Tribal Court (3 page)

Chapter 4

Brunelle took exit 135 off southbound Interstate 5 and hoped there would be signs for 'Duwallup Tribal Court.' His GPS had no address for it and he didn't have a phone number to call to ask for directions. Duncan's 'Look for the casino' had been unhelpful as well, although he realized as he reached the end of the off-ramp and confirmed no signs for the court, that he really had no option but to turn left under the freeway and head for the casino complex that dominated the immediate area.

The tribal lands sat on the curve where the aptly named River Road turned from its course parallel to the Duwallup River to head south into downtown Tacoma. As it was originally designed to bypass, and not service, the reservation, someone coming from the direction of Tacoma, and unfamiliar with the local roads—like Brunelle just then—could quickly find himself rounding a sharp bend onto River Road and speeding away from the tribal land.

Brunelle had spotted what looked like some sort of administrative building north of the casino but when he turned onto River Road, and before he could do anything about, it he found himself heading the wrong way, and fast.

He desperately turned onto the only side street before River Road turned into a state highway into rural Pierce County. He found himself driving up a steep hill, with a long brick wall on his right and nothing but a steep, tree-filled drop-off to his left. When he reached the top, the road leveled out onto a residential street with a breath-taking view of Mt. Rainier. He pulled over to get his bearings in front of an old craftsman on a double lot with a 'For Sale' sign out front.

He wondered whether he'd completely left the reservation. He got his answer when he looked around and saw a large sign across the street from the craftsman: 'Duwallup Tribal Cemetery.' He looked again at the craftsman.

"Good luck selling that," he murmured, wondering who would ever live across the street from an Indian burial ground.

He turned the car onto the side street between the house and the graveyard and headed down the back of the hill toward what he hoped was that administration building he'd seen. He knew he was getting closer when the road signs were suddenly in both English and that Native American alphabet the Northwest tribes had adapted from the Latin letters. He especially liked the question mark thing without the dot.

A quick right onto another side street, then a slow left into a parking lot and Brunelle was pulling his car into the parking stall directly in front of the administrative building he'd seen. The sign out front read simply, 'Duwallup Indian Tribe.'

"Whew, made it." He put it in park and turned off the engine. Then he realized he still didn't know where the court was located, let alone the prosecutor's office.

~*~

Brunelle stepped into the lobby of the administration building and immediately noticed the cubicle to his right. The woman there sat behind one of those elevated countertops that suggested visitors should check in with her. So he did.

"Hello." He tried to sound like he wanted to be there. "Could you direct me to the prosecutor's office?"

The woman, who had been doing some task on her computer, looked up at him like she was really tired of visitors always checking in with her. She was heavy-set with her black hair pulled into a ponytail, and was wearing the type of top he would have expected to see on a pediatric nurse. Brunelle supposed she was Native, but thought she might be Hispanic. Maybe both. Or Hawaiian. He tried not to shrug.

"Prosecutor's office?" the woman repeated. "You mean the Pierce County Prosecutor's Office? That's downtown." She pointed vaguely toward the direction of downtown Tacoma.

"Er, no," Brunelle answered. "The tribal prosecutor's office.

The confusion on the woman's face deepened. "Tribal prosecutor? Hey, Janie!" She craned her neck to see around Brunelle. "Do we have a tribal prosecutor?"

A woman's head popped up from behind a cubicle wall on the opposite side of the small lobby. She looked like any other middle-aged lady walking down the street. "The Tribe has a lawyer, but that's for other stuff. Suing people and staying compliant with codes and stuff. Our cases get filed into the county prosecutor's office."

The first woman looked back at Brunelle. "Yeah, sorry. We don't have a prosecutor."

Brunelle was about to argue with her when the other woman shouted over her cubicle wall again. "Wait! Are you here on that murder case?"

Now we're getting somewhere
, Brunelle thought. "Yes, I'm Dave Bru—"

"Murder case?!" the first woman interjected. "We had a murder here?"

"Not exactly," Brunelle started.

"No, no," interrupted the cubicle woman. "One of our tribe members murdered another one up in Seattle and the tribe is gonna prosecute him. I heard about it from Kelly this morning."

"Wow," the first lady said. "We
are
going to need a prosecutor then." She looked at Brunelle. "Are you the defense attorney?"

"No," he replied quickly, trying to control his growing impatience. "I'm the prosecutor."

