The phone was picked up oh the second ring.
“Hello?”
It was Miller.
“It’s Luke Garrison, Tom.”
“Oh.” A pause. “How are you, Luke? Are you working today? I was in earlier, I didn’t see your car.”
“No I’m not at the office. Actually, Tom, I’m at the entrance to your property.”
“You are?” He was surprised; I’d caught him off-guard.
“Yes. We’ve been out sight-seeing, Riva and me and our kid and a girl who’s working for us. The ladies and my son need to use a bathroom. We’d only be a minute.”
There was a hesitation. Longer than one would have expected, given who I am and the circumstances I’d described.
“Okay,” he said, although I could hear the hesitation in his voice.
“Thanks, Tom.”
I hung up. “Fine with him,” I said to the others. “He’s happy to see us.” I didn’t know if he would be or not, but I didn’t want them to feel uneasy, particularly Joan.
“Potty, Daddy,” Buck called out again.
“It’s happening, champ. Hold your water, one more minute.”
The gate buzzed open. We drove down a long, blacktop driveway. It had been resurfaced recently. At the end of the driveway, Miller’s house came into view: a low-slung affair, mission-style, similar in look to Nora’s house. It was fairly new; the window frames and other such appointments were modern. Quite an impressive place. Parked in front of the garage, alongside Miller’s old Jeep, which I recognized, was a Dodge minivan and a Muir County sheriffs blue-and-tan Ford Crown Victoria.
A couple of huge rottweilers came bounding out from the side of the house as we pulled up. They approached the car aggressively.
“Those are serious dogs,” Riva said. “Those animals mean business. I’m not getting out of this car.”
At that moment, Miller came out of the front door. He waved to us and whistled to the dogs, who sat down on their haunches, eyeballing our vehicle. “Hang on,” he called out. He walked over to the dogs and put them on sturdy chain-link leashes. “It’s okay now.”
We got out. Riva picked Buck up. He loves animals and has no fear. She didn’t want him running over to these brutes and trying to pet them.
“I’ll put these two around back,” Miller said. “Hang on a minute.”
We waited while he disappeared around the back of the house, reappearing dogless a moment later. “They look meaner than they really are,” he told us. “They’re good security—being sheriff, I have to take extra precautions. You get these crazies out there, they feature taking a potshot at an authority figure is part of the drill.”
We followed him inside. The interior was done in a rustic, masculine fashion. Leather furniture, several California plein-air paintings by well-known artists. There was serious money in this house.
Miller pointed to a doorway off the front foyer. “The guest bathroom’s right there.”
“Here we go, Buck,” Joan said. She walked him into the bathroom.
“There’s another toilet off the kitchen you can use,” Miller told Riva.
“Thank you,” she said, heading in that direction.
I looked around the living room. It was large, Western-style, with a high, wood-peaked ceiling. As I looked around, Miller’s deputy Bearpaw came out of the study that was located off the back side of the living room.
“Mr. Garrison,” he greeted me heartily. “How’re you doing?”
“Doing fine, thanks.”
“Out for a little weekend drive?”
“You’ve got it.”
I like him. Straightforward, seems to be professional. He has a healthy distrust of outside enforcement agencies encroaching on his turf, something he’s learned not only from his boss, but from firsthand experience, the compound raid being the most egregious example.
A woman trailed him out. Also Native American, wearing jeans, blouse, expensive cowboy boots. A good-looking woman, somewhere in her middle age. She could have been forty-five, or she could have been a decade older. She looked at me quizzically.
“This is Louisa Bearpaw,” Miller said, “Wayne’s mother. Louisa, Luke Garrison.”
“Hello,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
She helloed me back, shook my hand. Her handshake was firm. She gave me a good sizing-up look. “You’re the special prosecutor.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Louisa and I are old friends, going back a long time,” Miller said. “She’s a tribal elder of the White Horse Nation, north of here.”
“That’s a coincidence,” I told them. “We were just up there.”
As the woman shot me a quizzical look, Joan and Buck emerged from the front bathroom.
“Hey, Joan,” Wayne said, friendly.
“Hello, Wayne,” she answered shyly. She looked over at Louisa. “Hello, Mrs. B.”
“Hello, Joan. You with these folks?”
“I’m working for them. Helping take care of this one,” she said, picking Buck up and swinging him toward the ceiling.
“I thought you had a job up on the reservation,” Mrs. Bearpaw said. Her tone said she disapproved of Joan’s working for Anglos in town; so I thought.
“It dried up,” Joan explained.
The woman seemed upset with that explanation. “We need jobs of our own for our own young people,” she explained to us. Turning to Miller, she said, “Can we continue this tomorrow?”
“Yes, we can do that,” he answered.
Riva joined us in the living room. “Whew, I feel much better.” Spying Wayne’s mother, she stuck out her hand. “Riva Garrison.”
“Louisa Bearpaw.”
Another handshake. Mrs. Bearpaw’s formality was impressive, if slightly intimidating.
“I hope you’re enjoying your stay up here,” Louisa said in an attempt to be gracious. “I understand you were up on our reservation earlier today.”
