Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

by C. J. Box

  “Sounds like he likes you,” Brian said to her.

  “We can’t confront him,” she said. “We’ve got to find a way to convince him to come around.”

  “This is headed the same direction Julie Perala suggested,” I said.

  She turned to me. “You can continue to be nice to him, can’t you? At least pretend you don’t hate him until we can figure out how to persuade him?”

  “After what he did to night?” I asked, gesturing upstairs. “He’s not just calculating. He’s evil. I looked into his eyes and got chills.”

  “That’ll play well in court,” Cody said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you know there is no such thing as evil in this day and age? In our politically correct city? Man, you’ve got to get out more.”

  Brian said to Cody, “Some of us call it tolerance and diversity, Cody. It’s thought of as progress.”

  Cody blew out a stream of breath, said, “Progress, my ass.”

  “Please,” Brian said, “let’s deal with the issue at hand, okay?”

  “It’s not Garrett,” Melissa said, ignoring them. “It’s his father. If we could separate them, and I could just talk with Garrett…”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  She said, “Maybe if I talked with him or showed him how much care is required for an infant, it would scare him off. Maybe he needs to see some dirty diapers or throw-up on a bib and he’d realize he’s in way over his head even if his parents are actually raising her.”

  “But he didn’t want to see her,” I said. “There’s a reason for that. You’re assuming he’s reasonable. I didn’t see any of that.”

  “You think he’s evil,” Cody sneered.

  “Garrett doesn’t want to confront the situation in real life,” she said. “He wants to avoid her. Maybe if he actually saw her…”

  “I don’t know,” Brian said, shaking his head.

  I agreed.

  Melissa took a moment to look at each of us in turn. “Guys,” she said, “we need to think of Angelina’s best interests most of all here. If the worst possibly happens, she might end up with them. I’m not saying that should happen, but we can’t just dismiss the possibility out of hand. John Moreland seemed pretty determined to me. And if the worst comes about, I don’t want to poison Angelina’s relationship with them.”

  There were several beats of silence. I was conflicted.

  “You’re amazing,” Brian said to Melissa in a whisper.

  She was. I was astonished she was mine.

  But a cold fear worked its way through my insides. If the worst-possible scenario came true, if the Morelands somehow got Angelina, I knew it would destroy Melissa. And after all we’d gone through, it would destroy us.

  “I won’t let it happen,” I said.

  She looked at me and smiled sadly.

  “I won’t,” I said.

  “Jesus,” Cody said, standing, “I need another beer.”

  “WHAT MORE DO WE KNOW about John Moreland?” Melissa asked rhetorically. “He’s the key.”

  Cody shifted on the couch as if clearing the space around him before he spoke. Brian cut in.

  “I’ve met him a few times. At society functions and charity events. I hate to say it, but he seems like an incredibly normal, nice guy. He’s best buddies with the mayor, and he’s really well connected to both U.S. senators, the attorney general, and even the president. What I’ve heard is he’s on a fast-track to something bigger. U.S. circuit, maybe higher. He just exudes competence and confidence, you know?”

  Melissa shook her head. “We know.”

  “He’s married to Kellie,” I said. “Garrett referred to Kellie as his stepmom. He said his real mother was dead.”

  Brian sat back, screwed up his face. “I’ve seen Kellie. She’s a blond bombshell.”

  “I wonder where the Sureños 13 connection comes in?” Cody said.

  “Anyway,” Brian said, “I can start asking around in my circles. It’s amazing what you can find out about people at a higher level, you know? At cocktail parties and charity events. Get these people a few drinks in them, and all sorts of deep dark secrets start coming out. It’s no different than Helena, you guys—just bigger. Maybe I can find out that he’s not so perfect after all, and we’ll have a little ammunition to go after him.”

  Melissa and I nodded, knowing Brian was an excellent gossip who could dish with anyone on earth. Attractive married women—like Melissa, come to think of it—seemed compelled to spill secrets to him because his delight in hearing them was reward in itself.