The woman crossed her arms. "I thought you were looking for the prosecutor?"

Brunelle could feel his blood pressure starting to rise. "I am. I'm from the King County—"

"Police," cubicle woman said.

"No, no, no." Brunelle ran a hand down his face. "Not the King County Police. First of all, it's the King County
Sheriff
, not 'police.' Second, I'm—"

"No," the woman interrupted. "The police station. Go to the police station. That's where Kelly works."

"Who's Kelly?" Brunelle asked.

Cubicle woman rolled her eyes and sighed audibly. "She's the one who told me about the murder. Don't you listen?"

Brunelle closed his eyes and counted to three. He didn't think he'd make it to ten. "Where's the police station, please?"

The first woman seemed eager for him to leave as well. "Go back outside, turn left, and it's two doors down. Says 'Duwallup Tribal Police' on the door."

"Thanks," Brunelle nodded and forced a smile. He stepped through the doors and paused to get his bearings. As the door closed behind him, he heard cubicle woman ask her friend, "I wonder who he was anyway?"

Brunelle took a deep, cleansing breath and looked at his watch. 10:32. He was late now too. Things were going great so far.

Two doors down was indeed the lobby to the Duwallup Tribal Police station. Stepping inside, Brunelle decided to postpone asking where the tribal prosecutor was until after he'd introduced himself by both name and title.

"Hello," he said to the uniformed young woman behind the bullet proof glass. "I'm Dave Brunelle from the King County Prosecutor's Office. I was supposed to meet with someone at ten-thirty regarding a murder by one tribal member against another up in Seattle last night."

The officer listened, nodded, then stood up and disappeared from view. After several seconds, the only interior door in the lobby buzzed and the officer opened it from the inside with a loud clack.

"Freddy's in the last room on the right," she informed Brunelle as he stepped through the door into a tightly packed cubicle maze.

"Freddy?" he asked.

The officer smiled. "Our prosecutor." She made quote marks in the air with her fingers when she said the word 'prosecutor.'

Great
, Brunelle thought. "Thanks," he said.

Freddy was indeed in the last room on the right. As near as Brunelle could tell, it was a combination file room, junk room, and discarded furniture room. Freddy stood in the corner of it, apparently trying to make some order out of it. And also because there didn't seem to be any chairs. None that weren't obviously broken anyway.

"Mr. Brunelle!" Freddy called out. He rushed over to shake Brunelle's hand. He was about ten years younger than Brunelle—in his early thirties—and at least fifty pounds heavier, which was even more noticeable since he was a good six inches shorter too. His skin was a deep tone, not as dark as the Native/Hispanic/Hawaiian receptionist, but darker than Brunelle's pink pastel. Thick eyebrows and a disarming smile competed the look. He grabbed Brunelle's hand and pumped it enthusiastically. "It's an honor to meet you. Thank you for helping us out on this case."

"Uh, sure," Brunelle replied, extracting his hand. "Glad to help, I guess. Uh, what did you say your name was?"

"Ha, right." Freddy winked and pointed a gun-shaped finger at Brunelle. "Freddy. Freddy McCloud."

Brunelle nodded. "Nice to meet you." Then he noticed Freddy McCloud wasn't even wearing a tie. He started to feel a bit overdressed in his suit and overcoat.

"Man, this is gonna be great." Freddy rubbed his hands together. "I'm so glad we got a real prosecutor on our side. Now I can just pop some popcorn and watch the show."

Brunelle demurred. "Well, I'll try to live up."

Freddy laughed and shook his head. "No, not you," he said. "Talon."

Brunelle's eyebrows knitted together. "Talon? Who's Talon?"

Freddy's grin blossomed into full blown smile. "She's the defense attorney. And she's gonna kick your ass."

Chapter 5

Before Brunelle could figure out how to respond, Freddy slapped his forehead.

"Oh, man! We're late." He rushed around the table and tugged Brunelle's arm as he passed. "We don't want to piss him off."

Brunelle staggered after Freddy as he disappeared into the hallway. "Piss who off? And what are we late for? I thought I was meeting you at ten-thirty."

"No, we're late for the status conference," Freddy yelled over the cubicles he was racing through. "And the judge. We don't want to piss off Judge LeClair. Not again."

"Again?" Brunelle shook his head. "But I just got here."

