Cold Wind

by C. J. Box

  “Yeah, yeah yeah,” McLanahan muttered, dismissing him. Then to Sollis, “Take this yahoo in and get his statement. Then we’ll decide if we want to arrest him and on what charges. Reed, you drive his truck down to the county building. I’ll call Dulcie and see how she wants to proceed.”

  Joe said, “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Sure I do,” McLanahan said, turning aside to spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the lawn. To Joe, he said, “Why aren’t you out there trying to catch poachers or something? Shouldn’t you be doing your job instead of mine? You ever think about that?”

  “I do,” Joe said. “I just figure one of us needs to do your job.”

  Reed snorted a laugh and looked away quickly.

  McLanahan froze, and Joe saw something ugly pass over his face. Joe squared up, ready if McLanahan swung.

  The sheriff took a deep breath and said to Sollis, “Cuff the son-of-a-bitch.”

  On the way through the grounds of the Eagle Mountain Club, handcuffs biting his wrists, Joe thought that he was pleased to have hooked back up with Nate. But he couldn’t help thinking it might be too late to affect the outcome of the trial. And he’d never imagined spending a night in a county cell.

  He thought of his daughters. Their grandmother up for murder, their father in jail.

  April’s words mocked him: “I guess maybe I’m not the only one in this perfect little family who makes mistakes.”

  SEPTEMBER 14

  Justice has nothing to do with what goes on in a courtroom; Justice is what comes out of a courtroom.

  —CLARENCE DARROW

  37

  On Wednesday morning, the day Bud Longbrake was to take the stand to testify against Missy Alden for the murder of Earl Alden, Joe sat next to Marybeth in the eighth row of the Twelve Sleep Country Courthouse and dug his index finger into his shirt collar to try to loosen it against the tight cinch of his tie. It didn’t give much, and he felt that he was slowly strangling to death.

  He surveyed the room. Everyone seemed to have taken the same seats they’d occupied the previous two days since the trial began.

  Judge Hewitt’s courtroom was full and warm and close. Family members, local gadflies, civic leaders, Bud’s drinking buddies from the Stockman’s including Timberman and Keith Bailey, law enforcement personnel, the all-male morning coffee crowd from the Burg-O-Pardner, and local, state, and regional press took every seat. There was a low murmur as everyone waited for what the Roundup called “pivotal Day Three” to begin. All the players were in one place, Joe thought. He whispered to Marybeth that if Stovepipe’s metal detector was malfunctioning again and a bomb were to go off inside, Saddle-string might as well close down and sell off the fixtures.

  Marcus Hand and Dulcie Schalk were at the bench discussing the schedule and rules for the day with Hewitt, who stood and leaned down toward them so the conversation could be kept confidential. Hand wore a dark charcoal suit, white shirt, bolo tie, and his pointy cowboy boots. A silverbelly Stetson sat crown-down on the defense table, but Joe never saw Hand actually put it on. It was solely for effect.

  Schalk was dressed sharply in a dark pin-striped business suit and skirt with a cream-colored bow at her throat. Her hair was pulled back so she looked severe and serious. And older.

  Monday had been spent selecting a jury. Like everything that took place in Judge Hewitt’s courtroom, it had gone like lightning. Twelve local jurors and two alternates were selected out of a pool of thirty. Joe knew most of the jurors: seven women and five men. All were white and middle-aged except for a Shoshone woman who lived outside the reservation. Although Hand had worked to challenge as many of the blue-collar types as he could, apparently assuming they would more easily convict a nasty woman of means like Missy, Marybeth observed to Joe that Hand seemed to do it halfheartedly, more for the show than from determination. Like he had something up his sleeve, and the makeup of the jury didn’t matter.

  Marcus Hand only needed one juror to nullify a guilty verdict, Joe replied. He couldn’t determine which one or two who’d been selected met Hand’s satisfaction. Maybe the unemployed city worker who couldn’t find a job in the bad economy hated the world and would love to stick it to The Man? Or maybe the Shoshone woman, filled with years of resentment and the existential burden of her white lay-about husband, could finally get back at the system?

