Dark Justice

by William Bernhardt

  She ran up the nearest slope, checking the numbers painted on the asphalt outside each space. Twenty-two, twenty-two … the numbers she was seeing were in the thirties and getting bigger, not smaller. Where was it, damn it? She couldn’t be sure how much space she’d put between herself and her pursuer, but she knew it wasn’t nearly enough.

  The numbers were still getting bigger. She must’ve gone the wrong way. She whirled around without breaking her speed, blazing down the slope heading the other way …

  An arm reached out from nowhere and grabbed her.

  Tess screamed.

  She couldn’t decide whether to scream at him or to scream for help, so she ended up doing both at once. “Help! Let go of me!”

  “Hey, lady, relax, okay?”

  Tess pulled herself together and stared at the man holding her arm. He wasn’t the murderer. But she had seen that face before.

  “I’m Johnny. The bellhop, remember? I’ve been working your floor. I showed you to your room.”

  A wave of relief flooded over her. He was the bellhop, for God’s sake. The bellhop!

  “I’m—sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I thought someone was following me.”

  “You were right,” Johnny said. He wiped the sweat from his brow. “I’ve been following you since you left your room. You dropped this.”

  It was her wallet. The boy was holding her wallet.

  It was so pathetic she had to laugh. Here she was—scared out of her skin, certain she was about to die—and all the man wanted was to return her wallet.

  Tess tried to regain some tiny measure of her composure. “Thank you. It must’ve spilled out of my purse when …” When she sprinted down the hallway like a madwoman, she thought, but did not say. “I threw everything together in kind of a rush.”

  “It’s all right, ma’am. I just didn’t want you to leave without it.”

  “Of course.” She opened the wallet. “Here, let me—”

  “That’s not necessary, ma’am. Just doing my job.”

  “Well, if you say so.” She closed the wallet and tucked it back inside her purse. “Anyway, thanks again.”

  Waving, she started back in the direction where she now realized her car must be. What a fool I’ve been, she thought. What a fool I’ve made of myself. She started to laugh. It was so stupid now, in retrospect. A few noises in the street, a few creaks in the hallway, and she had totally lost it.

  She found the Ford Taurus she had rented in Seattle and slipped inside. Jesus, it was just as well she was working this assignment alone. She’d never be able to live this one down back at the National Whisper.

  She pulled up to the gate, waited for the crossbar to rise, then drove out onto Main Street. She hoped she didn’t have to get into a big argument with the boss when she showed up. He had not been happy with her when last she spoke to him. And now she’d been out of contact for almost two weeks. He must be pissed royally. He’s probably fired me a thousand times over.

  But who was she kidding? When he got a whiff of what she had now, he’d be desperate to rehire her. For that matter, given what she now knew, almost any paper around would be happy to have her on the staff.

  This was the chance she’d been waiting for, she told herself. Her ticket out of the tabloids. A whole new start. The beginning of something bigger. And better. And—

  The hand emerging from the backseat clamped down on her right shoulder. “Time’s up, Tess.”

  It was as if the whole world suddenly went silent. Time was suspended; she felt frozen. The sound of the air rushing around her was deafening.

  Someone was in the backseat of the car.

  Tess screamed, but this time, no one heard. She tried to wrench herself away, but the arm came forward and wrapped itself around the base of her throat.

  “Stop the car, Tess.”

  Like hell she would. She floored it, barreling down the street, blazing through an intersection. Maybe if she drove crazy enough, she could attract a little law enforcement attention.

  The hand left her throat and clamped down on the steering wheel. The two of them grappled for control, Tess tugging one way, the arm from the backseat tugging the other. While the car continued to accelerate. Forty-five, fifty. Fifty-five, sixty …

  All at once, the Taurus spun out of control. The car skidded sideways, trunk first, spiraling down the street. Tess pumped the brakes, but she was too late. The yellow brick wall—the north wall of Canfield’s Grocery—came looming up in her windshield.