~*~

The courtroom was back in the main part of the administration building. Brunelle made sure to say "Hi" to the sort-of-receptionist as he walked through the lobby, trying to keep up with Freddy, who was half-running and muttering something Brunelle couldn't quite hear. After a couple of turns down a couple of hallways, Freddy threw open a random door and disappeared inside. A second later, as Brunelle reached the door, Freddy stuck his head back out into the hallway.

"In here," he announced.

"I figured," Brunelle replied, even as Freddy slipped back out of sight.

Brunelle took a moment to read the sign on the door: 'Judge's Chambers.' It already looked more official than Freddy's 'office.' Brunelle composed himself, stood up straight, and walked inside.

"You're late."

Brunelle managed a contrite nod to the man seated behind the large desk in the center of the far wall. "My apologies, Your Honor. I didn't even know I was going to be here this morning, let alone late for anything. I'm still playing catch-up."

The judge didn't stand up from his desk; he just scanned Brunelle through narrowed eyes. He was youngish—probably the same early forty-something as Brunelle—with a full head of disheveled black hair. There was no mistaking his Native ancestry. High cheek bones, sharp nose, and wise wrinkles in the corners of his bronze skin.

"Lateness shows disrespect," he said. "Do not disrespect me, Mr. Brunelle."

Brunelle offered another conciliatory nod. "Yes, Your Honor."

"When you disrespect me, you disrespect my court," LeClair went on.

"Yes, Your Honor," Brunelle agreed.

"When you disrespect my court, you disrespect my people."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Do not disrespect my people, Mr. Brunelle."

"Yes, Your Honor."

LeClair waited a moment, eyeing Brunelle, then turned to look at Freddy. Brunelle supposed LeClair knew it was Freddy's fault they were late. He took some solace in that. Anyway, it wasn't about being late; it was about being an outsider. It was about being a big shot prosecutor from the biggest city the state—one named after a Native chief, but they couldn't even show enough respect to spell it right. His name was Sealth, not Seattle.

Under different circumstances, Brunelle might have enjoyed a discussion about respecting cultural traditions and the historical interaction between European and Native peoples in the Pacific Northwest.

Actually, he wouldn't have enjoyed it. But he probably could have tolerated it.

But these weren't different circumstances. These were the usual circumstances. Judge and lawyer. LeClair was the judge and he was the lawyer. Angry judges rule against lawyers who make them angry. And judges who feel respected rule in favor of lawyers who show them respect.

Brunelle thought LeClair was about to offer him the slightest smile to acknowledge Brunelle's response to his test. But instead, Brunelle was pushed to the side by the woman who marched into the room.

"Sorry I'm late, Judge. Got caught in a deposition. And then there was no parking. Some jackass in a Ford took my usual spot so I had to park all the way over at the casino and walk."

It was Talon. Brunelle knew.

He didn't know if it was her first name, or her last name, or her nickname. It didn't matter. It was the perfect name.

She was Talon.

And she was stunning.

Long, straight, silky black hair hung to the middle of her athletic back. She wore a red silk blouse and gray skirt, just tight and just short enough to be attractive and professional at the same time. Dark stockings and high heels that were almost, but not quite, stilettos. And her face—a perfect, Native American angel.

A goddess
, Brunelle thought.
Uh, if they have those.

He flashed his best smile and extended a hand in greeting. He wanted to come across as smooth, despite the blood pounding in his ears.

"Hello," he crooned. Then, when she just stared at him and his hand, he tried, "I'm the jackass."

No reaction. Not a smile. Not a wince. Nothing. Just coal black eyes staring right though him.

"Er, the Ford," Brunelle stammered. "I'm the jackass who took your parking space. Sorry about that."

Talon still just stared at him, but Freddy jumped up to commence the introductions.

"Talon Winter, this is Dave Brunelle. He's a King County homicide prosecutor. Dave, this is Talon Winter, she's—"

"I," Talon interrupted, "am going to kick your ass." For the first time her face showed an emotion other than stunned contempt. There was a gleam in her eye and a smile hidden in the corner of her mouth. She looked down at Brunelle's still-extended hand just long enough for him to know she wasn't going to shake it.

Brunelle lowered it finally. He'd have to work harder for physical contact.

"Nice to meet you too," he answered. "You represent the murderer, I take it?"

A little needling to see how she'd react.

"I represent Mr. Quilcene," she corrected. Then she extracted some papers from her shoulder-strapped brief case. "Which is how you will refer to him as well. At least in open court."