Riva nodded. “We took Joan home to get some things.”
Louisa turned to Joan. “How’s your mother?”
“She’s fine.” The girl clearly was cowed by this woman.
“Well, I’ll be seeing her later today or tomorrow, I reckon. Anything you want me to tell her?”
“No, ma’am.”
The woman picked up her purse. “Nice meeting you all. We’ll see you again, I’m sure.”
As she walked out, she called back, “Wayne, you coming?”
“Yeah, Mama, I’m right behind you.”
He gave Joan a wink, which caused her to color noticeably, and followed his mother out the door. We heard two cars firing up, two sets of tires squealing down the driveway.
“I’ll show you around,” Miller said after the front door closed on the Bearpaws, mother and son. “It’ll have to be the nickel tour, I’m in the middle of my other job.”
I looked at him strangely. “What other job?”
“Making money.” He grinned, showing his bridge.
We walked around his house. It was quite a spread. There was a large master suite complete with Jacuzzi tub, a couple other well-appointed guest bedrooms, and a television viewing room that featured a large-screen projection TV.
“Would you like to watch some cartoons?” Miller asked Buck, bending down so his face was at Buck’s level.
Buck nodded eagerly. That’s one word he’s known for a long time. Miller clicked on the television, flipped the channels to a cartoon show.
“I’ll stay here with him,” Joan volunteered quickly. She didn’t feel comfortable in Miller’s presence, I could feel the nervousness coming off her.
We left the two of them engrossed in Sylvester and Tweety bird and followed Miller through the rest of his house, which included a wine cellar and a shop. The cellar was well stocked, and the equipment in the shop had to be worth at least twenty thousand. There was also a small workout room, outfitted with a treadmill, a Nordic Track, rowing machine, and Universal gym.
“You get to be my age,
you’ve got to work harder at staying in condition,” Miller said as we complimented him on his stuff.
We were back in the main body of the house. “Here’s where I work at my second job,” Miller said as he led Riva and me into his study off the living room. The study was a small, intimate room—whitewashed walls, high-pitched ceiling, shining hardwood floors. Two computers were side by side on a long oak desk—state-of-the-art Dells, each with big nineteen-inch screens. Both running, spreadsheets on one, some kind of market analysis on the other.
“Nice computers,” I commented. They were a hell of a lot better than the ones we were using in town, including the ones in his own office, which were ancient Macs.
“I’m a freak for this stuff,” he said, his eyes brightening. “I’ve had these two a couple of months, and I’m already ready for newer ones. They’re all obsolete the minute you take them out of the box. But they do the job.”
“Were you working on something with the lady who just left?” Riva asked. She can put her nose right into it. Sometimes it’s spontaneous, sometimes it’s calculated—she can ask questions I can’t and get away with it, because she’s not a professional, as far as someone like Miller knows. In fact, she knows the law and its twists and turns well, from her bail-bonding days.
Miller glanced over at me. “Yes, I was, as a matter of fact.”
He moved to the front of the machines and casually but deliberately cleared both screens.
“With the tribe’s gambling idea?” Riva asked. “She’s one of the tribal elders, isn’t she?”
A frown momentarily crossed his face. “Yes, she is.” He paused. “What do you know about this gambling thing?” He was trying not to sound concerned, but he wasn’t entirely succeeding.
“That the tribe wants to buy the compound from the government and turn it into a little Las Vegas,” she said.
“Oh,” he said casually. “How’d you hear about that?”
“Everyone knows about that,” I said, stepping in. I didn’t want my wife exposing herself too much on my behalf; she’d opened the door, I could take it from here.
“Yeah,” he said. “Well, they are.”
“And you’re helping them?”
“I give them my opinion, for what it’s worth.”
Riva put a hand on my arm. “I’m going to go in with Joan and Buck. Come get us when you’re done. Nice seeing you,” she said to Miller. “You’ll have to come over for dinner one of these nights.”
“I’d look forward to that.”
She excused herself. I looked around the study. “I’d say your opinion’s worth plenty, judging by the way you live.”
“I do all right,” Miller said offhandedly. “It’s only been over the past decade, but I’ve managed to make some money. A little bit goes a long way up here.”
Nora had told me that, too, which I knew was true. Still, though, I couldn’t see this level of living on a county sheriffs salary, particularly a county as poor as Muir County, even with an FBI pension thrown in.
He was reading my mind—the question had come up before. “High tech.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tech stocks. That’s what I’ve invested in over the past ten years.” He smiled like a cunning old fox. “Offhand, do you know what ten thousand dollars invested in Dell Computer in the early nineties is worth today?”
“Plenty, I’m sure.”
“Over five million dollars. From a ten-thousand-dollar investment.”
My jaw dropped. Literally, almost.
He grinned—he’d seen the envy and surprise on my face. “Microsoft, Intel, AOL, Amazon.com. I’m into all of them. It’s been a wild ride, but I’ve done pretty well, I’d have to admit.”
Pretty well was an understatement for the ages. The man was living like a multimillionaire, which in fact he was, to my astonishment. Every time I thought I had this old man pegged, he pulled another rabbit out of his hat to confound me. “You should have the tribe investing in those stocks, instead of gambling,” I suggested. “If you’re their investment guru, which it sounds like you’re certainly qualified to be. Hell, I should give you some of my money to invest.”
