Chilling Effect (22 page)

legal procedure.”

He beamed. “Understood. We’ll get you a set of law books and a

manual and have them sent over to the cottage. I’m glad you decided so quickly.” He searched her drawn face. “Vision?”

She hesitated. “Sort of. Not really.”

“I hope some day you will feel comfortable enough to trust me

with your messages. I’d be honored to help you interpret them.”

“Please don’t misunderstand. It’s not a matter of trust—it’s . . .

complicated. And you helped me a great deal that night I had that

horrible dream.” She shuddered at the memory and placed a hand

on his forearm. “But I mean no disrespect. I’m just, I guess you

could say, private about the whole spirit guide thing.” Her voice

dropped to a whisper.

“Oh, I take no off ense. I’m just off ering my services in case

you decide you’d like to forge a solid relationship with your spirit animal. In any case, you’re doing the Chinook people an important

service. Th is terrible event can serve as a turning point for the tribe.

From the ashes of this scandal, we can emerge stronger, more cen-

tered, with a renewed commitment to our heritage. Having a native

daughter handle the case for us will help ensure the federal agen-

cies respect our ways. Th at will be the focus of my leadership in all areas—a deeper understanding of the old ways.”

She smiled politely, but her face was closed off . He laughed at

himself.

“Ah, please forgive the ramblings of an old man. I know you are

quite busy and eager to talk to Lee.”

175

MELISSA F. MILLER

“Don’t apologize, please. Your vision and plans to return to

tradition remind me so much of my grandfather. I think it’s great.”

“Th at’s very kind of you to say.”

Th ey stood in shared silence for a moment. She felt awkward

and unsure of herself, like she was eighteen again and Joe Jackman

had just walked into her Art History class and taken the seat next

to hers.

“Uhm—”

He snapped out of his daze and placed a light hand on the small

of her back to pilot her down the hallway.

“If you follow me, I’ll show you where Mr. Lane and Lee are

waiting.”

Boom ushered her into the smal , windowless room where Buckmount

and his lawyer were waiting. She wasn’t sure what she expected from a high-profi le criminal defense attorney named Gordon Lane, but

whatever she had imagined was far splashier and sleazier than the

somber, silver-haired gentleman who stood to greet her.

“Ms. Higgins, it’s a pleasure,” he intoned after Boom intro-

duced her and scooted out of the claustrophobically crowded room.

His handshake was fi rm but not bone crushing, his tone self-

assured but not arrogant.

“Th e pleasure’s mine, Mr. Lane. Please excuse my appearance.”

She gestured at her yoga pants and long-sleeved T-shirt, but her

voice held an undercurrent of “of course, I might look more pulled

together had I not just spent two days running for my life from your client and then rescuing a woman from him at gunpoint.”

Lane either missed the unspoken jab or was too professional to

let it rattle him, but his client reacted. Buckmount had rose from

176

CHILLING EFFECT

his metal chair and waved his handcuff ed wrists at her. “Where have you been? I’ve been sitting in this blasted box for hours waiting—”

Lane turned his head almost imperceptibly toward Buckmount

and arched one eyebrow by a fraction of an inch. Buckmount

instantly clamped his mouth shut, fi re blazing from his eyes. Th e attorney returned his focus to Aroostine.

“I understand today’s been trying for many people—including

my client. He did receive some basic medical attention before the

offi cers brought him here, which is appreciated. But I’m sure you agree that given his age, his ties to the reservation, and his reputation as a businessman, it would be most appropriate for you to arrange

a time to interview Mr. Buckmount at your mutual convenience

some time during the next few days, and let an old man go home

to his bed.”

Lane’s tone suggested that his request was the most logical, rea-

sonable way to handle a man who was suspected of embezzlement,

murder, attempted murder, and theft of military weapons and who

also had access to almost limitless cash, to release him on his own recognizance to minimize the disruption to his life. She tilted her head and regarded the criminal defense attorney. He either had the

drollest sense of humor or was devoid of shame.