Brunelle nodded slowly, acknowledging the statement but not agreeing to it. He managed not to give voice to his simple thought: complete shrew.

"We'll see about that," he replied. He pointed to her pleadings. "Are those your motions
in limine
already? Most defense attorneys I know wait until the last minute to file all their motions to limit what I can or can't say."

"I'm not most defense attorneys," Talon hissed. "And you don't know me."

Brunelle felt a rush of conflicting emotions as he considered wanting to know her. "We haven't even had the arraignment yet," he pointed out.

"I'm always several steps ahead. You're going to learn that, Mr. Jackass."

Brunelle realized that wouldn't be the last time she called him that. Such was his reward for trying to be funny.

"Be careful," he warned. "Several steps ahead is fine—unless the bridge collapses under your feet."

Talon narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. It sent her hair swinging in a silky waterfall against her shining blouse. Brunelle cinched his own eyes against the intoxicating sight, and turned instead to look at the judge, who was sitting quietly, enjoying the show.

"So, Mr. McCloud said we're having a status conference?" Brunelle asked the judge.

"'Mr. McCloud'?" Talon laughed. "Listen to your big shot partner, Freddy. He thinks you're a real lawyer."

Freddy kept his smile plastered to his face, but it left his eyes. Brunelle was about to say something in his defense when the judge finally decided to take control.

"Yes, Mr. Brunelle. This is a status conference. I want to discuss all preliminary matters before formal initiation of the criminal case."

Brunelle shrugged. It wasn't what he was used to, but he could see the value in it. "All right, Your Honor." He sat down in one of the two chairs opposite the judge. "Where shall we start?"

Talon waited a moment, then pulled the other chair a few inches away from Brunelle and sat down. Freddy leaned against the wall.

Talon handed Brunelle and LeClair each a copy of her pleadings. "These are my initial motions
in limine
. They outline how the case should proceed," she explained, as if she were the judge, not just one of the litigants. She extracted more papers from her bag and shoved them at Brunelle and the judge.

Judge LeClair simply started a stack on top of the thin file folder he had centered on his desktop. Brunelle let them lay where Talon set them. He would look at them as the judge might instruct him to.

Freddy, though, leaned in long enough to grab the top document off of Brunelle's stack and start thumbing loudly through it.

Talon listed the titles of her pleadings. "Motion to suppress identification. Motion to suppress physical evidence. Affirmative defenses. Motion to dismiss…"

After several more, Judge LeClair lifted his hand to stop her. "Thank you, Ms. Winter. I shall review these right away. The arraignment will take place tomorrow morning. That will give our officers time to transport Mr. Quilcene to our court."

"I might need one more day, Your Honor," Brunelle interjected. "I'm still waiting on some lab results."

"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Brunelle," Judge LeClair raised an eyebrow at him, "that you are holding a member of my tribe without enough evidence to charge him?"

Brunelle offered a polite smile. "Of course not, Your Honor. Tomorrow morning will be fine. Thank you."

"Good," the judge replied sharply. "We will conduct a bail hearing as well and schedule the trial date. The trial will commence within sixty days, no longer."

LeClair looked at Brunelle to see if he would protest. Murder trials were routinely scheduled a year or more after arraignment. But Brunelle had learned not to argue with this judge. Not right then, anyway. If there were a legitimate basis to delay the trial—and there almost always was—he could raise it later.

"Motions to suppress," LeClair went on, "must be filed by the pre-trial conference, which will be in one month."

"I've already filed mine, Your Honor," Talon chirped. She leaned forward to tap once on the judge's pile.

The judge smiled at her, a truly warm smile. He then turned to Brunelle as if to make sure he'd seen it. He had.

"Also by pre-trial," Judge LeClair continued, "the prosecution will hand over all evidence in its possession which it intends to use at trial, and the defendant will disclose the nature of his defense."

Brunelle was about to point out that homicide investigations routinely turned up additional evidence even after the arrest and arraignment of the defendant, but Talon spoke up first.

"I've already filed notice of our defense," she practically sang. She looked at Brunelle. For the first time, she smiled at him. The kind of smile a tiger might give its prey before killing it.

"You have?" Judge LeClair asked. He started to look through his stack of papers.

"She sure did." Freddy stepped forward, one hand gripping a crumpled pleading, the other stuffed into his hair. "And it's brilliant!"