Tribal Court (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series Book 2)

by Stephen Penner

  O'Brien shrugged. "Perhaps so."

  Talon nodded again and pressed her hands together. Her nails were perfect, a French manicure but with red tips instead of white. Bloodied claws.

  "So let me ask you this." She moved in for the kill. "Since you're here to tell us how we should feel about ourselves, do you know what it feels like to be the only dark person in the room?"

  O'Brien started to answer, not realizing his answer wasn't the point.

  "Do you know what it feels like when someone stares at you, trying to figure out, not who you are, but what you are? How do you feel, sir, when someone asks if you're Asian? Or Filipino? Or Hispanic? And it doesn't even occur to them that you're Native?"

  "Yes, well…" O'Brien tried, but to no avail.

  "How do you feel, Professor William O'Brien, Ph.D., on Thanksgiving, when this country pretends to celebrate the one time they didn't slaughter your ancestors, and you turn on the TV only to see the Cowboys play against the God damned 'Redskins'?! How does that make you feel, professor?"

  O'Brien sat silently for several seconds, staring at the very beautiful and very angry woman in front of him. "I don't know how that feels."

  "Damn right you don't." Talon spun on her heel and strode back to counsel table. "No further questions."

  Chapter 40

  "How goes trial?" Chen asked over the phone.

  "Oh, swimmingly," Brunelle answered as he stood on his hotel room balcony watching the city lights twinkle off the water. "My Indian expert is a racist. Did you know that?"

  "So are you," Chen jabbed. "They're Native Americans, not Indians."

  "Don't you start too," Brunelle chided as he took a bite of last night's pizza. "Now, you got any news for me?"

  "Nothing yet," Chen admitted. "I double checked the property sheets and interviewed every property room officer. No one looked at the property or even requested it after you and I did our viewing."

  "So what happened? Inside job?" Brunelle suggested. "Someone in the property room playing a joke?"

  "Not a very funny joke," Chen observed. "I don't think that's it."

  "So what do you think it is?" Brunelle could hear that 'I've got an idea' tone in Chen's voice.

  "I'll tell you after I prove it," Chen replied.

  "What if you don't?"

  "Then I don't tell you," Chen explained. "You don't get a rep as a premier detective by telling everyone all your half-baked theories that don't pan out."

  "Larry?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I hate to tell you this, but that's not your rep."

  "You liar," Chen laughed. "You didn't hate to tell me that."

  Brunelle took another bite of pizza and shook his head. "How about our other issue?"

  "Hernandez?"

  "Yeah."

  "Still on life support," Chen reported. "But still alive too."

  Well, that's all I can ask for, I guess."

  "That, and an expert who's not racist," Chen joked. "Like you are."

  Brunelle almost managed a laugh. "Thanks, pal. I'm going to hang up now."

  There was a pause, then Chen said, "Call her."

  "Who? The defense attorney? Man, did you notice how hot she w—"

  "No, dumb ass. Not the defense attorney."

  "Oh."

  "Call her. Keep calling her."

  Brunelle nodded, but was glad Chen couldn't see it. "Goodbye, Larry."

  Chapter 41

  The remainder of Brunelle's case-in-chief was decidedly less interesting, but it had to be done. Everyone knew Quilcene was the killer, but Brunelle actually had to put on the evidence to prove it. So there was a parade of technical witnesses. Forensics officers who collected evidence, like the knife and the swabs of blood from Quilcene's hands. Fingerprint analysts who linked Quilcene to the knife. The crime lab scientist who confirmed the blood on Quilcene's hands was Traver's. Plus a few patrol officers who filled in the gaps of the investigation. He never did manage to find an eyewitness to the murder. The only ones who claimed to have seen it were either too drunk to remember, or long gone.

  True to form, Talon knew these witnesses were necessary for Brunelle, but not necessary to cross. It was Traver's blood on her client's hands. What was she going to ask? So while it was a tad boring, with minimal cross, it went quickly. Brunelle rested his case on Thursday confident he had proved Quilcene killed Traver, but less sure the jury would label it murder.