  The car impacted the wall with a heart-stopping crash. Glass and metal splintered and flew, smoke streamed in all directions. The front end was so severely smashed that the hood was nearly invisible; the wall reached almost to the driver’s seat.

  The car stopped moving.

  And so did Tess.

  Three

  The Real World, Muchachos

  Chapter 33

  BEN WATCHED AS THE sergeants-at-arms opened the back doors of the gallery and allowed the spectators to pour into the courtroom. He was impressed; it was a respectable showing, particularly for a small town like Magic Valley. Few seats were vacant. There was a tangible sense of excitement in the room, a feeling of anticipation. A realization that much was at stake.

  Of course, Ben mused, when a capital murder case is being tried, there are always high stakes. A man could lose his life. But the sad fact was, that grim possibility was the least of the concerns of most of the people in the courtroom.

  The largest and loudest contingency was from the logging establishment. They were easy to pick out; they were all huddled together on the left-hand side of the courtroom. Jeremiah Adams sat in the very front of the pack, where everyone could see him, and Ben had a hunch he wasn’t here just as a proud papa who wanted to see his little girl in action. He was a representative, a symbol almost, for all the younger loggers huddled behind him. A senior statesman for the lumberjack crowd.

  The exception to the rule was Slade. He was sitting on the opposite side of the gallery, in the back row, alone and apart. Ben wasn’t surprised. After all, technically he had no connection to the logging industry. Not officially, anyway. Officially, he was just an independent contractor doing some consulting work. Probably most of the loggers didn’t even know who he was or how much he had done for their noble cause.

  Ben also spotted some representatives from the Green Rage camp—what was left of it. Al and Rick were still in much too bad shape to spend the day sitting on a hard bench in a muggy courtroom, but Maureen was there, and Deirdre and Molly and Doc and a few of the others. Ben had told them that they didn’t have to attend, that it might even be best if they didn’t, but they had insisted on being there to support Zak.

  Whatever. Ben was just glad they were alive. After that stupid stunt with the chain and the trucks, the loggers were seeing blood. Luckily, Ben had managed to get to the sheriff’s office before any major damage was done. Deputy Andrews, a young but enthusiastic member of Sheriff Allen’s office, had immediately jumped into action, racing to the scene with sirens screaming. He showed up just about the time the loggers caught the Green Rage crew. They managed to land a few punches before scattering, but nothing more. The owners of the pickups filed complaints, of course, but they had no means of proving who had sabotaged their vehicles.

  Just as Green Rage couldn’t prove who had destroyed their camp the night before.

  And so the circle of hate went on and on and on.

  There were a few people in the gallery Ben didn’t recognize. Townsfolk, he assumed. Locals with an abiding interest in law and order. Or maybe they just didn’t have cable.

  Ben saw another familiar face push through the back doors. It was Al! Ben hadn’t seen him since his last visit to the hospital, but he seemed to be doing fine. His step was a little slow, but he was getting around just the same.

  To Ben’s surprise, Al stopped and exchanged a few whispered words with Jeremiah Adams. Talk about opposites attracting, Ben mused. What could those t
wo possibly have to discuss?

  There was a commotion in the back of the courtroom. Sheriff Allen and two of his deputies were bringing in the prisoner. As soon as they started down the nave, some of the loggers began to hiss. Epithets were hurled. A few of the men looked as if they might jump out and start a fight, but Sheriff Allen held them in check with a steely look.

  Zak ignored it all. Ben was glad to see him maintaining his composure. He was looking good, all in all. He had gotten the suit Ben had sent over and had the sense to wear it. He’d also had an opportunity to groom himself; he’d cut his hair shorter, shaved, washed. Altered his general appearance from crazed eco-terrorist to Ricky Nelson.

  Sheriff Allen escorted Zak to his chair at the defendant’s table and removed his cuffs. “He’s in your hands now, counselor.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff. And please pass on my thanks again to Deputy Andrews. If it hadn’t been for him, that mob would’ve torn those Green Ragers apart.”