  Joe had spent most of previous Thursday in the sheriff’s department interview room after being taken from the Eagle Mountain Club. Deputy Sollis had checked in on him from time to time with a grin on his face, explaining that they were waiting for Sheriff McLanahan to return for the questioning to begin. Joe knew it was a stall and an attempt to humiliate him, and conceded that it was working pretty well. No charges were filed that he was informed of.

  Finally, mid-afternoon, Dulcie Schalk blew into the room. She was angry with Joe for trying to contact Bud Longbrake and with the sheriff for holding Joe without questioning him or pressing any charges. Right behind her was Marcus Hand in his black turtleneck and fringed buckskin jacket.

  She said to Sollis, “Let him out of here now.”

  Joe thanked her, and she snapped, “Do not speak to me.”

  On the way to his pickup after retrieving the keys from a very sheepish Deputy Reed, Hand draped his arm around Joe’s shoulder and whispered, “You hate us until you need us. That’s the way it works.”

  The past weekend with Marybeth and Nate was interrupted only by a call into the break lands east of town from a citizen reporting a wounded antelope staggering around on the road. Nate had gone with him in the truck, and Joe spent hours filling him in on the murder, the investigation, and what Joe had learned from Smith about Rope the Wind.

  “I’d put my money on the boys from Chicago,” Nate said, after listening to Joe and after the game warden had dispatched the suffering animal. “I could see them sending someone out here to shut up The Earl once and for all. They came, shot him, and hung him from the windmill, and they were on a plane back to O’Hare by the time you found him.”

  “It may be what happened,” Joe said, “but it’s speculation at best. Marcus Hand sent two of his investigators east, and they may come back with something before the trial is over. But they may not. What I have trouble with in that scenario is how this Chicago hit man would know to frame Missy.”

  Nate said, “They had an insider.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “The same guy who told Laurie Talich where she could find me.”

  “Bud?”

  “Bingo,” Nate said. “It took a while for me to figure it out and there are still some loose ends I’d like closed, but it makes sense. Missy knew vaguely where I was living because she talks to her daughter, and last year she tried to hire me to put the fear of God into Bud, remember? She might have let it slip to her ex-husband that if he didn’t stop pining over her, she’d drive to Hole in the Wall Canyon and pick me up. Somehow, Bud found out where I was. And by happenstance, he meets a woman in the bar who has come west for the single purpose of avenging her husband. Bud has contacts with the National Guard who just returned from Afghanistan, and he was able to help her get a rocket launcher. Then he drew her a map. He must have been pretty smug about how it all worked out. He thought he was able to take me out of the picture without getting his own hands dirty.”

  “Bud—what’s happened to him?” Joe asked, not sure he was convinced of Nate’s theory. “Why has he gone so crazy on us?”

  “A man can only take so much,” Nate said, “especially a good man. His no-good kids abandoned him. His new wife cuckolds him, and then cheats him out of his ranch. And to add insult to all this misery, the new husband figures out how to make a killing on the land Bud had in his family for a hundred twenty years. They took away most of his dignity, and then they stomped on what was left. And for no good reason, because Bud was a good man who only wanted to support the community and pass along his ranch to his children. I can see where he went crazy. No one d
eserves what they did to him.”

  Nate placed his fingertips on the grip of his .500. He said, “Not that I forgive him for it, or what he set in motion.”

  Joe thought about it as he patrolled. “He seems to have gotten his kids back, though,” Joe said. “Bud Jr. and Sally. So there’s something.”

  “I wonder,” Nate said.

  On Tuesday, Day Two of the trial, Dulcie Schalk and Marcus Hand gave opening arguments. Schalk pointed her finger at the defendant and outlined the prosecution case against with cool and unadorned efficiency:

  Missy’s record of calls to Bud Longbrake begging him to help her take care of Earl Alden;

  Her lack of an alibi for the approximate time of the murder;

  Her motive—the fear Earl would soon divorce her;

  The murder weapon found in her car;

  Missy’s history with husbands and her pattern for ruthlessness;

  Her apparent lack of remorse that included a brazen shopping spree just days after the tragedy.

