“It’s so thick out there, it’s drizzling. Have you seen Corbet this morning?”
“Not yet,” Bremer told him. “It’s early.”
“He was pretty nervous yesterday.”
“He’ll show.”
Hanson opened his briefcase. “How do you want to proceed?” he asked Angelo, the district attorney sitting next to Bremer.
“We’ll start with Reilly. He’s the officer who found the greatest part of Jackson’s stash.”
Bremer looked toward the evidence in a box at his feet. “We’re all set. I think we can call this one ‘in the bag.’”
“Relax,” Lance Bormann grinned. “It’s in the bag.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Max told him. “Where’s an ashtray?” Within seconds of putting out his cigarette, Max had another in his mouth. Perspiration caused deep, discolored circles under his armpits. “Where’s Bert?”
“He’ll be here. Relax, will you?”
Moments later, Lance saw Bert Parker walking toward them with Joe O’Brian at his side.
“Everything ready?” Lance asked Joe, getting high on the familiar tension that always gripped him before entering the courtroom.
“The fog’s pretty thick,” Bert said. “You didn’t tell me a California summer could be like winter.”
“Wait ’til it gets to be over a hundred,” Lance smiled, “then you’ll appreciate this drizzle. It’s time. Let’s go in.”
Oblivious to the cold and damp, Myles sat outside in the parking lot, considering, playing through each scenario he might confront. His main concern was answering without hesitation the questions Lance Bormann would throw at him. He did not want to underestimate anything.
Finally, he left the protection of the car and made his way quickly through the mist to the building. By the time he reached the front door, his clothes were damp, and it was a relief to step into the heated hallway. At the elevators, he checked the directory for the courtroom number.
Just one last push, and it’ll all be over.
For a terrible moment, he relived the afternoon in the ROTC commandant’s office, when he’d been confronted with either jail time or becoming a snitch, the whole nightmare of the last year surrounding two miserable joints given to a member of his squad. A part of his mind wanted to backtrack, to say he hadn’t meant to use Jerry to avoid arrest. He simply hadn’t known anyone else who might be able to get him a kilo of pot. Jerry had always been the one who was more social, who’d had friends from high school who’d turned him on to smoking.
Once again, he hardened his resolve. All those months of dealing with Bremer, the furtive surveillance of homes and people, the late-night phone calls, the fear of unknown situations, the time away from his botanical passions—all over soon. He wasn’t going to have an arrest record, and one day, like his father, he would head the biology department.
The elevator was in use, so he took the stairs down to the courtrooms. He stopped at the bottom landing and checked his watch. 9:50. Ahead, he could see the courtroom numbers … 6 … 7 … Courtroom 8.
Suddenly, he froze, looked closely, and then moved over to catch the profile of the woman not ten yards ahead.
Oh, my God! The words were screamed down a dark corridor of his mind. Somehow, he managed to jump quickly into a doorway. My God, it’s my mother!
Glancing furtively around the corner of the wall, he saw her enter Courtroom 8, chatting with another woman. Isabel Putnam. Jerry Putnam’s mother.
His first frozen fear turned to panic. Had it not been for him taking the stairs and avoiding the elevator, in another few seconds, he would have been face to face with his mother in the courtroom! She would have known … everything.
And so would Isabel.
Isabel had been a second mother to him. What would she say if she knew what he’d done to Jerry? Bremer would still have insisted that he testify. He wouldn’t care who got hurt, as long as he thought he was going to put Jackson away.
Crouched against the wall, he waited for the elevator door to open. In seconds, he was in it, riding upstairs to the entrance, then fleeing the building. He ran into the sprinkling mist without thought of anything, searching frantically for his car.
“All rise, please. Judge Richard Dartmore presiding.”
The time was approximately 10:10. Bremer looked around the courtroom for Myles, stunned.
That fucking asshole, he said to himself. He didn’t show. Isn’t going to show.
A mixture of people filled the courtroom. Max Jackson’s fans had come to support him. In the fourth row, Bremer saw the same young girl who had inadvertently started this entire process, a year older, carrying a bouquet of flowers.
“Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Angelo?” the Judge asked the prosecutor.
“I know this is highly irregular, Your Honor, but may we have ten minutes to confer?”
“Very well. Court is adjourned. For ten minutes.”
Hanson turned to Bremer. “He didn’t show. Maybe the weather.”
“No, not Corbet. He’s always on time.”
“You want to ask for a postponement?”
Bremer glanced beyond Hanson, stalling. “Who are the people at Bormann’s table?”
“His new partner, Bert Parker. And the investigator, Joe O’Brian.”
“Investigator?”
“Supervisor Bremer!” Lance Bormann walked over. “Maybe we should talk. I’ll come to the point. Ten minutes is not much time. I have proof that your informant, Myles Corbet, is being sent into homes specifically to gain evidence to be used to secure search warrants.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Three witnesses who are willing to testify that Myles gained entrance to their homes on a ruse.”
“You mean three criminals?”
“And in Max Jackson’s case, I also believe your informant lied.”
“Not true,” Bremer replied. “We have the contraband as evidence.”
“Only on the search warrant. Not the affidavit. We’re prepared to get to the truth of the matter, Mr. Bremer. The entire matter. Like just why a civilian informant is working for you. Is Mr. Corbet here?”
In truth, Bremer knew they’d lost from the first line of Bormann’s argument. Corbet was useless to them. On the stand, he would be forced into a compromise situation that would endanger numerous other cases. They would never be able to use him again.
“Give us a minute to discuss this,” Hanson told Bormann. “You’ll know the outcome soon enough.”
When Bormann was out of earshot, Hanson turned to Bremer. “We’ll have to drop the charges. I know what this case means to you, Dolph, but we’ve got other cases. Who knows? Maybe Jackson will slip up somewhere, and we’ll have a second crack at him.”
Bremer looked to Bormann’s table and saw the investigator’s triumphant smile. What was his name? O’Brian? Suddenly, that smile congealed into a symbol of everything he hated, all the bullshit that had defeated him today. In the time it took to take several quick breaths, Bremer’s vision became tinged with black spots and points of light. Rarely had he known such fury. The room began to spin around him.
“All rise. Judge Richard Dartmore presiding.”
“Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Angelo?”
“Your Honor. The State drops the charges against Mr. Jackson for … lack of evidence.”
“Very well. Case dismissed.” The gavel hit the bench.
A cheer rose from the onlookers. Handshakes passed around the defendant’s table. Jackson’s lady, Annie, rushed to him, kissing him passionately. The young girl shoved the bouquet of flowers into his arms.
“Let’s go, everyone!” Jackson cried. “Lunch is on me! My restaurant!”
In the hallway outside the courtroom, Bremer watched as Bormann excused himself from the crowd of well-wishers and walked over to where he, Reilly, and Hanson stood.
“Ed,” Bormann said to Hanson, “I hope there are no hard feelings.”
“Win
some, lose some,” Hanson shrugged. “I don’t believe you’ve met Supervisor Bremer. This was his case.”
“Not yet.” Bormann turned to him, laughing. “I know this was a hard case to lose, but I can’t say I’m sorry.”
Bremer looked at him coldly. The man was acting as if they’d just played a college football game. And worse, he presumed that they were colleagues. Bremer looked beyond Bormann to the little group of victors. His hostile stare sent Max and Annie rushing away.
Good. Another time, you punk bastard.
“Who’s the lackey?” Bremer pointed his chin at O’Brian.
“I beg your pardon?” Bormann asked.
“Him. The investigator.”
Bormann shuffled uncomfortably and cast a glance at Reilly and Hanson, who looked equally uneasy.
O’Brian stepped forward, smiling. “Allow me, Lance. I’m Joe O’Brian. My card.”
Bremer looked briefly at the card, and, without touching it, asked, “Is that grin permanent, or do you sometimes wag your tail for Bormann, too?”
