Above the Law (44 page)

Louisa stood up, her smile fixed on her face.

“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “The white man will get his money. And the Indian will get the land. Finally.”

Riva had a surprise for me when I came back to our home away from home at the end of my workday.

“Honey, meet Joan Canyada,” she said, angling her head in the direction of the dining area, which we’d set up as a play station for Buck, with his toys scattered about the floor and a portable crib pushed up against a corner, in sight of the kitchen, from where she could keep an eye on him.

As I looked over, a young Indian girl jumped to her feet, scooped our son onto her hip with a practiced gesture, and came forward. She’d been down on the floor on her hands and knees, playing with him. He clung to her like a little monkey.

“Hello, Mr. Garrison,” she said, extending her free hand.

“Hello,” I replied, shaking her hand. I leaned over and took him from her. He snuggled up against me.

The girl looked to be in her late teens or early twenties, although I’m not good at guessing the ages of Native Americans—living up here was my first experience with them as regular people you see on the street. She was wearing jeans and a halter top, her thick black hair pulled back off her face. Pleasant-looking girl, flat features, on the solid side.

“Joan’s going to work for us as an au pair while we’re here,” Riva explained. “It’ll free me up to get out occasionally, or if you and I want to have an evening out.”

“Sounds good.” I was glad Riva had done this; I didn’t want her going stir-crazy up here. And having someone like this girl was much better than having Nora baby-sitting for us, as she’d volunteered to do. The last thing I wanted was Nora and Riva spending time together, especially without me around.

“Joan goes to community college,” Riva said, wanted me to feel comfortable about this, figuring I couldn’t object to a college kid. “She is taking this semester off.”

I nodded. “Where do you live?” I asked, making conversation.

“The White Horse reservation,” the girl answered, making a face. “North of here.”

I knew of the White Horse reservation, although I’d never been there. It was the largest reservation in the area. I remembered that Bearpaw, Tom Miller’s main deputy, was from the same reservation.

I mentioned that to her: “Do you know Wayne Bearpaw?”

Her dark complexion reddened visibly. “Everybody knows Wayne,” she answered with a girlish titter.

The way she blushed and answered confirmed my intuition, when I’d first met him, that he was one of the local heartthrobs.

“My girlfriend Maria goes with him,” she added. “I see him around a lot.”

“He’s a deputy sheriff,” I explained to Riva. “He was there that night, with Miller.”

Riva cocked an eye—that was new news.

“He’s on my witness list,” I told her. “He and Miller are helping me out now, also.”

I turned to the girl. “So you’re off college for a while?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you working somewhere else?”

She shook her head. “There aren’t many good jobs around here for kids my age.” She paused. “There aren’t many good jobs for anyone around here. Especially my people.”

The reservation had a high unemployment rate, that I knew. “Well, glad to have you with us,” I told her, hoping my tone of voice would put her at ease.

“Joan’s going to be living here with us,” Riva said. “She’ll sleep in Buck’s room with him. They’re getting along great already.”

As if in confirmation, Buck reached out to Joan. She took him from me.

“He likes you,” I said. “He doesn’t do that with everybody.” He is gregarious, but he has his likes and dislikes, like all of us.

“He’s a sweetheart,” she cooed, nuzzling her lips against his neck, which brought forth a giggle. “We’re already good friends. Aren’t we, Buckaroo?”

“Yes,” he squealed.

I shrugged out of my coat and loosened my tie. “I’m going to make myself a drink. You want one?” I asked Riva.

“There’s a bottle of white wine open in the fridge. We’re having trout for dinner. Fresh caught. Joan brought it.”

“My uncle fishes about every day,” the girl said. “Hunts in the winter. How he puts food on the table.”

I remembered Nora telling me about the venison she had in her freezer. It was a common thing, obviously. Especially in a region where hard cash was scarce.

“Now that you’re home, I’ll get dinner started,” Riva said. “It won’t take long.”

After pouring a couple of glasses of wine and handing Riva hers, I looked through the mail. Most of it comes to me at the office—this was flyers and a few magazines, forwarded from Santa Barbara. I leafed through a week-old
Sports Illustrated.

“I want to thank you for letting me live here with you.”