  She concluded her argument by softening her voice and addressing each member of the jury in turn. “This is not a complicated judgment. The defense will try their hardest to make it complicated. We’d like to welcome Mr. Hand and his team. They’ve come all the way from Jackson Hole to spend time with us in our little community, and to try and convince you that you really can’t believe your own eyes or your own ears. But don’t fall into that trap. Be wary of it. This is a very simple case. We’ll prove that Missy Alden is guilty. We’ll prove her motive, her opportunity, and her premeditated plan to execute her own husband. We’ll show you the murder weapon and prove that it was hers and that she used it on her husband. Don’t let all the smoke the defense will create in this courtroom confuse you. Sometimes, things are what they are. Simple as that. And you’re being asked to help us punish one of our own who has always considered herself above and beyond the law. Let’s show her she isn’t.”

  “Wow,” Joe whispered to Marybeth when the opening argument was done. “Dulcie’s more brutal than I am when it comes to your mother.”

  “Joe . . .”

  “One thing, though,” he said. “I thought they had tapes of the calls between Missy and Bud, but she didn’t say anything about that. Apparently, they just have records of the calls being made.”

  “Still . . .” Marybeth said, and let the rest of her thought trail off. Joe thought how tough it must be on his wife to see one of her friends indict her mother with such surgical precision. He wondered if she was getting doubts, but he didn’t ask her. Instead, he put his arm around her and kneaded her shoulder. She didn’t respond. Her muscles beneath her jacket were as tightly coiled as steel springs.

  Hand’s opening was surprisingly short and breezy, Joe thought. He conceded to the jurors that Missy was “kind of hard to like until you got to know her,” but that he’d prove to them beyond a reasonable doubt she’d been framed. He alluded to other explanations for the murder that would be revealed. Hand spoke smoothly, but with a lack of slickness that impressed even Joe. He gestured to Missy and urged the jury to put themselves in her place.

  “Think about how you would feel,” he said to them, “if your ship finally came in and you were able to raise yourself out of your humble beginnings to a place you’d always dreamed of. And imagine if, when that finally happened, you were framed for a murder you didn’t commit. Imagine how you’d feel if the full force and weight of the government had decided to persecute you not only for what they say you did, but who they think you are?”

  Hand stood in silence for a full minute, as if he’d choked himself up and couldn’t continue.

  But he did. “Gentlemen and ladies of the jury, what you are about to see is the most classic case of tunnel vision I’ve ever encountered in a courtroom. The prosecution decided within minutes of the crime that my client was responsible. They didn’t look left. They didn’t look right. The government didn’t look up to see what other forces may have led to this tragic crime. They started with the conclusion and worked backwards, picking out every little thing they could find to fit the story they believed and didn’t even consider anything that didn’t fit into their perfect little box. The government wants my poor client’s head as a trophy on their wall, and they want mine right next to it. Nothing else matters to them. This isn’t smoke, folks. Just because we’ll introduce evidence that doesn’t fit into the prosecution’s perfect little box doesn’t mean it’s smoke . . .”

  Joe watched Hand work. He felt the pendulum rock from the prosecution to the defense. And he noted that every time Hand said the word government he seemed to be talking directly to the unemployed city worker, and the juror, probably unconsciously, nodded in agreement.

  Hand said he agreed with the government that the entire prosecution’s case rested on the testimony of one man—Bud Longbrake—even though Schalk hadn’t exactly said that. Joe noted that Hand didn’t even try to dispute the motive, the record of phone calls, or the rifle.

  Then Marcus Hand thanked the jury for taking time out of their busy lives to see that justice would be done, and sat down.

  Joe had been the first witness called for the prosecution. Dulcie Schalk led him through the discovery of the body and dismissed him before they got to the arrest of Missy. Sheriff McLanahan had followed Joe and walked the jury through the rest of the day, culminating with Missy’s arrest. McLanahan was smug and countrified, but well rehearsed. A state forensics examiner was next, and Schalk prompted him through a PowerPoint presentation tying the murder weapon to the fatal wound, the ownership of the weapon to Earl and Missy Alden, and the fingerprints on the rifle to Missy.

