Finally, Quilcene bit. "Unless what?"
Chen grinned. "Unless you come clean now. Before the fingerprints. Before the photomontage. Before the blood. Before you read those police reports with your lawyer and realize we've got your ass and so you better make up some bullshit story to fit the evidence. Juries aren't stupid, Johnny. They see right through that shit."
Brunelle wasn't as sure about juries not being stupid, but he always tried to help them see through the bullshit stories.
"But," Chen wrapped up his sales pitch, "if you tell us your side of the story now, the jury will know you were telling the truth. Hell, the prosecutor will know you're telling the truth, and maybe this never gets to a jury."
"How the fuck does murder not go to a jury?" Quilcene snapped, an incredulous frown on his face.
"When it's not a murder," Chen answered. "Murder is an unlawful killing, Johnny. But self defense is a justified killing. It's not murder. Hell, it's not even manslaughter. It's excusable homicide. You just walk."
Brunelle winced. He understood what Chen was trying to do: trick Quilcene into admitting he was the one who'd shoved that knife into Traver's chest. That would solve the 'whodunit?' part of the case. But Brunelle was still uneasy with coaching Quilcene how to cash in a 'get out of jail free' card. He tried to take solace in the fact that a nineteen year old gang-banger would have trouble claiming self defense against a fifty-two-year-old drunk homeless man.
Quilcene pursed his lips and nodded. He didn't say anything for several seconds. Then he looked Chen right in the eye. "You know what kind of sick asshole he was, man?"
Chen nodded. "We sure do. Child molester. Registered sex offender. Active warrants. A real bad guy."
"Yeah," Quilcene sneered. "Real bad guy. Fucker molested half the kids on my block growing up. Finally went to prison, but got out again and moved right back into my neighborhood. We didn't want his sick pervert ass in our neighborhood, but the cops—fuckers like you who're supposed to protect us—the cops said they couldn't do nothing. Level three fucking child molester in a neighborhood full of fucking kids and you fuckers can't do nothing."
"Did he molest one of the kids in your neighborhood, Johnny?" Lassiter asked. 'Bad cop' was long gone. This was genuinely concerned cop. Brunelle wondered if she had young kids. "Is that why you confronted him?"
Quilcene narrowed his eyes again. "Fucker deserved to die. I'm glad he's dead."
"And…?" Chen encouraged.
"And fuck you," Quilcene answered. "I ain't saying shit more. Fucker deserved it."
Chen leaned back and nodded. "Maybe so. But that's not how the system works."
"Then fuck the system, man," Quilcene practically shouted.
Chen looked to Lassiter then at Quilcene. "You got anything else to say, Johnny?"
"Nope. Fucker deserved it. That's all I got to say. Fucker deserved it. You got anything to say?"
Chen stood up. "Yep. You're under arrest for the murder of George Traver."
Brunelle was relieved Quilcene hadn't gone with Chen's suggestion of a self-defense story. 'Fucker deserved it' wasn't an actual legal defense. It might be true, but Brunelle would be able to give the jury the whole 'no one gets to be judge, jury, and executioner' line. It was clichéd but it was true. Still...
He watched as Chen and Lassiter led Quilcene from the interrogation room.
"Fucker deserved it," Quilcene said one last time.
Maybe he did, Brunelle thought. And despite the law, he knew the jury would sympathize. Damn it.
Chapter 3
Brunelle considered typing 'fucker deserved it' into the search box on the legal research website, but opted for 'justifiable homicide child molester' instead. He clicked the 'search' button and waited while the program scoured the applicable case law.
He'd come in early after only three hours of sleep—a nap, really—to review the available evidence and draft the charging documents. He knew they were going to charge one count of Murder in the First Degree, but he also knew they didn't quite have the evidence yet. Quilcene roughly matched the suspect description and was arrested in the area with blood on his hands, but it had been less than twelve hours since the murder. The 'fat fuckers' in the fingerprint unit were just getting to work; it'd be at least until the afternoon, if not tomorrow, before they confirmed the match. The DNA on Traver's blood would take at least a day longer than that, even with a 'drop everything' rush. And detectives still had to go back out to show photomontages to the witnesses from the night before—if they could even find them, and if they weren't too drunk to remember.
So instead of filing charges, he'd have to ask the judge to agree that there was 'probable cause' to believe Quilcene had committed the crime, and then hold him for seventy-two hours while the evidence caught up with the arrest. Then he could come in and file charges with confidence. It would also give him three days to research, and rebut, the 'fucker deserved it' defense.
The search was done and Brunelle clicked on the first case in the list, but before he could begin reading it, there was a knock on his doorframe.
It was Matt Duncan, the elected prosecutor for King County. Brunelle's boss. Everyone's boss.
"Have you filed charges against Quilcene yet?" he asked.
Brunelle shook his head. "Not yet. We're waiting on some lab results so I'm going to ask for a seventy-two hour hold."
Duncan nodded. "Good. Hold off. We need to talk."
Brunelle didn't like the sound of that. He didn't need Duncan buying off on the 'fucker deserved it' bit. "What is it?"