  He was glad to be done. It was always a relief to rest the case. Plus, he was—out of professional respect and curiosity—looking forward to seeing what Talon put on. As it turned out, he had to wait one more day.

  "We will stop early today," Judge LeClair announced when Brunelle rested shortly after lunch. "And begin first thing in the morning with Ms. Winter's opening statement to the jury. Court is adjourned."

  As the judge and jurors and spectators and media began to file out of the courtroom, Talon came over to where Brunelle was collecting his things.

  "Ready to get your ass kicked?" she teased.

  Brunelle feigned a pained expression and rubbed his backside. "I thought you did pretty well just cross examining my witnesses. My ass is pretty sore already."

  Talon looked at his ass and smile, a bit enigmatically, he thought. "That's just the beginning, Dave. I promise."

  "You still going with that loser defense of justifiable homicide?" he asked as he closed his briefcase. The question was part conversation, part preparation. He certainly wouldn't mind knowing what she was going to say in advance of her saying it.

  Talon grinned, her lips red and full. "You know that's never really been the defense, Dave."

  Brunelle cocked his head. "I'm pretty sure you endorsed that defense way back at our first meeting with the judge. Before the arraignment even."

  "Don't play dumb, Dave," she replied, crossing her arms. It still made his heart race every time she said his name. "We both know the real defense. The real reason I'll win this case is because he deserved it. Hell, your detective admitted as much. The jury will want to acquit my guy. They just need an excuse. Blood revenge is that excuse."

  Brunelle smiled, but didn't say anything. The smile had two sources. First, Talon really was one hell of a lawyer. She knew the secret to successful trial work was giving the jury an excuse to do what they want to do anyway. The second reason was that he had buried a bomb under her defense—one he wasn't going to detonate until closing arguments, when he could also remind the jury that it didn't matter a damn what they wanted to do, they had a duty to follow the law.

  Talon saw the smile. "I know you don't think much of the defense. It grabs the attention, but it's too complicated, what with all that trying to figure out what the tribal law on blood revenge was at the time the treaty was ratified and how to apply it now and blah, blah, blah."

  Damn. She's even pretty when she says, 'Blah, blah, blah.'

  "Well," Brunelle forced out the thought, "I have confidence in your ability to explain it to the jury."

  Talon winked. She actually winked. His heart swelled and he hoped he wasn't starting to blush. "Thank you, kind sir. So do I. But, just in case a few of them don't get it, I'll be giving them at least one more reason to acquit."

  Brunelle frowned. He could guess what she was going to do. "You have to give me advance notice of a self defense claim, you know. Not spring it on me after I rest."

  Talon laughed. Damn, he liked that laugh. "It's not a full self defense claim, Dave. I'm not going to ask the judge to explain it or instruct on it. Hell, that's even more confusing than justifiable homicide. But I imagine when my poor little client testifies—"

  "Your poor little murderous gang-banger," Brunelle corrected.

  "When my poor little client," Talon insisted, "testifies, he might just mention how much bigger and meaner and drunker Traver was that night. How he'd heard all the terrible things Traver had done. How he just didn't know what else Traver was capable of."

  "He molested pre-schoolers behind closed
doors," Brunelle pointed out. "He was a coward. He wouldn't take on a nineteen-year-old gang thug."

  "Exactly," Talon agreed. "Unless he was armed. Which is why my poor, innocent client thought he was reaching for a weapon." She narrowed her eyes as her lips curled into that tiger's smile. "It was so dark that night."

  "Pioneer Square is practically flood-lit on a Saturday night," Brunelle pointed out.

  "So dark," Talon repeated, raising her hands to her mouth in faux-terror, "and so big and so dangerous. And oh! Is he reaching for a weapon? Whatever shall I do?"

  Brunelle crossed his arms. "Are you going to testify for him too?"

  Talon laughed again. That sexy damn laugh. "Oh, no. He's going to do way better than that."

  "Great."

  "I think," Talon purred, "your ass may never stop hurting."

  "So, you starting with him?" Brunelle wanted to know what to prep for the morning.

  "Nope. Better. Way better."

  "Who?"