I looked up. Joan had come up behind me, Buck in tow.

“This is much nicer than…where I live. Way nicer.”

“Glad to have you.”

She shifted from one foot to the other. “You’re going to be trying that case soon, aren’t you?”

“Do you know about it?”

“Everybody around here knows about the trial,” she said energetically. “It’s the biggest thing to hit this county in years. Nothing ever happens around here,” she added, as if implying,
This is a dull and boring place and I can’t wait to get out.
“But that’s going to change.”

“How so?”

“That fancy spread? The one the dope dealers owned, where the raid took place?”

“Yes?” I sipped my wine.

“We’re going to buy it.”

I looked over at her. “You’re what?”

“My tribe. We’re going to buy it.”

“Oh?” I hadn’t heard anything about that. Something like that was outside my purview, so it wasn’t my affair, but in a small community like Blue River there aren’t any secrets. Not that this was a secret, obviously. What it meant was, I wasn’t part of this community. I put my blinders on and did my job and that was it. It was an interesting development, though.

“Does the tribe have plans for it?” I really didn’t care, but she was standing right there, I had to say something.

“We’re going to set it up as a casino.”

“A casino? Way out here?”

“If you build it,” she informed me boastfully, “they will come.”

Where had I heard that line before? “I guess so. People like to gamble, that I know.”

Like most prosecutors—or ex-prosecutors—I’m not in favor of widespread gambling. It’s a vice, and vices attract undesirable elements. Vegas and the other multibillion-dollar meccas notwithstanding, nothing good comes of it, except to those running the show, and the shadowy figures who operate behind the scenes.

“It’ll be a way for our tribe to become self-sufficient,” she said, sensing my disapprobation. “We’re not sitting on oil welts or mineral rights.” She was almost defiant in her attitude.

“Well, that’s a good thing,” I said as mildly as I could. I didn’t want to get in an argument with this kid, right off the bat.

She, too, was happy to retreat. “Would you like me to give Bucky a bath? Or is that something you and Mrs. Garrison do?”

I looked at my son, nestled in her arms. “Do you want Joan to give you a bath, Buckaroo?”

“Yes!” he said happily.

“Go for it,” I told her.

She carried him into the bathroom, started the water running. I changed into a T-shirt and shorts and joined Riva in the kitchen.

Three weeks to go before the trial began, John Q. Jones paid me a visit. We sat in my office, the door closed.

“I can’t believe a lawyer as smart and experienced as you is going ahead with this meshuga case,” he said, immediately going on the offensive.

I laughed. “You can do better than that, John Q.”

“It’s crazy,” he said, persisting. “You don’t have a case.”

“You’re grasping, big fella.” I grinned at him. “You wouldn’t be here if you really believed that.”

“I’m here because I like and respect you, Luke, and I don’t want to see you make a fool of yourself.”

I leaned back, still smiling, not wanting to laugh in a legend’s face, but unable to restrain myself. “That’s damn nice of you to consider me, but I can take care of myself.”

“Not if you take this all the way,” he said, stubborn as an ox.

“I’ll take my chances.”

“I’ve gone through your evidence. It’s all circumstantial.”

“So what? Circumstantial evidence is often better than so-called hard evidence, you know that.”

“Not this time.”

He was starting to annoy me. I don’t mind sparring with opponents this way, but you say your piece and then you drop it, at least until the actual trial.

“Like I said, I’ll take my chances. I’ve got a great case, and you know that,” I said, pushing him.

“No eyewitnesses. No murder weapon.”

I threw up my hands. “Save it for trial, okay?”

“You’ll be sorry.”

I had to answer that. “Your client placed himself above the law. I’m not dropping that. I’m surprised you’re in here like this, John Q. I’m surprised you took this case on, to tell you the truth.”

“He’s innocent, Luke.”

“Oh, shit. Spare me.”

“He is.”

“How do you explain his actions that night, then? He took the law into his own hands, he went in with an improper warrant,
the prisoner was murdered on his watch
!”

“That makes him the killer? There were sixty people there that night. More that you don’t know about.”

“Like who? You going to produce some surprise witness at trial? I’ve seen your discovery, John Q., your witness list. Don’t jerk me off, okay? Not for this.”