  “Be careful you don’t ask the wrong people and have it come back on Jack and Melissa,” Cody said, “or me. I work for the city, and occassionally I have to testify in Judge Moreland’s court. I got to know him when he was a U.S. Attorney and I was working joint task forces.”

  Cody had complained to me over the years that he was frequently assigned to multi-agency task forces involving the feds, state investigators, and the Denver Police Department. He had a problem with the bureaucracy, procedure, and territoriality of the FBI, and clashed with them. But because Cody was good at his job and didn’t care about making friends, he personally broke cases and let the feds take the credit as long as they left him alone. Cody had never played well with others.

  “What’s he like in court?” I asked Cody. “He described himself as tough and fair. And obviously he has a thing about accountability if he’d put his family and ours through this.”

  Cody nodded. “All judges describe themselves that way, so don’t put too much stock in it. But I’d say Judge Moreland loves being a judge, maybe too much. He’s a great judge to have if you’ve got a defendant he hates right out of the box because he’ll throw the book at him. We kind of know which way the decision is going to go right off the bat by the procedural moves Moreland makes to get to the outcome he wants to get to. If he thinks the defendant is a scumbag, he’ll make sure there’s federal prison time. If for some reason he thinks we’ve got the wrong guy, there’s nothing we can do to convince him otherwise.

  “Judges are supposed to hear the arguments,” Cody continued, “research the law, and make a judgment based on the facts presented. Moreland does that, but he prejudges the case, and most of us think he holds himself above the law. That’s great if he agrees with us, but it sucks when he doesn’t. But most of the time he’s procop, and that’s all we care about.”

  Cody said, “I’m testifying in his court tomorrow on the Coates case. You know, the Monster of Desolation Canyon. Maybe you ought to come to the courtroom and see the guy in action. Court’s in session at one.”

  “Will I learn anything?” I asked.

  “You’ll learn what you’re up against,” Cody said in a way that gave me no confidence.

  There were a few uncomfortable beats of silence. Brian broke it, saying, “Garrett is the one, Melissa. Garrett’s got to have some kind of history if he comes off the way you two describe him. I mean, you say he exudes evil, and he shows up to night with a gangbanger. Maybe if we found out more about Garrett, we could convince a court he’s absolutely not father material, despite what Judge Daddy says.”

  Cody nodded. “Might be tough, though. If he’s got a juvie record, it could be sealed.”

  “To a detective?” Brian asked, smiling wickedly. “To the star maverick detective who got fed up with working with the feds and finally arrested the Monster? I bet that detective has ways to take a look at the file.”

  I cautiously checked Cody out. I didn’t want to pressure him.

  “I’ll make some discreet calls,” he said. “But I’ve absolutely got to stay away from any kind of investigation of the judge himself. I’ve got to stay completely clean. Can you imagine what would happen to me and the department if word got out I was investigating a sitting judge on my own? Shit, I’d get sent back to Montana or worse.”

  Brian shuddered. The last place he ever wanted to go was home.

  “Okay then,” Brian
said, a gleam in his eye, slapping his knees. “We have a plan and less than a month to implement it. I’ll find out what I can about the judge, Cody will check on the kid. Jack and Melissa, you keep doing what you’re doing. Hire a good lawyer and fight the bastards as long as you can. In the meanwhile, I think you should swear out a complaint against Garrett and Luis for that stunt they pulled here to night.”

  Cody held up his hand. “If you do that, you can’t implicate me in any way. And I think it’s a stupid idea.”

  “Why?” Brian said, hurt.

  Melissa jumped in. “We don’t want to antagonize Garrett. Not yet. We want to try and win him over first.”

  Brian looked at me with a what-can-you-do? look.

  WHEN BRIAN AND MELISSA went upstairs to look in on Angelina, Cody came out of the kitchen with another beer.

  “You sure you want that?” I asked. “You’ve got to testify tomorrow, right?”