  "Caitlyn's mommy. I need to remind the jury why they want to acquit."

  Chapter 42

  "My client, Johnny Quilcene, killed George Traver."

  Talon began her opening statement quietly. Her hands were clasped in front of her conservative, dark gray suit and cream-colored blouse.

  "But he didn't murder him."

  "Objection," Brunelle jumped on it. "Argumentative."

  He knew he was right and the objection should be sustained. He also figured it wouldn't be. Might as well test the waters at the beginning.

  "Overruled," LeClair said, barely looking at him. "You may continue Ms. Winter. And try not to interrupt any further, Mr. Brunelle."

  Brunelle nodded. If that wasn't going to be sustained as argumentative, nothing was. No point in objecting any more. At least, he could relax and enjoy the show.

  "The evidence," Talon continued, "which Mr. Brunelle put on about the facts of this case is true. But it was incomplete. My client did stab George Traver. He did leave the knife behind. Those were his fingerprints on the knife. That was Mr. Traver's blood on his hands. And he did say that Mr. Traver deserved it."

  She paused.

  "And he did."

  "Obj—" Brunelle started. Then, looking up at LeClair. "Never mind. Sorry. Automatic reaction."

  Talon glared at Brunelle for a split second, then turned her confident half-smile back to the jury. "He did deserve it. Not in an abstract, 'people get what they deserved instant karma kind of way of deserving something. No. He deserved it under the law. The killing was justified."

  She waited a moment, glancing at Brunelle to see if he might object again. The judge looked at him too. He peered up from his notepad long enough to shake his head slightly. He was done objecting. It wouldn't do any good, and the jury would get sick of him continually interrupting. Besides, his expert had testified and, blistering cross exam notwithstanding, the jury would view everything Talon said through the prism of his testimony.

  Talon returned to her presentation. "This case is here in this court with you good people as jurors because of a treaty signed decades ago between our sovereign nation—"

  'Our,' Brunelle noticed. Nice touch.

  "—and the government of the United States. And because of that, you will get to apply our tribal law as it existed then. Including the law of blood revenge.

  "Now, you've already heard from the prosecution. Mr. Brunelle drives down from Seattle to tell you what your culture is. To help him, he brings an Irish-German professor from Iowa to tell you what your culture is. But you know what, ladies and gentleman? Don't let these outsiders tell you what your culture is. You know it already. You know what's right and you know what's wrong. What's wrong is what happened to Caitlyn. And what's right is what happened to George Traver."

  Brunelle scanned the faces of the jurors to see their reaction to that assertion. He hoped someone would cross their arms, or look away, or frown. But nothing. All faces remained fixed on Talon. So he looked back at her too.

  "You're going to hear from several witnesses. You'll hear from Stacy Quilcene, Caitlyn's mother. She'll explain exactly how Traver's crime against Caitlyn impacted her family. Then you'll hear from a real expert on our culture, Doctor Joseph Red Deer. He not only holds the academic credentials, but is Native himself.

  "And finally you'll hear from my client, Johnny Quilcene. He will testify about what his sister Stacy told him. And worse: what his niece Caitlyn told him. He'll tell you he reported the incident to the police but they did nothing."

  Brunelle looked up from his note-taking. That was the first he'd heard about Quilcene ever reporting the molestation.

  "Johnny will tell you that he went up to Seattle to confront George Traver. He'll tell you Traver admitted he molested Caitlyn. He refuse to apologize. In fact, he laughed about it."

  Brunelle doubted that was true, but such was the dilemma of having no witnesses to the argument. Quilcene could say whatever the hell he wanted, with no worry he would be contradicted.

  "And so," Talon continued, "Johnny chose the option bequeathed to him by his—by our ancestors. He avenged what happened to his sweet, innocent, defiled niece."

  Talon paused. All eyes, even Brunelle's, were on her.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, at the end of this trial I will stand up again and ask you to affirm our culture, and our traditions, and our law. I will ask you stand up against what's wrong and stand up for what's right. I will ask you to help avenge the murder, not of George Traver, but of Caitlyn Quilcene's innocence.

