Perfect Justice (8 page)

He pulled a Bud out of the ice. The song changed; now Mary-Chapin Carpenter was singing a slow sad song about being haunted by the past, and finding the courage to love again after “the first time you lose.” Carpenter’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Come on, come on … it’s getting late now. …”

While he waited Ben scanned a copy of
The Herald
lying on the bar. It appeared that District Attorney Swain was trying his case in the morning edition and polarizing public opinion by making the “big-city lawyer” the bad guy. Ben learned that Sheriff Collier had found the murder weapon, a twenty-four-inch Carvelle crossbow. Swain claimed that tests run by the forensic office in Little Rock conclusively linked the crossbow to Donald Vick.

“My name’s Mac.” The bartender pushed a beer and a bottle opener across the bar.

“I’m Ben. But you probably already know that.” Ben opened the beer and downed a good long gulp. He wasn’t that fond of Budweiser, but since the man had apparently compromised his virtue by serving it, Ben wasn’t about to appear ungrateful. “Nice place.”

“Thanks,” Mac said. His pride was evident. “Had the bar shipped in from St. Louis the day the county voted to go wet. Stools, too.”

“I guess this is where it happened,” Ben commented.

“What’s that?”

“The big fight. Vick and Vuong.”

“Oh, yeah. Right here.”

At long last. Someone was actually talking to him. “Must’ve been a hell of a fight.”

“You better believe it. Kicked the hell out of my best pin-ball machine.”

Ben saw that the head glass on one of the pinball machines was shattered, just over the picture of a fiery red cyclone. “You were here that night?”

“Of course. I’m here every night.”

“What happened?”

“Well, that Vietnamese fella was minding his own business, sitting just where you are, when in walks Vick. They talk a little bit, and then he up and says, ‘You—’ ”

To Ben’s dismay, Mac stopped suddenly, just as the story was becoming interesting. “Maybe I shouldn’t say any more.”

“Don’t stop now!”

“No, no.” Mac picked up a bar rag and began polishing the woodwork. “I’ve said too much already.”

“Mac, I have to prepare a man’s defense. This is a capital crime. You have to help me!”

“Like hell I do.”

Ben leaned across the bar. “Look, I’m desperate. You’ve gotta see that—”

Ben felt two hands slap down harshly on his shoulders, shoving him back onto his stool. Before he had a chance to become curious about who it was, the hands whirled him around.

It was the two local boys who had accosted him that morning, Garth Amick and his tough-looking friend. Except now they had a third friend, who looked even older and meaner than the first two.

Garth—still the group spokesperson—leaned into Ben’s face. “I thought I told you to get out of town.”

“I think you did. So?”

“You talk pretty tough for a big-city lawyer who’s about to get the hell beaten out of him.” The smell of beer on his breath was thick and nauseating.

“Why don’t you just go back to your beer and leave me alone?”

“I’ve got somethin’ else in mind. Hold him, boys.” Garth’s two friends each grabbed one of Ben’s arms.

“Kincaid!”
It was Mac. He’d raced around the side of the bar. At first, Ben thought Mac had come to his rescue. He was quickly disillusioned. “I thought I told you I didn’t want any trouble!”

“Me? Why are you telling me? I was just sitting here minding my own business.”

“Should’ve minded it somewhere else.” Garth drew back his fist.

“Garth!” Mac yelled. “Take it outside. I don’t want any more damage to my place.”

“Fine.” Garth grabbed Ben by the shirt collar and jerked him toward the front door. His two friends held tight to Ben’s arms.

They made it to the door just at the same split second that Sonny Banner and his two bodyguard buddies came in. Banner and Garth almost bumped heads.

“Banner! Thank goodness!” So this was what it had come to, Ben thought grimly. He was overjoyed to see a bunch of white supremist headbashers saunter in. “What are you doing here?”

“This wath where you thold uth to wait, ’member?” The thickness of his tongue left Ben little doubt about what the boys had been doing all day. He began to have serious doubts about the imminence of his rescue. “What the hell ith going on?”

“None of your goddamn business,” Garth barked. “Just get out of our way.”

Banner inflated his chest. “Not till I get thome answers.”

“We’re just going out for a chat.” Ben felt the hands on his arms tightening.