He shook his head self-deprecatingly. “I lucked out. If I’d lost the savings I put into the market, I’d still have my salary and my pensions. It was a flier that paid off. But those days are over, that kind of multiplication. Besides, the tribe can control gambling. It’ll be on their property, unregulated by anyone.”
“Except for the unsavories that’ll be right in behind them,” I put to him directly.
“Except for them,” he agreed without flinching.
I pushed the conversation forward. “How do you feel about that? Being the head lawman in the county?”
“I don’t like it. No one in law enforcement that I know likes gambling. Do you?”
“No.”
“Well, we’re in accord there.” He paused. “You were up on the reservation this morning, so you’ve seen how these people live.”
“Yes.”
“It’s abysmal.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Which would be worse for them?” he asked. “Living in abject poverty, or having to fend off outside gambling interests?”
I didn’t have to answer that question. We both knew what it was.
Riva gave Joan the evening off. Buck was tired—it had been a long day for him. He went to sleep without a whimper.
“Quite a day,” I declared. We were having supper. “From the outhouse to the penthouse.”
She nodded. “Those poor people out on that reservation. What a crappy way to live. I hope that casino idea comes through for them.”
I gnawed at a piece of French bread. “I wonder how they’re going to come up with the money to buy that compound. You saw what I saw—this tribe doesn’t have a dime to its name.”
“Maybe they’re going in business with another tribe. One that has made it big on gambling.”
“That makes sense,” I agreed. “Since it’s the biggest thing the tribes in California have going for them now. About the only thing, according to their television commercials.”
She placed a tender hand on mine. “I know you’re opposed to gambling, honey, but they need money. They shouldn’t have to live that way. No one should.”
“I agree,” I said with a heavy heart. “No one should.”
PROSECUTION
JURY SELECTION TOOK THREE days, which wasn’t long, given the seriousness of the indictment against Jerome. A surprising number of people in the jury pool didn’t know enough about the raid and the killing to have preconceptions that would bar them from rendering a fair verdict. It’s an insular world we live in now, with television and computers taking the place, more and more, of real human contact.
I was satisfied with the jury. No one on the panel had ties to law enforcement, had family members or close friends who were cops, and because of that might look favorably at a law officer killing an alleged criminal. More important, two people on the jury had Spanish surnames, and two were Native Americans. I figured those four would not be inclined to go for an Anglo cop killing a Latino, regardless of the evil of the victim’s record.
Since we’d completed selecting the jury and alternates by Thursday afternoon, Judge McBee recessed until Monday morning, when I’d present my opening statement. He gave the jurors the usual admonishments about not reading anything about the trial, not watching any television shows about it, not talking to anyone—each other, family, or friends—about it. Then he sent us all on our way, wishing us a restful weekend.
I spent Friday and Saturday in the office, reviewing my notes. I was in good shape. My witnesses were lined up, my facts were in order. I knew who John Q. was calling, I had his list. I didn’t see any surprises on it. Mostly character witnesses, and people who had been there that night, both DEA agents and members of Juarez’s gang. Some of our witnesses overlapped, which is unusual but not unknown.
Saturday afternoon, as I was
about to wrap up and go home, Kate stuck her head in the door. She’d just arrived from Santa Barbara. I wouldn’t need her until later in the week, when I’d want her around to hand-hold the witnesses she’d interviewed, particularly Diane Richards, but she wanted to be present for my opening statement.
“How’s it going, chief?” she sang out.
“Good as I could hope for,” I answered in cheerful kind.
“That’s what I like to hear.” She dropped into the chair across the desk from me. “Anything last-minute you need looking into?”
I started to say, No, everything’s cool, when a thought came to me. “There is one thing.”
She perked up. “What’s that?”
“One of the local Indian tribes wants to buy the compound from the government. They want to turn it into a gambling casino, a resort for high rollers.”
She scrunched up her face. “Way up here? Does that make sense?”
“I don’t see it, but they do. That’s their decision, it’s not my business.”
“Then…?”
“I was up there last weekend. We have this girl working for us who’s from there. Helps Riva with Bucky. It’s a poor reservation, from what I could see they don’t have a pot to piss in, let alone enough to buy an expensive piece of property.”
“You’re interested in where they’re getting the money.”
“Their reservation abuts the compound. I’m wondering if—”
“There’s a tie between them and Juarez’s operation?” she said, finishing my sentence for me. We’ve worked together enough that she can read my mind sometimes.
“Exactly.”
“You think Juarez was laundering money through this tribe?”
“I don’t, really, but I’d like to know for sure. It’s been nagging at me.”
“I can check it out. What would it have to do with this case?”
“Nothing directly,” I admitted. “I can’t see where there’d be a connection.”
“Although Jerome does have that mystery bank account.”
“That wouldn’t tie into this. They need money; if they were involved with Juarez and were moving his money for him, they sure as hell wouldn’t be sending it Jerome’s way.”
Above the Law Page 37