  “Will do.” The sheriff tipped his hat. Ben saw him glancing in Christina’s general direction. “By the way, do you suppose—”

  “Sorry. We work during lunch when a trial is in progress. Probably dinner, too.”

  “Oh. Well. Too bad.” He shuffled into the back of the gallery and found an empty seat.

  Ben turned his attention to his client. “How’re you doing, Zak?”

  “I’m fine. What the hell’s happening to Green Rage?” His forehead was creased with anger.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, first Al, then Rick in the hospital! Rick and Maureen and Tess kidnapped and whipped. Deirdre’s equipment smashed. The camp destroyed.”

  So he’d had a visitor. Someone who’d brought him up-to-date. Ben had intentionally not told him anything; he wanted his attention focused on the trial and the trial alone. “It’s retaliation, of course,” Ben said. “They’re trying to get back at you. Trying to scare you off.”

  “Man, this is unacceptable! I’ve put too much time into this organization. I do not want to see it destroyed.”

  Ben laid a hand on his shoulder. “Zak, I know this is important to you, but it’s not what this trial is about. Right now I need your energy focused on this courtroom. One hundred percent.”

  “I can’t just overlook—”

  “You can and you will,” Ben said as forcefully as possible. “I’m not going to waste my time trying to get you cleared if you’re not going to help. Understand? This trial is going to be plenty tough. I need you pulling with me. Got it?”

  Zak frowned. “Got it.”

  “Good. Now face front and try to look like you just stepped off the set of Leave It to Beaver.”

  Zak smirked. “When do we get started?”

  “Should be any minute now.”

  Christina appeared at his right and deposited a notebook and a tall stack of file folders on the table. “Here’s your trial notebook,” she said, pointing. “I think it’s got everything you need. The list of jurors in the initial pool is up front.”

  “Thanks, Christina. You’re the greatest.”

  She was looking a bit blurry-eyed, but Ben knew she was doing her best to mask it. Granny had finally delivered photocopyable documents on Saturday afternoon. Christina had spent the entire day and most of Sunday trying to catalogue the exhibits and get them into shape for use at trial. In addition to all her usual pretrial duties. He didn’t know when she’d managed to do it all. But he was grateful that she had.

  “Sorry you had to be up all night.”

  She shrugged. “C’est la guerre.” She pointed toward the nearest stack. “These are copies of all the exhibits the prosecution anticipates they might get to on the first day of testimony. We probably won’t get that far, but just in case.

  “And tomorrow’s exhibits?”

  “Done.”

  Ben nodded. Christina was always thorough and prepared—and then some. She really was a treasure. One he probably didn’t appreciate half as much as he should.

  Not as much as Sheriff Allen, anyway.

  “You’re a lifesaver, Christina.” Ben glanced up at her. “Christina, are you … all right?”

  Her forehead crinkled. “All right? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I just wondered if … you know. Everything’s going all right.”

  The crinkles deepened. “What a strange question.”

  “It’s not a strange question. You’re a—a close friend and a coworker. Why is it strange to ask how you’re feeling?”

  “Because I’ve been working with you for years, and you’ve never once inquired into my feelings. Are you feeling all right?”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

  “Good.” She punched him on the shoulder. “Concentrate on the trial, champ.”

  “Right.” Ben glanced at his watch, then out in the gallery. “Excuse me for just a minute.” Ben strolled down the nave till he arrived at the last row of the gallery, right-hand side. Slade was still sitting there, alone. “Come to watch the fruits of your labor?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Slade gazed up with his usual placid, unruffled expression. “I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with this murder.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past you, Slade. When is all this hate-mongering going to stop?”

  “Again, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, I think you do. You promised me something big was going to happen, and sure enough, it did. Now Green Rage has another man in the hospital and their camp has been destroyed. Thousands of dollars of equipment have been ruined.”