  Cody shrugged and popped the top. “We’re going to nail that Coates son of a bitch. We’ve got the Monster of Desolation Canyon dead to rights. I’m not worried, even though the feds are mad at me for breaking it. But I do hope the judge didn’t recognize me in front of your house. If he knows we’re friends …”

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  Cody took a long pull off the beer, and we sat in silence for a few moments. Then he leaned forward and spoke softly to me. “I know Brian means well, but… well, I can see him running his mouth to all his society friends. They’ll eat this up. And if Judge Moreland hears about a concerted effort to dig up dirt on him or his son, he might really lower the boom on you two—and maybe me.”

  “Meaning what?” I asked, a little angry.

  “Maybe he takes back his offer to get you another baby. That’s a pretty generous offer, Jack.”

  “Melissa would never consider it, Cody,” I said. “Neither would I.”

  “Sometimes you’ve got to get the best deal you can, is all I’m saying. You know I’ve got a son of my own, right?”

  “What?”

  Cody wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Yeah—the result of a little drunken tryst up in Fort Collins when I was working undercover. A barmaid name of Rae Ann. She’s married now to her second husband, but I send her money for little Justin every month. On my salary it’s a hit, but what ever.”

  “You never told us,” I said.

  He shrugged. “It happens. But that’s not my point. My point is Justin and I are getting close now that he’s turned six. Those first five years he was just a baby. He could have been any baby, to be honest. Now he’s a real person, you know? He likes baseball and rocks. But for those first five years, he was just kind of a little fat … thing. Babies aren’t people until they grow up, is what I’ve learned.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t follow.”

  He killed the beer. “I guess I’m saying for a man, babies are babies. You could get another one, and she’d grow up to be a person. Hell, maybe you’d love her more than you love Angelina now. You just don’t know. If you have the chance to get another baby, you and Melissa will raise a winner, is what I’m saying.”

  I saw a flash of red in front of my eyes. “Cody, I think it’s late, and you’re drunk. So shut up. Now.”

  He raised his hand, “I’m just saying …”

  “I know what you’re saying. Stop it. It’s not an option.”

  “You might want to give it some thought, Jack.”

  “It’s not an option.”

  He started to argue more when Melissa and Brian appeared on the stairs.

  “Enough,” I cautioned Cody.

  “Okay,” he said. “So, will I see you tomorrow?”

  At that moment I didn’t care if I ever saw Cody again.

  “Call me,” Brian said to Melissa as he hugged her goodbye.

  “I will,” she said. She was as exhausted as me, and showing it. Tears welled again in her eyes.

  “Too bad we can’t just call Uncle Jeter to take care of things.” Cody laughed. “He’d love to drive down here and kick some ass.”

  I smiled at the thought. Jeter Hoyt was a legend when we were growing up in Helena. One of the reasons no one ever touched Cody, Brian, or me was because Jeter Hoyt was Cody’s uncle, and stories about him were the kind told only in furtive whispers after the storyteller had glanced over his shoulder to see who was in the room.

  When they were gone, Melissa said, “You have some good friends.”

  I said, “We have some good friends.” I didn’t tell her what Cody had said.

  WE’D BEEN IN BED AN HOUR. Melissa had tucked the covers around Angelina and whispered something to her that didn’t come over the monitor. Our daughter’s sleeping breath provided the sound track in our room. I was sleeping fitfully.

  AT 4:00 A.M. I heard the burbling sound of a motor cruising by on the street. I recognized it as Garrett’s car.

  I imagined him out there with Luis, looking at our house as they crawled by, the photo between them on the seat.

  Monday, November 5

  Twenty Days to Go

  FIVE

  ANGELINA WOKE US UP very early Monday morning, but in the most pleasant way possible.

  “Listen to her,” I said. “She’s singing.”

  “It’s not really a song,” Melissa said. “She’s just happy.”

  We listened to Angelina coo and say nonsense words over the monitor. Melissa’s face, as she listened, was a picture of momentary serenity.

