Trial by Blood

by William Bernhardt

  “Can and did. But let me warn you—this guy is not your average prosecution witness.”

  “You think they used him to plant evidence?”

  “You tell me. After you’ve chatted with him.”

  “Got it.” He noticed Garrett’s fingers inching slowly back to the keyboard. “Anything else going on? Anything...I should know about?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Which generally means yes.”

  Garrett craned his neck, then shrugged slightly. “I just...can’t help but wonder if we’re taking the correct approach here.”

  “You think representing Ossie is a mistake.”

  “You can’t always pick your client, right? Mr. K wanted us to represent the kid and we accepted the case. Whatever reservations I might have had are no longer relevant. Once I’m in, I’m all in.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But. I am concerned about the ramifications of getting on the wrong side of Conrad Sweeney.”

  “He’s vile, Garrett. Manipulative. Evil.”

  “I don’t know that. What I do know is that he’s a respected citizen and has probably done more for this city than any other single individual.”

  “Every charitable act gets him something in return.”

  “The same could be said for any philanthropist. We all have private motivations that drive us to do what we do.”

  “This is different. Sweeney has no moral compass. He doesn’t mind committing crimes—and letting others take the fall. He manipulates the legal system.”

  “You have no proof of that. There are no charges pending against him.”

  “Because he does everything through minions. Makes sure nothing can be traced back to him.”

  “The fact that nothing can be traced to him could suggest that he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “I know better. He’s destroyed evidence. Bribed witnesses. Set people up for—”

  “Is this about your father?”

  That stopped him short. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you, though? You have some seriously unfinished business going on with respect to your family history, and one of the figures in this case, Bradley Ellison, was involved in it. I can’t help but wonder if you’re demonizing Sweeney to mentally exonerate your father.”

  “My father was completely innocent.”

  “I know you believe that, Dan. But he was convicted by a jury. It was a tragedy for you and your mother. But you can’t go on acting as if everyone who played any role—including the entire criminal justice system—is evil and corrupt because your family suffered.”

  His teeth tightened. “The people who put away my father were corrupt. To the core.”

  Garrett slowly exhaled. “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Of course I’m listening. Just because I don't agree doesn’t mean I’m not listening.” He wrapped his arms around his chest. “Sounds like you want out of this case.”

  “No. But I am wondering if you can be completely objective. Maybe this is one you should let someone else handle.”

  “You don’t think I can cut it?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Maybe you want me to throw the case.”

  “Of course not. I would never.”

  “Maybe you’re on Sweeney’s payroll!”

  Garrett straightened, silent. They both stared at each other for a long moment.

  He knew he shouldn’t have said that. “Look—”

  “If you seriously believed that, even for a moment, we can’t work together.”

  “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t get where you’re coming from. This case—”

  “You need to get a grip, Dan. Figure out what’s going on in your head and deal with it. This is a bad case and it’s only going to get worse. Your blind spots will end up losing it. You’re no good to Ossie like this. You’re no good to anyone.”

  Garrett switched off the keyboard and walked away.

  Well. Damn everything to hell. This was turning into a terrific day, wasn’t it? The only thing that could possibly be worse than an impossible case would be an impossible case when one of your partners is seriously pissed off.

  He pressed a hand against his throbbing forehead. He’d have to figure all this out later. He had to get ready for the next interview and—

  The doorbell rang. Were they expecting someone? Seemed unlikely that Garrett would come out of his office to answer after that big conflagration. He’d better get it himself.

  He opened the door. The man on the other side wore a UPS uniform and carried a package.

  “Daniel Pike?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Need you to sign.”

  “Okay.” Seemed odd, but whatever. “Where?”

  “Just a moment.” The man fumbled with a scanner clipped to his belt, lost his footing, and in the process of recovering managed to drop the package.

  It fell to the porch with a thud. “Damn! I’m so sorry.”

  “Let’s hope it wasn’t Waterford crystal.”

  “It wasn’t.” The man bent down to pick it up, then lurched forward suddenly...

  The blow pounded into his stomach with such swift ferocity that Dan had no chance to react. He felt the pain, and then the pain became all he could think about. He was thrown sideways against the door. His head slammed back with a sickening thud.

  “Wha—” He felt breathless, unable to speak. He should do something. But—

  Too late. The next blow arrived with the force of a pile driver, hammering home to the same spot.

  His eyes bulged. He didn’t want to cry out, but he couldn’t help himself. His legs weakened and he tumbled downward.

  Get up! He told himself. Defend yourself!

  But he couldn’t find the strength. The next blow pounded him on the side of the head. A sudden shockwave of pain rippled through his body. A mix of drool and blood trickled from his lips.

  “Garrett,” he mumbled, but so weakly he knew there was no way anyone could possibly hear. “Jimmy...”

  This time the man’s fist blew the air out of his lungs. He rolled over and started coughing uncontrollably, spitting up blood. In seconds, the man had reduced him to a puddle on the floor. And there was nothing he could do to stop him from doing more.

  The man grabbed him by the collar and jerked his head up. “This time I hit you where it won’t show. This time I let you off easy. That won’t happen again.”