“Zat right?”

Ben shook his head. “They’re taking me outside, to use their own words, to beat the hell out of me.”

“Zat so? Three against one? Figures. Vietcong-loving punkth.”

“Screw off, you redneck freak,” Garth said. “I don’t have to take—”

The first punch landed squarely on Garth’s jaw and sent him reeling. Ben felt both of Garth’s friends release his arms. They raised their fists to defend themselves.

“Take it outside!” Mac shouted from behind them. “Take it—”

It was too late. Ben ducked out of the way and the three locals took on the three ASP men one-on-one. Garth and his crew were spirited and resilient, but they were outmatched in weight and skill. The three ASPers were a bit sluggish, but they were still more than able to hold their own.

Ben watched Banner spin Garth through the bar, punch by punch, while one of his friends delivered a swift kick to a townboy’s groin. The stylish fighting moves came more naturally to the ASPers. Ben supposed that was understandable. This was what they trained for every day, after all. This was what they lived for.

The brawlers flew back and forth across the tiny bar, smashing and clattering as they went. Ben considered jumping into the fray to help; the question was—whom would he help?

Banner had Garth in a headlock and was banging his face against a beer-stained table. Garth’s shouts were silenced by the repeated pummeling and the viselike grip around his throat. For a moment Ben was afraid Banner was going to kill him. Then, to his amazement, he saw Banner literally lift Garth off the ground and throw him across the bar. Garth landed on the cyclone pinball machine, shattering the glass.

Mac was not going to be happy.

Ben saw that Garth’s two friends were similarly on the bad end of major-league beatings. Just as he began to be concerned for their long-term health, he heard a siren wailing down Main Street. A quick peek out the window confirmed it—the sheriff was paying them a visit. Mac must’ve called.

Ben crawled back to his bar stool and took another drink of his beer. It looked like it was going to be a long night.

A
S BEN HAD NOTICED
during his earlier visit, there were only three cells in the Silver Springs jail, and Donald Vick already occupied one, so Sheriff Collier was forced to divide everyone up into their respective teams: the locals in one cell, the ASPers in the other. With their best buddy Ben, of course.

Ben had protested his innocence to both Sheriff Collier and Deputy Gustafson ever since they picked him up, based on Mac’s identification of Ben as the “instigator.” The sheriff was not impressed. And Gustafson was treating Ben even more coldly than he had when they met.

After delivering a stern lecture on the evils of drinking and carousing, Sheriff Collier excused himself and left Deputy Gustafson to handle the actual incarceration. Vick eyed Ben as he passed down the corridor, but he remained silent. What must be going through the kid’s mind? Ben wondered. Just when you think it can’t get any worse, you see the deputy putting your lawyer behind bars.

Gustafson locked the locals in one of the vacant cells, then put the ASP men in the other. To Ben’s surprise, Gustafson closed the door to the cell and locked it while Ben was still outside.

Maybe there was hope yet. “Does this mean you’re letting me go?”

“Dream on,” Gustafson said curtly.

“Can you at least undo my handcuffs?”

“No.” Gustafson’s face was like a rock. No sign of warmth or humanity was apparent.

“You know, I didn’t lay a hand on anyone,” Ben said. “I had nothing to do with that fight.”

“That’s not what Mac said.”

“Mac was too busy crying over his pinball machine to get his story straight. I’m telling you, I’m innocent. And I can’t afford to spend all my time before the Vick trial in jail.”

“Don’t sweat it. The sheriff’ll let everyone out in the morning. After you’ve had a chance to sleep it off.”

“Sleep what off? I never finished my first beer.”

Gustafson whirled Ben around and grabbed him by the throat. “Look, you piece of crap, I’m doing the best I can to control my temper. So just shut up and don’t try my patience.” He shoved Ben down the corridor and out of sight of the cells.

“I don’t understand. What have I ever done to you?”

Ben could see right off the bat that he should have remained silent. Gustafson was seething; his rage was already on the verge of boiling over. “You remember that car your boys torched two months ago because you mistakenly thought it belonged to the Vietnamese?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Well, my little sister was on the sidewalk beside the car. Got caught in the explosion. She almost died—been having health problems ever since. Her face was ruined.”

“But that wasn’t me!” Ben protested.