  “Green Rage has cost the logging industry millions of dollars.”

  “I’m not talking about lost profits, Slade. I’m talking about dispatching thugs to frighten and torture people.”

  “I have never condoned violence and I never will.”

  “Bull.”

  “It’s true. Violence is inherently counterproductive, as this whole incident has proven. Not twenty-four hours after the Green Rage people were attacked, they struck back against the loggers.”

  “Who then struck back against Green Rage, right?”

  Slade didn’t answer.

  “What’s happened to Tess O’Connell, Slade? Where is she?”

  No one had seen Tess since the day of the last pretrial hearing. Her car had been found on a side street just off Main, smashed into the side of a grocery store. Blood was found all over the steering wheel. But there was no trace of Tess.

  “Where is she, Slade? What have your goons done to her?”

  “Again, I must protest. I know nothing about this … Tess.”

  “Right. Just like you know nothing about the murder of Dwayne Gardiner. I think you’re lying, Slade. And as soon as I have some time, I’m going to get to the truth about you and your nasty organization.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that when I’m done with this trial, you’re next.”

  “You’re going to file some sort of action?”

  “As a lawyer, as a writer—I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. But I am coming after you. I’m going to expose your disgusting little Cabal for the corporate horror it is.”

  Slade leaned forward. His lips thinned, and his voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. “You’re out of your league, Mr. Kincaid. Crawl back to your hole in the prairieland. You’ll be nice and safe there. But don’t mess with me.”

  “Because you’re so strong and powerful?”

  Slade did not break eye contact. “You have no idea.”

  The conversation was interrupted by a booming voice from the front of the courtroom. “Oyez, oyez, oyez. This court is now in session. The Honorable Tyrone J. Pickens presiding.”

  Despite himself, Ben felt a small clutching at his heart. This was it, then.

  The trial was beginning. Ready or not.

  Chapter 34

  THE FIRST ORDER OF the day was jury selection. This was the part of the t
rial many lawyers said was the most important, and the part Ben most hated. When it came to eliminating jurors, he had learned to trust Christina’s instincts—because he had learned to distrust his own.

  After all the work, all the investigation and preparation, witness interviews and evidence examination, document reviews and notetaking and everything else, it came down to this—choosing the twelve people who would sit in that box and decide whether George Zakin lived or died.

  Ben listened attentively as the bailiff pulled names out of a hopper and announced them. Christina jotted the names down on his juror seating chart, then pulled whatever rudimentary information had been provided about each of them in advance.

  “Charles Candy,” the bailiff called out. “Jack Holstein. Nancy Cooper.”

  The names rushed in and out of Ben’s brain. They didn’t mean a thing to him. He focused on watching the people, trying to learn what he could with his eyes. Herbert Coburn was in his sixties, maybe seventies, but he approached the jury box with a slowness that was not related to his age. He didn’t want to be here. Jack Holstein wore his hair longer than the Magic Valley norm, and he looked as if he might be part Native American. Would that make him more sympathetic to Zak’s ecological fervor? It seemed a long shot, but that long shot might be the only one Ben got. Nancy Cooper couldn’t pass through the center aisle of the courtroom without stealing a quick look at Zak. She knew who he was and she knew what case was about to be tried. And Ben got the definite impression she would love nothing more than to see a guilty verdict slapped across his forehead.

  Or maybe he was being ridiculous. Was he trying to read too much into a quick glance? He leaned toward Christina and whispered in her ear. “What do you think about Cooper?”

  “Definitely not,” Christina whispered back, not looking up from her chart.

  Ben beamed. Maybe his instincts weren’t so bad after all.

  He continued watching while the bailiff called thirty-two people up front. Folding chairs were added to the jury box so everyone would have a place to sit. The idea was to have enough people for a jury of twelve with two alternates—after each side had exercised its nine peremptory challenges. If any jurors were dismissed for cause, they would have to call more names.