  He released him, letting his head smash against the porch. Lights erupted before his eyes. Consciousness waned.

  “This is a warning. You won’t get another one. Drop the case.”

  The man left him lying on the porch, barely able to move, barely able to think.

  What was it Garrett had said? This case was only going to get worse.

  It just did.

  Chapter 21

  Terry Dodgson loved to hike and the Everglades were his favorite place to do it.

  He’d wandered into a complete no man’s land. Still swampy, but uncharted. No boardwalk, no park signs, no rangers. Just him and the great outdoors. No traces of civilization, no tampering, no people. As far as he could tell, no one had preceded him. He was probably not the first vagabond to ever come this way. But it was a pleasing illusion, just the same, and the natural environment supported his fantasy one hundred and ten percent.

  In one day, he had seen swamps and beaches, forests and lakes, butterflies, herons, egrets, ibis, storks, alligators, large turtles, and more birds than he could identify in a lifetime. He had read there were more than a thousand different species birders could spot out here. All that identification seemed like a lot of work though—and for what? He preferred to simply drink it in. Enjoy.

  Terry fancied himself a great navigator, but this far from civilization, even he could become lost. He had a compass and, if worst came to worst, a cell phone. He was not at all sure, however, that Google Maps could save his bac
on today. He was a good long way from the nearest cell tower.

  His father used to hike with him, once upon a time, but his father had been taken much too early. Throat cancer, and the man had never smoked, not even a pipe. Sometimes it seemed like nothing made sense in this world. Losing his father had been the worst experience of his twenty-two years, but he liked to think that every time he took himself outdoors, just him and the world, nothing but a backpack of essentials—he was remembering his father. He was living the life his father wanted for his son.

  In a very real way, of course, his father wasn’t gone at all, not as long as Terry stayed active, kept moving, kept hiking. Held on to the dream. Didn’t let himself get swept up in the all-too-mundane world of day jobs and mortgages and keeping up with the Joneses. His father had given him a strong sense of identity. He knew who he was. He wasn’t some cardboard excuse for a man—he was independent, someone who knew what he wanted, who didn’t want anything not worth having, and who didn’t let others stand in the way of what mattered.

  That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Knowing who you are? After you’ve got that down, all the other questions are easy to answer.

  He checked his watch. Almost five. He didn’t mind being out late. It was going to be an all-day hike, and he had a tarp in his backpack he could use for a lean-to. If he was going to spend the night out here, though, it might be smarter to head back. Exciting as it was to break new ground, it would probably be smarter to camp closer to civilization, where there was some vague notion of law and order and he might be able to find help if he needed it.

  Okay, one last look before he turned around. Maybe a few photos. He took out his phone and focused on the horizon.

  He zoomed in to bring the faraway wonders of the world close.

  Wait a minute.

  He looked at the horizon, then glanced back at the phone screen, his handheld binoculars.

  There was something strange on the horizon. And unless he was very much mistaken—something manmade.

  A house? Cabin? Whatever it was, it was not tall and the colors were muted, as if the shelter was meant to blend into the surroundings.

  Was it possible someone lived out here? Literally in the middle of nowhere? He didn’t see how anyone could survive here long, in the swamp, so far away from everything. Getting supplies would be so hard it wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

  Except perhaps for someone who did not want to be found. Ever.

  He hesitated in mid-step. The smartest move would be to turn around and make tracks, as quickly as possible. There was something seriously unsettling about this entire situation. If someone wanted this badly to not be found, it was probably best to leave them alone.

  And yet...

  What would his father do? Turn tail and run?

  Hell no. His father would see what in blazes was going on out here.

  But slowly, one footstep at a time. Moving cautiously...

  A few minutes later he had a clearer view. It was a cabin, slapped together with the cheapest possible building materials. Nothing to brag about, but it probably kept the rain off. Couldn’t be more than a room or two in there. Maybe a kitchenette.

  Was anyone home?

  He took another step closer. Slowly. Quietly...

  He was in the cabin’s front yard, not that it was much of a yard. No mowing or edging took place here, which was just as well, because there was no grass. Just brush. Dirt. Mud.

  He didn’t hear anything. He didn’t see a soul.

  There was a foul stench though. Even ten feet away he could smell it. Just as well he hadn’t eaten much.

  Another step closer. Then another...

  And that’s when he saw it.

  The yellow paint on the gable above the front door was the first thing to trigger a memory. He’d read something in the papers. Not recently, maybe a month or two ago. A story about a missing boy...

  The number over the front porch cemented it. 1980.

  He knew what this place was.

  He stepped onto the porch. No windows, but the door was slightly ajar. He stepped toward it. Gently, he pushed the door a little wider...

  He turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He felt certain his father would approve of this decision.

  He realized what was causing the stench.

  Run, Terry, he told himself. Move those legs.

  Run!

  Chapter 22

  “Dan, stop being so damn stubborn.”

  “I’m not being stubborn. I’m being practical.”

  “There’s nothing practical about getting yourself killed.”