  "I will ask you to render the only just verdict in this case: not guilty. Thank you."

  Not bad, Brunelle thought. But not great either. He still had a chance.

  Time to see what Caitlyn's mom had left to say.

  Chapter 43

  There was no good way to cross examine the mother of a child molestation victim.

  Brunelle knew Talon called her first because her whole case was built on painting him and O'Brien and Chen and Kat and everyone else as outsiders. As people who just didn't understand. Or, more importantly, didn't care.

  So, while there was a definite value to the defense in the information Talon would elicit during her direct examination, the real prize for Talon would lay in Brunelle's vigorous and heartless cross examination of the broken-hearted mother of the real victim in the case.

  "Please remind the jury," Talon started as Stacy sat in the witness chair, "who you are and how you're related to the case."

  "Stacy Quilcene," she answered, her demeanor at once more relaxed and more sympathetic than when Brunelle had called her. "My brother is the defendant. My daughter was molested by George Traver."

  "I'm sorry for that," Talon said.

  Stacy looked down. "Thank you."

  Brunelle managed not to roll his eyes. It was a nice touch—likely rehearsed. He thought it was maybe a bit too much. But he would have done the same thing.

  "When did you tell your brother," Talon moved on, "about what happened to Caitlyn?"

  "Right after she told me," Stacy answered, starting to tear up already. "I— I was just so shocked. I had to tell someone, so I called Johnny. He's the one we all call if we need something. He takes care of us."

  With money his gang makes selling drugs and chopping cars, Brunelle thought. He jotted a note about that. Just because he wasn't going to defend Traver's character didn't mean he couldn't attack Quilcene's.

  "How did Johnny react when you told him?"

  Stacy shook her head. "He was great. He reacted just right, you know? The first thing he did was check on Caitlyn. He told her he loved her and it wasn't her fault."

  "Good for him," Talon said.

  Wow. Brunelle decided not to object to Talon's commentary. He wanted to, but he knew the jury would think he was being mean.

  "Did Johnny mention anything about confronting Traver, or settling the score, or anything like that?"

  "Not at first, no. His first concern was Caitlyn. Then me. I was a wreck. I cou
ldn't stop crying. I'd failed my baby. I let this happen. I was supposed to protect her and I didn't."

  Then she totally lost it. Deep, loud sobs filled the courtroom as Stacy's pain and guilt spilled out for all to see.

  "Do you need a moment?" Talon asked.

  But Stacy couldn't even respond. Brunelle expected the judge to call a recess for her to compose herself, but he didn't. They just sat there, listening to the wails of a broken mother until she could calm down enough to speak again.

  Talon handed her some tissue and waited patiently until Stacy finally stopped crying—audibly, at least—and wiped her nose, and squeaked, "I'm sorry, I think I can go on."

  "Don't be sorry," Talon replied. "Don't ever be sorry. It wasn't your fault. It was Traver's fault."

  "Objection, Your Honor," Brunelle finally felt compelled to say. "Counsel keeps commenting on the testimony, rather than asking questions."

  LeClair frowned. "I'm going to allow some leeway, given the nature of the testimony. But do try to limit your comments, Ms. Winter."

  "Yes, Your Honor," Talon replied. "I am trying."

  Brunelle sat down again, not sure whether that exchange had helped or hurt him. Poor Talon. She just can't help but care. Puke.

  "So Johnny took care of Caitlyn and he took care of you," Talon reminded the jury. "Did he call anyone?"

  "Y-yes," Stacy sniffled. "He called the cops."

  "Did they come out and take a report?"

  "Yeah, like two days later," Stacy practically spat. "Some detective who told us that they'd never be able to prove it because Caitlyn was too young to testify. He was real jerk. Some old guy with a mustache a bunch of stripes down his sleeve. He said we should have taken her to the hospital right away for a rape exam, but it was too late now. But if they'd told us that when Johnny called, instead of waiting two days, we would have done that."

  "So the police weren't very helpful then?"

  "Hell no."

  "Was it the tribal police?"

  "Yeah," Stacy answered. "'Cause it happened on the reservation."