  A county clerk employee was the last witness called on Day Two, and the PowerPoint screen showed the jurors Earl’s official filing for divorce proceedings. Joe noted that Missy slumped to the side, head down, during that part of the presentation.

  Marcus Hand declined to cross-examine any of the opening witnesses except for McLanahan, and he asked only one question: “Sheriff, did your investigation extend any further than my client?”

  When McLanahan said there was no need to broaden the investigation, Hand rolled his eyes so the jury could see him and sat down, anticipating an objection from Dulcie Schalk and a rebuke from Judge Hewitt for his body language. Both complied.

  The day ended as Hand asked Judge Hewitt for permission to recall both Sheriff McLanahan and game warden Joe Pickett to the stand later in the trial. Joe’s stomach clenched because he knew where Hand was headed.

  Hewitt granted the request.

  The morning of Day Three, Missy sat small and prim, with her back to everyone, next to Dixie Arthur, one of Hand’s law partners from Jackson. Joe assumed Hand had chosen her to be at the table because she looked friendly, small-town, and approachable. The kind of woman who would never have been there if she honestly believed Missy was guilty. Arthur had a quick smile and a round empathetic face and she seemed to have become fast friends with Missy because the two whispered to each other with great frequency and familiarity. So far, she hadn’t asked any questions of the witnesses but seemed to be the keeper of the defense playbook, and she’d conference with Hand from time to time to, presumably, keep him reined in.

  At the prosecution table was Assistant County Attorney Jack Pym. Pym was tall, solid, boyish, and not quite thirty years old. He was a Wyoming native from Lander who had played tight end for the Wyoming Cowboys football team prior to law school. Joe liked him, and since Pym was a fly-fisherman like Joe, they’d made plans several times to float the river but it hadn’t yet worked out. This was Pym’s first murder trial, and it showed. He seemed anxious and, like his boss, overly eager to take on the legendary Marcus Hand. Joe had observed Pym attempting to stare Hand down, as if he faced him across the line of scrimmage.

  Bud Longbrake Jr. sat in the very back row with several of his colleagues whom Joe had seen outside the Stockman’s Bar that day, and his sister, Sally, was broken and shriveled in a wheelchair placed next
to him in the aisle. Joe hadn’t seen Bud’s daughter for years and not since her accident, and he barely recognized her. She didn’t look back, and Joe assumed she was under medication. Shamazz did look back, defiantly, and Joe turned around.

  “Odd they’re here,” Marybeth said, echoing his thoughts.

  Both attorneys returned to their desks and shared the result of the conference with the judge with their co-counsels, and Hewitt returned to his seat. Joe could see a stack of papers on the judge’s bench off to the side of his microphone. He recognized a manual deep in the stack as a copy of the Alaska hunting regulations. Joe smiled grimly, reminded that the trial would proceed quickly since the Dall sheep season would close in just over a week.

  He noticed Marybeth, like the other spectators, kept turning and looking over her shoulder toward the double doors manned by the bailiff, Stovepipe. She was waiting for the first appearance of Bud Longbrake.

  Dulcie Schalk prolonged the anticipation by calling a technician from the local phone company as her first witness instead of Bud. As she did, the air went out of the room. Joe half listened to the technician as he explained a call record list that was being shown on the screen, detailing the dates Missy’s phone called Bud’s phone and vice versa, and allowing himself to be led to the conclusion that the telephone conversations increased in frequency and length on the days leading up to the murder.

  When the doors opened, even the phone company technician paused to look up.

  Joe turned as well, but instead of Bud Longbrake, two of Marcus Hand’s investigators eased into the courtroom, surprised at the attention they’d drawn to themselves. Although they wore sport coats and ties, Joe thought both of the men looked rumpled and tired. Like they’d been traveling nonstop to get there.