  “That wasn’t exactly my plan.”

  “And yet I found you bleeding on the front porch.”

  He drew in his breath. And even that hurt.

  The last blow from the killer UPS guy must’ve pushed him into unconsciousness. The attacker had been a pro—not a single blow left a visible mark, and he didn’t make much noise, either. He delivered his message without attracting attention. He was lucky the man stopped short of the killing blow—because he had the distinct impression the man could have killed him, just as quickly and just as quietly. His partners upstairs didn’t hear a thing. Maria found him on her way back from a run.

  He stretched across the sofa in the living room while she hovered protectively overhead. “I appreciate your concern, Maria, but I’ve got this covered.”

  “You’ve got what covered? Your grave? You haven’t even been to the doctor.”

  “Don’t need one. I checked myself out. I’m okay.”

  “You’ve been spitting up blood.”

  How did she know that? He wondered if he could make an end run around her and get out the door before she stopped him. Probably not, given his current condition. “It stopped. I’m healing.”

  “Internal hemorrhaging won’t stop itself.”

  “I don’t have—”

  “You have no idea what you have. Your brain could be bleeding for all we know.”

  He leaned forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Maria, stop. I truly appreciate your concern. But I’m okay, and we don’t have time to mess around. Our trial date is rapidly approaching and we still don’t have anything resembling a defense. Garrett worked hard to set up this interview and if we don’t do it now there’s no telling when or if we’ll be able to do it later.”

  “The whole point of the attack was to get you to quit this case.”

  He struggled to his feet. “I won’t do that.”

  She blocked his path to the door. “Then I’m coming with you.”

  “Don't you have an appointment with your jury consultant?”

  “Canceled. I’ll talk to him later. I’m coming with.”

  “It’s not necessary.” But then again, he probably shouldn’t drive. At the moment, he could barely walk. “You’ve got work to do. And this guy looks like major skeeze.”

  “All the more reason I should be there.”

  “Exactly why you should not be there.”

  “Oh stop. I’m coming. Get used to it.” She grabbed the keys to the Jag and led the way out the door. “Last time you dragged me to a strip joint, for heaven’s sake. This can’t possibly be any worse.”

  * * *

  As it turned out, she was wrong.

  Dan tried to give Charlie Quint his usual comprehensive once-over, but it wasn’t working. There was simply too much to drink in. He couldn’t absorb it all without staring. He didn’t like being in this tiny motel room with this man, and he could tell Maria liked it even less. She kept a significant distance between the interview subject and herself, as if at any moment he might throw up on her Dolce & Gabbanas.

  “You wanna know about the syringe, right?”

  “Right.” Mousy little guy. Comb-over of next-to-nothing. Egg-shaped head. Bronx accent. Mid-fifties. Soiled shirt—mustard, if he wasn’t mistaken. Barely covered a pot belly. Holes in his tattered sneakers. “You were going through Ossie’s trash?”

/>   Quint shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

  “You talk about it like it’s a profession.”

  “It’s how I survive.”

  What series of unfortunate events could possibly lead someone to a life like this? Quint was a former custodial worker who’d lost his job, lost his family, and ended up in St. Pete, rummaging through people’s trash for food, clothing, and the occasional object he might be able to sell at a pawn shop for a few pennies.

  Maria spoke. “You can support yourself like this?”

  “For three years now. Best job I ever had.”

  She rolled her eyes. “This is not a job.”

  “Says you, with your snazzy too-tight designer jeans and your law degree. I didn’t have the cash to go to law school. And I got tired of pushing a broom around.”

  “You dig through garbage.”

  He gave Maria a surreptitious signal. She needed to tone down the hostility. They wanted him to talk, not throw them out of the room.

  “More people are doing this than you might imagine. This is a tough world, especially on the homeless, and there are a lot of us these days. I don’t normally have a nice place like this.”

  Maria hid a gagging face.

  “You do what you gotta do. I got a routine. I hit the residential areas in the morning. As it turns out, wealthy neighborhoods are the worst, not the best. They never throw out good stuff. More action in the middle-class and lower-class areas.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “I hit businesses in the afternoons. Restaurants at night, when they start throwing out ridiculous amounts of food. It’s a full day, but I’ve never been one to shy away from hard work.”

  “I can see that,” Maria said, without a detectible trace of sarcasm.

  “I tried panhandling. Wasn’t good at it. Didn’t like the hobo life. Too dangerous.”

  “At least you’re not on welfare.”

  “I have been. Maxed out. Didn’t like it much. Case workers are so snooty. They call themselves ‘employment advisors’ now. Give me a break.”

  “So how did you happen to be in Ossie’s trash?”

  “That’s been a good neighborhood for me.” Dan watched Maria pace awkwardly as Quint spoke. He didn’t mind being on the opposite side of the bed, but Maria wasn’t coming anywhere close. She wouldn’t even take the chair. She just stood, occasionally moving from one side of the room to the other. No doubt her Fitbit approved. “Those foster homes get all kinds of weird crap. Sometimes valuable. Found a whole baggie full of coke in the trash once.”