Unable to determine which was the case, she said simply, “No.”

Lane shrugged. “You don’t ask, you don’t get.”

Oh, shameless. Got it.

“I do need to determine what capacity the tribal police have for

housing Mr. Buckmount, though. I don’t know what the facilities—”

“Th ere are no ‘facilities,’ girl. Atlas Johnson and his team are

the equivalent of a rural police force. Th is isn’t going to be like your federal government with all its crime labs and bottomless budgets.

As CFO of the reservation, I can tell you the police have a budget of ninety-six thousand dollars a year. Th at covers everything—salaries 177

MELISSA F. MILLER

and benefi ts, vehicles, equipment, training. Do you know how much

it costs to house and feed prisoners awaiting trial, Ms. Higgins?”

Buckmount’s tone see-sawed between a rant and a lecture. It

gave her an unpleasant fl ashback to fi rst-year law school and her Torts professor.

She ignored the question. Only a rank amateur would let her

advisory frame the argument.

“A fi ve-fi gure police budget?” She raised an eyebrow. “Th at

hardly seems suffi cient for a population this size. Not to mention all the crime the casino undoubtedly brings to the reservation. It

almost makes a person wonder if the CFO might have deliberately

underfunded law enforcement for reasons of his own. I’d be curi-

ous to know the value of the various contracts the tribe entered into with Buckmount Security Services.”

Th e veins in Buckmount’s neck bulged, and his face turned a

purple-red color, darker than the blood that stained the large ban-

dage on his head. He began to sputter. But one sharp look from

Gordon Lane and he fell silent.

“Perhaps we can cut through some of the positioning. My client

is prepared to accept responsibility for his actions.”

“He’ll plead?” Aroostine struggled to hide her surprise, but her

terrible poker face was working against her.

Buckmount’s rage simmered. Aggression rolled off him like

waves. But Lane’s tone was congenial and even.

“For an attractive deal, Mr. Buckmount would be willing to

enter a plea of guilty in regard to charges stemming from Mr.

Palmer’s accidental shooting death.”

“He
accidentally
nailed Isaac Palmer in the middle of the forehead?”

Lane spread his hands wide and raised his shoulders.

“Did he
accidentally
embezzle funds from the casino,
accidentally
steal at least two weapons of mass destruction from the United States 178

CHILLING EFFECT

military,
accidentally
br

accidentally
eak into Ruby Smith’s home and threaten her

daughter,
accidentally
plant a car bomb on my vehicle, and
accidentally
abduct Ruby and take her to a remote location where he
accidentally
battered her and threatened her life at gunpoint?” She didn’t even bother to pretend she wasn’t outraged. She shook with anger.

“Now, you listen here—” Buckmount shot to his feet and yelled.

“Lee. Sit down.” Lane spoke to him as if he were an errant child.

“I will not. I will not sit down and listen to this web of fantas-

tic lies.” He banged his handcuff ed wrists against the table with a metallic thunk.

“Sit. Down.”

Buckmount glared at his lawyer but lowered himself into the

chair. Lane turned to Aroostine.

“It seems my word choice was counterproductive. We can work

out the details of a plea after everyone’s had a good night’s sleep. But the general idea I was aiming at is that Mr. Buckmount would be

willing to plead to a homicide charge that didn’t include any sort

of enhancements. Th ere’s no real mystery here. After the ballistics reports come back, the gun the police seized today will prove to be a match for the one that killed Isaac Palmer. My client’s a pragmatic man, Ms. Higgins. He’s under no delusions. But he does have his

own version of the events that precipitated both Mr. Palmer’s death and the altercation with Ms. Smith. He also has a talented and experienced attorney, if I do say so myself. You should consider what you will be able to prove in court and at what cost before you decide

whether a plea is in order and what the appropriate charges might be.”

He was right. She knew it. He knew it. As Sid was fond of

reminding his AUSAs in one of his famously mixed metaphors, a

half a loaf was better than a tick in the loss column.