“I work for myself,” O’Brian said, still grinning. “Apparently, my work’s too good for you.”
“It’s your kind of work that helps to destroy decency. You think that’s funny?”
O’Brian stopped smiling. “Decency? You’re right, there would be nothing funny about destroying decency. But, quite frankly, I have to question just what decency means to you, Supervisor Bremer. Especially after what I’ve learned about your police tactics. Your personal vendettas dragging down an entire police department. Prison sentences for men and women based on lies. Your total disregard for the due process guaranteed by the Constitution. Your very questionable affidavits. Your abuse of power.” O’Brian’s voice was hard and clear and carried through the hallway. People stopped to listen. “I don’t think your prime motive is to preserve decency, Agent Bremer, and I’m going to make it a point to see that you stay within the letter of the law from now on.”
“Yeah?” Bremer answered loudly, loosening up his shoulders, his hands fisted, the edges of his vision dim again, everything dropping away except the words, this asshole’s presumption to teach him the law, the smirking face, the craving to take the guy down to the floor …
“Dolph.”
Hanson’s voice reached him, penetrated the black fog.
Bremer blinked, looked into Hanson’s uncertain expression.
But O’Brian, like everyone else in the hallway, had seen his fists, read his face.
“Ha!” O’Brian laughed, his eyes shining again. “You still don’t understand, do you? You’ll follow due process, or I’ll destroy you. Not with your weapons—fists and guns. I’ll destroy you and your kind permanently. With my ideas.”
At that, O’Brian turned and, with a wide stride, walked away.
Bormann and Parker looked at each other shakily, then followed O’Brian down the corridor and toward the elevator.
Bremer watched—silent, still, and red faced until the elevator door closed. When he finally moved, he turned to see Hanson and Reilly watching him closely.
“Let’s get going,” was all he managed to say.
MARCIE
HUMBOLDT COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
JULY 1968
By the time Marcie hit Highway 101 driving north toward Humboldt County and the shelter of Greta and Merlin’s home, it was already noon. The Bay had been fogged in all morning, but suddenly, as if a curtain had opened, she burst out of the fog into a bright blue, cloudless sky. The hills on either side of her were dry and golden brown. Wide freeway became a four-lane road through gentle foothills. Black and white cows grazed in the distance. The scent from acres of orchards of ripening fruit blew in the car window. Farther north, the hills became steeper, covered with oak, chaparral broom, and manzanita. Traffic thinned. The sun touched her arm where it rested on the windowsill. The muscles in her shoulders relaxed, and she breathed easier. At last, she was out of the Bay and away from the terror it held for her family. She only wished Richard had come with her.
Ahead, the mountains grew taller until, coming around a bend in the road, she caught a glimpse of the height of the Trinity Alps. For the first time in a long while, a poem began to form.
“I’ll write it down when I get there,” she promised Baby John, smiling and patting his tummy.
The directions to the farm were confusing once she left the highway. The road she’d turned down was unnamed, steep, winding, and dusty. At one point, the lane became so narrow that overgrowth scraped the sides of her doors. Just as she’d decided to turn back for fear of being on the wrong road, the ground abruptly leveled off into a clearing. Ahead stood a small yellow cabin, red roses climbing the porch, and there, waving, stood Greta.
“Oh, Greta! You look wonderful!” Marcie cried. “Let me take the baby! Oh, she’s beautiful! I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for the birth.”
“It surprised us all. It went so quickly I only had time to get the birthing sheets on the bed. Even the midwife didn’t get here in time. Merlin cut the cord, and we were on our own until she arrived! But that’s a whole story. We call her Rosebud—Rosie for short. Come inside. Let’s get you and John out of this sun. Marcie, I’m so glad you’re here!”
The cabin was a small, single-bedroom structure of bright yellow wood with white trim and climbing roses. A tin roof reflected the summer heat. Two old, stuffed chairs sat comfortably on a shaded front porch with a view of an endless ridge of mountains that trailed off into the distance as far as the eye could see.
