again. Vindication.

Judge Carver bangs her gavel for silence. She has her thin blonde hair artfully arranged over her robes like a halo, just as she had at my brother’s arraignment. But all that gold hair can’t keep her from looking like a bad-tempered witch. She points the gavel at the gallery. “I won’t have any outbursts,” she warns us. Then she has her bailiff call up the first case:
The People v. David Fast.
This time the judge is going to let the less important cases wait.

The gavel bangs again as the murmuring resumes when Fast approaches the podium in the courtroom’s well. “I’ve warned you!” the judge says. “I won’t hesitate to clear this court.” She’s showing none of the pleasure at the attention that she’d exhibited at my brother’s arraignment.

Fast is flanked by two lawyers—one a dignified middle-aged man and the other a pretty young woman. Both are dressed in expensive suits, indicating they’d probably hopped the short flight from Denver just hours ago. Local lawyers wouldn’t dare to dress this nice for fear of alienating the locals—all potential jurors. I recognize the man as Morris Cash (known by cops as Mo’ Cash), one of the most famous defense attorneys in the West. He’s the type of attorney who will do anything and say anything to win his illustrious clients an acquittal. His appearance causes a sick feeling in my stomach—Cash wins some unwinnable cases. He’d been a primary consultant for O.J. Simpson’s “Dream Team.” But then I perk up a little, remembering that Fast is bankrupt now that the swap has been nixed. Cash, once he finds out, surely won’t be doing any pro bono work.

“Your honor,” Cash says before the judge begins. “My client has already been advised of the charges against him and he is aware additional charges might be added. He has also been advised of his rights and has signed a form to that effect. We would like to waive any formal reading of the charges and simply proceed to the matter of bail.”

The judge smiles and nods now, obviously flattered by Cash’s efficiency and his presence in her courtroom. “Certainly, Mr. Cash. Let’s—”

Fast has been whispering in Cash’s ear and Cash interrupts the judge. “One more thing, your honor. I expect the hearing to be somewhat lengthy, as I believe my client has been the subject of an environmentalist conspiracy and that he is the victim here, not the perpetrator. I’d like to request that my client be freed of his restraints for the duration of the hearing, if not forever,” he says with a chuckle. “I believe that you’ve known Mr. Fast and his family for a long time and understand that he certainly presents no danger.”

The judge is still smiling. “The Court
has
known Mr. Fast a long time. He and his family have been an important part of this community for almost a hundred years. I have no problem with giving him that small courtesy. Any objection, Mr. Prosecutor?” she asks Acosta.

“No objection, your honor.” The DA gives me an apologetic look as I glare back.

You didn’t give my brother that courtesy.

“What?” Kim whispers beside me. I realize I’m gripping her hand way too hard.

“They made my brother stand there in handcuffs when he was arraigned,” I hiss back at her.

“Deputy, please remove the restraints,” Judge Carver says from the bench.

A fat deputy moves quickly out of the jury box with a key in his hand. He unhooks the handcuffs, then kneels to remove the ankle restraints. For me it’s a shameful and telling image—a uniformed officer kneeling before the defendant. Kim’s still looking at me. I guess she is trying to understand what I’d said, and maybe finally becoming aware that David Fast will receive some very special treatment.

With the handcuffs off, Fast stretches his arms behind the podium. Then he rolls his shoulders and head. He turns to look at the crowd behind him, his eyes scanning the full courtroom, and pausing for a moment on Kim before moving on to me. I give him my hardest stare and restrain myself from mouthing Kim’s words,
Fuck you.

He has a cocky look on his face that makes me want to come over the low dividing wall and into the well. “No, fuck
you,
” I read in his eyes. He grins at me, showing his newly broken teeth. Then suddenly he’s moving.

With an almost casual speed, like a hurried pedestrian, he parts the short swinging gate that divides the well from the gallery and strides up the aisle and out of the courtroom. No one else moves. We’re all frozen in shock. I look to the judge and see her mouth open, the gavel raised hesitantly in her hand. The attorneys, prosecutor Acosta included, stare over their shoulders. I jump to my feet just as the courtroom door swings shut with a whoosh. Then all hell breaks loose.

Everyone is on their feet. In just seconds, murmured questions become shouts and the judge beats her gavel. I fight my way through the other spectators in my row as one of the jailhouse deputies runs up the aisle after Fast—the other staying to guard the remaining prisoners. Using my crutch as a club, shoving people back onto the hard wooden bench and others over the low wall in front of us, I reach the aisle but that too is now full of shouting, milling people.

“Go, David, go!” someone crows, then whoops like a cowboy.

I cut through them like a fullback, knocking reporters and the citizens of Tomichi to the ground and into each other. A jolt of pain shrieks up my leg with each step but I keep shoving forward. In my wake, even more mayhem erupts. Over it all, I can hear Kim shouting my name. She has her hands pressed into the small of my back, propelling me forward with even greater speed.

The courthouse lobby is empty but for the civilian security guards, who stand staring at the big glass doors leading outside with their mouths agape. “Call 911!” I yell at them. “There’s been an escape!” And then I’m shoving through the glass, too, with Kim still pushing at my back. Just ahead of me is the fat deputy from the courtroom. He’s yelling into the radio mounted on his shoulder as he struggles to force his bulk into a sprint down the courthouse steps. Fifty feet ahead is Fast. He’s moving in an easy jog across the wide lawn, across the sidewalk, and into the street. Then Kim passes me, almost knocking me down with her shoulder.

I stagger and windmill on the steps, jabbing wildly at the ground with the crutch as I try to keep from falling. It’s not a matter of controlling the pain anymore—the ankle is simply failing. Kim blows past the deputy, too, taking the steps in such a rush it looks like she’s in low-level flight.