“Hypothetically, am I to understand that Mr. Buckmount is will-

ing to enter a guilty plea for the acts related to Mr. Palmer’s death and Ms. Smith’s kidnapping, but none of the other criminal acts?”

179

MELISSA F. MILLER

“I’m not copping to something I didn’t do,” Buckmount

exploded from the table.

“Lee,” his lawyer warned him before addressing Aroostine. “He

maintains he had nothing to do with any other events.”

“Gordon—may I call you Gordon?”

“Please.”

“Th anks. With al due respect, come on. Isaac Palmer was kil ed

to keep him from talking to us about the alleged embezzlement. I

personally heard your client demanding to know who Ruby told

about that same alleged embezzlement. Maybe you should take the

night to consider whether you want to go to court with a client

who can’t control his temper and claim that, what, he killed Palmer for kicks?”

He raised a hand like a school crossing guard to forestall Buck-

mount’s brewing outburst and nodded his agreement. “It seems we

each have some thinking to do tonight. On that note, it’s getting late.”

She glanced at the metal wall clock. It was nearly eight o’clock.

And Ruby’s chicken was waiting for her. She examined Buckmount’s

face. He wasn’t a young man. And he looked drained, spent. An idea

was forming, but she hesitated. Sid would never go for it.
Sid doesn’t
get a vote,
she reminded herself.

“I’d be willing to place Mr. Buckmount under house arrest with

the following conditions: he surrenders his passport; he turns over day-to-day control of the casino and the security force to the Tribal Board; and he pays the wages for a tribal police offi cer to be stationed outside his home.”

Gordon was already nodding halfway through the proposition.

“Th at sounds eminently fair and workable. Lee, what do you say?”

“I say go to hell. I’ll sleep in this chair before I agree to that.”

“Suit yourself, Mr. Buckmount. I’ll let the offi cer on duty know.

May I walk you out, Gordon?”

180

CHILLING EFFECT

Th e lawyer started to make an appeal to his client to be reason-

able, but then stopped himself, shaking his head sadly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lee.” He clasped the man’s shoulder for a moment and

then turned to leave.

“Good night, Mr. Buckmount.” Aroostine pulled the door shut

and gestured for Offi cer Hunt, who’d been posted just outside the door. She fi lled him in on the plan for the evening and then stepped out in the cool night air beside Gordon Lane.

“Th at was a decent gesture,” he said as he blinked up at the night sky.

“Th e off er stands if you can get him to change his mind. Th ink

you can?”

He sighed deeply and then lifted his shoulders. “Who knows?

Th e practice of law is . . . one problem after another. And then it gets dark.” He stared out into the black fi elds ahead for a long, unblink-ing moment before turning to her. “Good night, Ms. Higgins.”

He trudged away, heading toward the gleaming BMW she’d

pegged as his. Joe sat behind it in Isaac’s car, the engine idling.

She stood there for a moment, perfectly still, and the lawyer’s

words echoed in the quiet:

One problem after another. And then it gets dark.

181

“What are you doing today?” Aroostine asked Joe as he pulled into

a spot near the tribal police station, killed the engine, and pocketed the keys.

Apparently, Cathy Palmer had off ered them the use of her dead

son’s car for the duration of their time in Oregon. Aroostine wanted to meet her—both to convey her condolences and to get a better

sense of the kind of loss Isaac’s death had caused before she went to trial. It was her practice to get the clearest, most fully formed picture of the victim. But in this case, she was going to be scrambling to ready a basic case.

Her morning wake-up call had been from Boom telling her that

the Tribal Board wanted to put the “Buckmount incident” behind

them by the end of the week if at all possible because the tribe was participating in some cultural powwow over the weekend and didn’t

want to have a cloud over their name. Th at news had woken her

up more eff ectively than an ice-cold shower. She’d gone into great CHILLING EFFECT

detail with Boom about why a rushed criminal trial was a terrible

idea, but she got the distinct impression he hadn’t been listening.

In fact, she had a niggling suspicion he might have put the phone