“When something horrible like that happens to your sister, it just does something to you. Tears you apart. Makes you go a little crazy.” He looked up at Ben. “Makes you want to kill the man responsible.”

“I’m telling you, I never hurt—”

“She was beautiful,” Gustafson said, stony-eyed. “But now she’s—” With the sudden fury of a hurricane, Gustafson whipped out his billy club and pounded Ben on the back. The sudden pain was so shattering that Ben found he couldn’t make a sound. His knees weakened; his back felt paralyzed.

“My little sister never hurt anyone. That’s for goddamn sure. So don’t come crying to me for sympathy.”

Ben leaned against the wall for support. “But I … wasn’t involved … didn’t even know …”

“Liar.” Gustafson pounded him again, this time on the rib cage. “Admit it. Admit you knew about the firebombing!”

“I’m just”—Ben gasped—“a lawyer.”

Gustafson spun him around and shoved him face-first into the wall. Ben’s cheek scraped against the speckled concrete. “All the worse, as far as I’m concerned. At least the boys in Cell Block B believe in what they’re doing. You’re just in it for the money.”

Ben’s reply was smothered as Gustafson jerked him away from the wall. The next blow from the billy club caught Ben on the side of the head. He fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Gustafson rammed the club under Ben’s throat, drove his knee into Ben’s spine, and pulled upward. His knee burrowed into Ben’s back while the club flattened his larynx.

Then, abruptly, Gustafson removed the club and let Ben’s head fall to the floor. Ben braced himself for the next blow, but it never came. Instead he heard the sound of Gustafson’s boots moving down the corridor.

Wasn’t he afraid Ben would try to escape? Ben almost laughed. He couldn’t even move. The thought of trying to stand up hurt him more than he could bear.

He heard Gustafson open the door and leave the cell corridor. Ben lay there on the floor, unable to move, unable to help himself, racked with pain.

And he realized, with sudden and terrible certainty, that he was absolutely, totally—

Alone.

C
OLONEL NGUYEN SAT IN
the center of the chicken barn that served as Coi Than Tien’s town hall. On his left, his old friend Duong Dang sat with the council of elders, the nominal governing body of their community. On his right, “Dan” Pham sat with his followers, principally the younger members of the settlement.

The two groups could not have been more polarized. It was the old guard versus the young Turks, the voice of conciliation pitted against the voice of resistance. And there seemed to be no middle ground that either side could accept.

Dang tapped a small gavel. “Now that we have resolved the guard-duty issue, we will address Dinh Pham’s suggestions about a possible response to last night’s incident.”

Pham leaped to his feet. “We must fight back! We must retaliate!”

Dang pounded his gavel. “You have not been properly recognized.”

“Everyone knows who I am.”

“That is not the point. It is a matter of courtesy, of tradition—”

“I’m not interested in traditions. I’m interested in retaliation.”

“There are proper ways to proceed—” “My grandmother was shot!” Pham shouted. His voice echoed through the barn, rattling the rafters on the roof. A horrible silence blanketed the barn.

Colonel Nguyen closed his eyes. As he had learned last night after the black pickup disappeared, some of the ricocheting pellets had pierced a window and struck Pham’s elderly grandmother. Although the injury was not itself terminal, at her age, any wound could be life threatening.

Dang stroked his white beard. “We all grieve with you for Xuan’s injury.”

“Grieving is not enough. It is time for action!”

Nguyen shook his head. There was such a difference between Pham and Dang. Dang still spoke in the old traditional ways; Pham had fully assimilated the slang and rhetoric of his adopted country. And what they said was as different as the way they said it. Dang spoke with caution, with concern for all possible ramifications. He was slow to anger, and equally slow to take action. Pham was younger in spirit and temperament; he was unwilling to accept the world as it was. There was more of America about him than of Vietnam.

Pham turned to address the entire assembly. “A gentle woman in her seventies who has never done harm to anyone was struck by a shotgun blast to her shoulder blade. What are we going to do about it?”

Nguyen watched Pham as he made his appeal to the masses. He was impressed with Pham’s bearing, his strength, his natural aptitude for leadership. At the same time Pham’s words filled him with apprehension. Nguyen knew Pham’s inflammatory speech could only lead Coi Than Tien in one direction.