Marcie snuggled John close to her. “It’s so beautiful … so peaceful …” Overcome with emotion, she began to quietly weep.
“It’ll be alright,” Greta said softly. “We heard things were really heavy in the city. Come inside and tell me everything. I’ve been counting the hours till you got here.”
Greta gave her a quick tour of the small house. The living room was neat and comfortable, a couch and chair, a rocker with a cushion, all around a fireplace, faded oriental rugs covering the floor, a pot-bellied woodstove in the corner. Near a door that led to the kitchen sat an old oak table and chairs. The cabinets in the kitchen were pale yellow, and Marcie wistfully ran her hand over the same painted red flowers and trailing vines that had decorated the kitchen of the Ashbury Street house. On the counter, zucchini and crookneck squash, early tomatoes, green beans, and pea pods filled baskets and one very large bowl.
“Everything smells so good here.”
Greta nodded toward two loaves of whole wheat bread cooling on a wire rack. “I’ve just baked. Ah … listen …” The sound of an engine out front caught their attention. “Merlin’s back!”
Marcie followed Greta to the porch and watched as an old blue truck stopped in front of the cabin. Merlin stepped from the cab with a roar of welcome, wearing only a pair of jeans and boots … and immediately, Marcie knew a difference. He still had his beard and gold-rimmed glasses, his broad Merlin smile, but his braided hair hung down a bare back of dark brown skin and tight muscles, his eyes no longer sleepily stoned but older, his movements confident, speaking of the responsibilities of running a farm and the birth of his daughter.
“Howdy, Marcie!” he called, grinning, cocksure. He gave her a bear hug and a sweaty kiss, then pinched his old lady’s nipple before heading back to the truck for the nanny goat and her kid. “Here’s fresh milk,” he grinned over his shoulder. “Perfect for growing kids, both human and goat.”
“And maybe she’ll eat all the poison oak around the house.”
“By the way,” Merlin said, “I’m going to have to pull up those pot plants in the garden near the house.”
“But they’re doing well!” exclaimed Greta.
“It’s too dangerous. The county’s really uptight because so many hippies have been movin’ into the area. We’re just fornicatin’, dirty animals who use drugs all day. You know the line. There’s been some talk about torchings. If I do need to get the sheriff up here for protection, I don’t want to be ar
rested for what we’ve got growin’ in our garden.”
He tied the goat to the porch, then strung his thumbs into the waistband at the back of his pants. Avoiding Greta’s eyes, he looked out over the mountains. “Robbie thought maybe I should get a gun.”
“Where … where did he get that idea?” Greta stammered.
“From Jaime. All his talk about the torchings. If strangers come here at night, we’re defenseless.”
Greta and Marcie looked at each other, horrified. “We’ve got a small baby in the house,” Greta cried. “If we start using guns, someone may get killed. It’s too dangerous!”
“What’s dangerous is not bein’ protected.”
“Violence draws violence,” Greta argued. “You know we don’t believe in guns. Do you even know how to use one?”
“I hunted a lot with my Dad and my uncle. There’s a big difference between goin’ out and stirrin’ up trouble and havin’ it around in case I need to fight our way out of this firetrap.” He looked from one woman to the other. “I took a lot of risks for this land, ladies,” he said stubbornly. “And I’m not going to have my house burned to the ground.”
“Merlin …,” Greta began.
“I need to think about it. I won’t be forced out,” he said with finality. He walked past them into the house, the smell of earth and sweat and goat heavy with him.
When Marcie finally sat down on the living room couch to change John’s diaper, she began the story of Richard’s kidnapping, barely able to say the words that would cause her to relive it, shaking all the while. “Now we’re just kind of living from place to place,” she told them. “I’m so tired. I want a home again. A place to rest John.”
“You always have a home with us,” Greta assured her. “You and Richard and John. You know that.”
“Come up here and build a cabin.” Merlin took John from her and rocked him gently, rebonding with the baby after the weeks apart. “There’s lots of room.”
A Nation of Mystics - Book II: The Tribe Page 17