  “Did you get any sleep?” I asked Melissa.

  “Not much,” she said.

  “Me either.”

  THE COURTROOM OF JUDGE John Moreland in the Alfred A. Arraj United States Court house on 19th Street was spacious and blond– wood paneled and lit with recessed lighting that created an atmosphere of serious decorum. I got to the crowded courtroom and found a seat in the second-to-last row, just in time to see Detective Cody Hoyt take the stand. Large faded murals done in the Depression era depicting Colorado history—silver and gold miners, railroaders, Pikes Peak—lined the walls. The scenes reminded me that Colorado had a go-go, get-rich-quick beginning that was being replicated by the most recent wave of newcomers—like me—who came here not because of family ties or culture but because there was opportunity.

  The acoustics inside the courtroom were amazing. Despite the size of the room and the number of spectators, I could hear the muffled clicking of the court reporter’s fingers on her keyboard from her desk near the bench, the shuffle of paper as the Assistant U.S. Attorney reviewed her notes on a yellow legal pad, and the labored breathing of the defendant, Aubrey Coates, forty-three, accused of the kidnapping, sexual assault, and murder of Courtney Wingate, age five, who went missing from a playground area at the Desolation Canyon Campground where Coates was employed as a campground host. Because the campground was located within a national forest, the trial was taking place in federal court.

  Although I’d spent some time in courtrooms in Billings as a journalist—I covered the infamous trial where the two Crow Indian brothers and their meth-addict girlfriends went on the weeklong crime spree across southern Montana and northern Wyoming and murdered a ranch couple along the way— Judge Moreland’s courtroom had a slick sense of process about it that probably came from the no-nonsense, clipped way he moved things along. He didn’t shout, or gesticulate, but when he spoke, everyone listened. He was charismatic and in total command. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him in the way one can’t keep one’s eyes off a great actor—Denzel Washington, say—even when he isn’t speaking or the focus of attention. I wasn’t the only one so afflicted. If Moreland raised an eyebrow while a lawyer asked a question, that lawyer got the vapors, and the opposing attorneys acted smug. Of course, I observed him to see if I could learn anything about him, to size him up, to find a weakness. If he saw me enter the room, he showed no sign of recognition. I was still buzzing from the events of the night before. There was a black ball of dread in my belly that
seemed to be pushing upward into my lungs, leaving me short of breath.

  I was seated next to a large and well-dressed black woman in a floral-print dress and with a fleshy wide face who seemed unrelated to the players. I continued to survey the courtroom. Cops, reporters I recognized from local television and cable news, plenty of observers attracted by the lurid nature of the case itself, including, I assumed, my new companion next to me. Then I found myself staring at the back of the head of Aubrey Coates himself, sitting at a table facing the judge.

  “That there’s the Monster,” the woman next to me said, leaning my way. Her bare chocolate arm radiated heat as she pressed into me, and her breath smelled of mint and cigarettes. “He turns around and looks back every once in a while, seeing who is here,” she whispered. “I think he likes the attention because he is a sick, sick man. When he looked at me I gave him one of these …” She instantly sat back with attitude and gave me a wicked dead-eye glare. “That look usually freezes folks where they walk. But he just kind of smiled at me.”

  I’d seen photos of Aubrey Coates in the newspaper. Of course, the photos were prior to his haircut and shave. Now he sat slumped, small, in an ill-fitting suit jacket. He had tufts of gray hair over large ears, and when he turned his head to whisper something to his lawyer, I saw a hawkish and heavily veined nose, protruding lips, and a pointy chin. When he turned back, his bald dome reflected the light from the walls in a checkerboard pattern on the side of his head. I thought of the nature of evil, how sometimes you could just see it and sense it.

  “He did it,” she said, nodding. “No doubt in my mind. And he did a lot more, too.”

  I held out my hand. “Jack.”

  “Olive,” she said, her large hands enveloping mine. “Ask me anything. I know everybody in this room. This is what I do—observe trials.”