Duncan grimaced. "Why don't you come to my office? There's a …" He paused, seeking the right word. "A complication."
"That doesn't sound good," Brunelle said as he stood from his chair.
Duncan offered a shrug and a smile. "I learned a long time ago to think of every difficulty as an opportunity."
Brunelle followed him down the hall to his corner office. "How big is this 'opportunity'?"
Duncan turned back as they reached his office door. "Pretty big."
Duncan's office boasted a panoramic view of Elliot Bay, albeit between the other, taller buildings closer to the waterfront. Still, it was a nice view and the furniture was set up to allow visitors to enjoy it as they sat at the large conference table that took up half of the oversized office.
Brunelle sat down and immediately noticed a leather-bound book laying open at the center of the table. He pulled it to him and tipped it closed long enough to read the spine: 'Indian Treaties of the Northwest Territories.'
He looked up at Duncan. "Big, huh?"
Duncan was gazing out the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "Yeah. Big." He turned around and sat opposite Brunelle. "I just got off the phone with the lawyer for the Duwallup Indian Tribe, down by Tacoma. She called me about the Duwallup Tribal Court. Did you know they had a court?"
"I didn't even know they had a lawyer."
Duncan laughed. "Yep. A lawyer—several, in fact—a judge, and a court. And apparently that court was created pursuant to their treaty with the United States government."
Brunelle looked down again at the tome in his hand. "I don't like where this is going," he said. "Quilcene is Native Gangster Blood. They're starting to come up to Seattle. So I know he's Native. Is he Duwallup?"
"Exactly," Duncan sighed. "And so is your victim. George something, right?"
"Traver."
"Right. George Traver. They're both Duwallup Indians."
"Native American," Brunelle corrected.
"What?" Duncan cocked his head at Brunelle.
"Native American," Brunelle repeated. "I don't think we're supposed to say 'Indian' any more."
Duncan frowned. "Their lawyer did. She specifically said 'Duwallup Indian Tribe,'"
"Yeah, it's different when you say it that way, I think." Brunelle looked at the ceiling as he considered. "It's officially the Duwallup Indian Tribe, but you refer to the members of it as Native American, or even just Native."
"Really?"
Brunelle shrugged. "I think so."
Duncan smiled. "I knew you were the right man for the job."
Brunelle leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Crap. What job?"
Duncan suppressed a friendly laugh. "Remember that treaty I mentioned? The one in that book you're trying to ignore right now?"
Brunelle raised an indignant eyebrow. "I'm not trying to ignore anything. In fact, I snuck a peek at the title when you were gazing importantly out the window."
"Well, go ahead and take it," Duncan said. "You're going to want to brush up on Indian Law. Er, sorry, Native American Law."
Brunelle slid the book to the side. "Enough riddles, Matt. What's going on?"
Duncan smiled again, creasing his eyes playfully. "Apparently, that treaty gives the Tribe jurisdiction over crimes committed by one tribal member against another. That's why their lawyer called. To assert that treaty right."
Brunelle ran a hand through his closely cropped hair. "Are you fucking kidding me? I've never heard of anything like that. The murder happened in our county. We have jurisdiction."
"I guess not," Duncan replied. "Their lawyer explained it pretty convincingly. It gives them original jurisdiction to any crime committed by one tribal member against the other."
"Then why hasn't this ever come up before?"
"Turns out, it has," Duncan answered. "About a hundred years ago, right after the treaty was signed. The Tribe asserted the treaty right, but the federal court basically invalidated it. Held that the provision only applied to conduct exclusively on the reservation and not otherwise prohibited by state or federal law."
"Well, I'd say murder is otherwise prohibited by state law," Brunelle pointed out.
"Of course it is," Duncan agreed. "But it was a bullshit decision. The treaty doesn't say anything of the sort. It was just a racist ruling by a federal government that never honored any treaty with any tribe."
Brunelle raised an eyebrow at his boss's impassioned description.
"Their lawyer's words," he explained. "Not mine."
Brunelle nodded. "Of course."
"But it doesn't matter," Duncan went on. "They're asserting the treaty now, and the Bureau of Indian Affairs—or Native American Affairs, or whatever—is backing them. We have no choice."
"You could cite that racist decision as precedent," Brunelle suggested unhelpfully.
Duncan shook his head. "I don't need that kind of press."
"Matt, listen to me." Brunelle leaned forward earnestly. "You can't send a murder case to some rinky-dink tribal court. Do they even have a prosecutor?"
"They do now." Duncan stuck out a hand to shake. "Congratulations."
Brunelle slumped back in his chair and put his hand over his face. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Duncan shook his head. "Afraid not, Dave. No joke. You're going to be our emissary to the Duwallup Tribal Court." Then he looked at his watch. "Oh, shit. You'd better get going. Your co-counsel is expecting you at ten-thirty."
Brunelle peeked through his fingers. "Co-counsel?"
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 hi
s 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.
Tribal Court (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series Book 2) Page 2