“Luke…” He looked at me with a pitiable expression, like I was about to do something terrible to myself and he was trying as hard as he could to stop me.

“What about the sister’s testimony?” I barked at him. “That means nothing to you, right?”

He sat back, momentarily deflated. “That’s not good.”

At least he was admitting that.

“Not good? It’s terrible. It’s prime motive.”

Even as I was saying that, I cautioned myself to be careful not to let him suck me into a trial before the trial. I was holding all the aces. Showing him my hand, even one card, was foolish. He was baiting me—I had to hold back from taking the hook.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said in a more conciliatory tone.

“What is it?”

“If Jerome was the murderer—he wasn’t, but I’m saying if—why in God’s name would he open a bank account for half a million dollars right after the killing? Why would he expose himself that way? You’ve met the man. He’s not an idiot.”

I shrugged. “Maybe he is an idiot. Or maybe he’s just an arrogant fuck, okay? There’s lots of evidence pointing to that. The laws don’t apply to him, that’s how he thinks, how he operates. So why not open an account? He’s got the money, what’s he going to do, stick it under his mattress? He’s a walking, raging ego, John Q., he thought he was untouchable.”

“He’s too bright. He would have covered himself.”

“He never thought he was going to be a suspect. That’s what he is. And it’s not like he deposited the money where he lives, he went to considerable pains to conceal that money.”

“You found it easily enough.”

“It was hard work.” I wasn’t going to tell him I hadn’t found it at all, that my off-the-books sheriff had done it for me, with his deep FBI contacts. I was lucky Tom Miller had been so inquisitive, so dogged. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have that vital evidence.

“You’ve never considered that maybe he was set up? That this bank account’s a setup?”

“No,” I answered stiffly. “I’ve never considered that. And I’m never going to.”

“Maybe you should.”

“No,” I said, “and I’ll tell you why. If I’m setting somebody up, I’m not going to drop half a million dollars to do it. It could have been done for fifty K, a tenth of what went into that account. Look at it realistically, pal. You owe it to your client to do that. Nobody would’ve done it that way.” I engaged him, eyes to eyes. “It’s not a setup. It’s the real deal.”

“I don’t agree,” he said, still digging his heels in.

“Then you prove it at trial,” I challenged him. “Because if you’re going to raise that as a defense, you’re going to have to carry the burden of proof, not me. Which I would be happy for you to do.”

He was fishing. I’d thought that’s why he’d come in—now I knew it.

“What’re you really here for, John Q.? You looking to cop a plea? Knock it down to second degree?”

“No, that’s not why I’m here.”

“I couldn’t go for that myself,” I said. “Because this was premeditated, going on two decades. But I could talk to Bill Fishell about it. Save the state some money. He did kill a piece of shit, that’s the only redeeming value you’ve got.”

“No, I don’t want to plea him out.”

“I didn’t think so. And we wouldn’t have, either.”

He got to his feet heavily. He was an old man, he was showing his age. “I know you wouldn’t.”

I walked him to the door. “See you in court.”

“See you,” he said back to me in a leaden voice.

I closed the door on him.

He shouldn’t have taken this case. It was a loser for him, not the way a lawyer of his stature should be finishing off an illustrious career. The desperation had shown through, like looking into a clear pane of window glass. He was going to come back to me with a plea. I could feel it in my bones. I wouldn’t take it, of course; I’d been testing the waters with my offer, to see where he stood. And he’d shown me. He was standing on shaky ground, his footing uncertain, tenuous.

I knew where I stood. I stood tall.

Saturday morning arose sunny and warm. We were going out for the day, all of us, including Joan, who had settled in nicely. She was going to take us to the White Horse reservation and show us where she lived. Riva, who’s interested in everything, especially other people, their lives, their families, and so forth, had asked her to. Joan had agreed, although her enthusiasm for the trip was lukewarm at best.

“There’s nothing to see up there,” she’d protested, “just a bunch of old shacks. And old people.”

“I’m sure we’ll find something to make it worth our while,” Riva had assured her. “We’re not fancy. Besides, you need to get home, and it’ll be easier if we take you.”