Fast looks over his shoulder and sees Kim hot on his heels. He seems to shake his head amusedly, but he picks up the pace.

I follow as best I can. With each haphazard landing, my ankle threatens to buckle.

In the street now, Fast runs by the two TV vans with the lounging cameramen beside them. Then he passes my Land Cruiser where it’s parked in front of a fire hydrant. I see it shake, rocking hard on its axles, as Oso bellows at the man sprinting by. The beast is slamming his snout through the four inches of open space on the driver’s-side window. For an instant I wonder if he recognizes Fast as one of the men who’d shot him, if he has picked up Fast’s scent through the few inches of open glass.

Up ahead, in the middle of the street, a pickup with no license plates idles just a hundred feet ahead of Fast. I can see the driver through the rear window. He’s twisted around in the seat, watching Fast run toward him. A bandana or a scarf covers the lower part of his face. With Fast so close, and only a one-eyed woman anywhere near him, the driver doesn’t seem to feel the need to reverse closer.

There’s no way I can catch him, I realize as I struggle to make the turn into the street with the deputy huffing beside me. Fast is a hundred feet ahead and closing quickly on the pickup. I hear its engine rev. One of the cameramen has gotten a big camera up on his shoulder and is standing in the street, filming the town’s fleeing prodigy being chased by a woman.

Kim sprints full-out in the street behind her enemy. As she gets close to where the beast is violently rocking my Land Cruiser, she reaches one hand into her pocket. For a moment I think she’s feeling for some kind of a weapon, then it hits me—she’s reaching for my truck’s keys.

Kim abruptly skids to a stop beside my truck. She plunges the keys into the truck’s door and rips it open. Oso stops bellowing and cocks his head at her. His ears are still laid back, his lips high and wrinkled with a snarl.

“Sic him, Oso!” she yells, pointing at Fast’s back. “Get—!”

Oso doesn’t wait for her to finish shouting. Before Kim can step out of the way, a hundred and fifty pounds of wild canine muscle drives into her chest, knocking her down in the street. The beast lands on top of her and pulls his bandaged leg high. He takes a lunge in Fast’s direction, limping badly. I think,
He’s going to get away!
But that’s the last limp Oso makes. He shoves off the asphalt with all four paws, accelerating in a single bound, the excitement of the chase nullifying what must be a screaming pain from his wound. He shoots forward in an incredible burst of speed. Within ten paces he’s moving faster than I’ve ever seen a creature move. The unraveling bandage trails out behind him like a bloody streamer.

Fast glances over his shoulder as he nears the pickup. The driver has opened the passenger-side door and the engine is revving even higher, ready with the pop of the clutch to carry him far away from the courts and justice. Then Fast looks again in disbelief.

I crash into Kim just as she’s getting to her feet. We go down hard in a tangle. Both of us are so focused on Fast and Oso that we hadn’t seen each other coming. I struggle to my feet first and almost collapse again when my ankle seems to fold in on itself. Catching myself with my hands on the Land Cruiser’s fender, I hobble as quick as I can down the middle of the street after them.

The beast hits Fast like a heat-seeking missile. Those great white fangs lock onto the back of Fast’s left thigh, and Oso’s momentum carries him right through his prey, flipping Fast backwards and twisting and then slamming him down on the asphalt.

Behind us a shouting, swarming mass of people is spilling out of the courthouse and down onto the lawn. There are horrified shrieks as the spectators catch sight of what’s happening in the street.

On top of him now, Oso swings his head. An inhuman scream fills the air, eclipsing all the others. It comes from Fast. The dog’s jaws are locked on his thigh. Oso is slinging his head from side to side, sending the big man grating back and forth across the pavement. Fast tries to roll halfway over to beat at Oso’s flat skull with his fist, but the beast just swings him in a new direction.

The pickup’s driver leaps out of the cab. He has a black bandana pulled up over his face and a gun in one hand. He stares at the mauling on the pavement behind his truck—
what looks like a fucking bear just ripping the shit out of his boss
—then looks at me hobbling toward him with my crutch held high in the air like a club.
Boss be damned
—the driver jumps back in the cab and smokes the tires out of there.

I come up yelling Oso’s name and
“Parada! Parada!”
Stop! He doesn’t hear. The dog is still jerking the man’s body over the pavement. Fast has given up trying to punch Oso’s head and is now digging his torn fingertips into the asphalt, trying to drag himself away. His screams have turned to moans. He’s begging.

Wincing from the pain in my ankle, I kick the beast between the hind legs with the toe of my hiking boot. Oso’s rear lifts into the air, then the beast releases his grip on Fast’s thigh and pivots on me with unbelievable speed.

He faces me with bloody teeth and an evil hum coming from his chest as loud as a lawn mower. His eyes are yellow slits. They are as ancient and lethal as the devil’s. “
Fácil,
Oso. Easy, boy,” I tell him. Beside us, Fast’s red hands, burned from the asphalt, flail weakly on the ground.

Slowly, Oso’s lips sink over his teeth. The eyes widen just a little in recognition. And the heat drains out of them. I take his collar in my hand and pull him to the sidewalk, murmuring, “Easy, easy, easy.”

Both cameramen, their machines perched on their shoulders, carefully approach Fast’s writhing form. After filming him for a moment, they turn their cameras toward where I have Oso on the curb. But I crouch awkwardly on my bad ankle in front of him to block their view. I wave them away with my gun still in my hand and they turn back to Fast. They make no move to help him, to stop the thick red liquid from pooling beneath his leg. Their only concern is to get it all on tape. A crowd starts to gather. They stay well away from my bloody dog and me. The sound of sirens fills the air.