Blind Justice

by James Scott Bell

  “Well, you’ve got to admit it’s not normal.”

  “Isn’t it?” She looked at me without so much as a flinch.

  “Look, Lindsay, I’m not one to run down what you choose to believe, but we’re dealing with the real world here.”

  “How do you know what’s real?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How do you know that the real world doesn’t include the supernatural?”

  Once more I felt on the defensive with her. That didn’t help my disposition. I felt myself drawn toward her with even greater strength than before. But there was a wall around her, something she had erected, and it was something I didn’t understand.

  Or maybe I did understand it but didn’t like it.

  “I just don’t believe in it,” I said. “Too much chaos.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. Maybe we could talk about it again another time.”

  “Not interested. Right now the only thing that interests me is defending your brother.”

  “Jake,” she said with pronounced earnestness, “what’s going to happen? What’s really going to happen to Howie?”

  I looked her in the eye, couldn’t hold the gaze, then looked at the floor. “To be quite honest with you,” I said, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE ONE MAN who did seem to know was Benton Tolletson.

  He practically ordered me up to his office. He didn’t want to discuss the case with me on the phone. I was wondering why he wanted to discuss it with me at all. Sylvia Plotzske had been doing a creditable job on her own.

  Visions of what would transpire danced in my head as I drove up to Hinton. I’d never met Tolletson. I’d only seen his brooding presence from the picture hanging in the Hinton DA’s office. I knew a little bit about him from a murder case that made the papers a few years before.

  A couple of teenage bodies, both female, turned up in the cabbage fields of north Hinton. Naturally, it sent shock waves through the rural town. The girls were both cheerleaders at Hinton Valley High and best friends. They attended the First Baptist Church. One of them had been named Asparagus Queen at the county fair.

  Suspicion finally centered on the quarterback of the football team. He was known as a wild kid. It was also known that he had designs on the Asparagus Queen, but she did not reciprocate.

  The two cheerleaders were last seen leaving the football field one Friday night after a game. A witness reported seeing them getting into a black Camaro, which was the kind of car the quarterback drove.

  Blood matching one of the victims was later found on the carpet of the Camaro.

  The case seemed open and shut. Benton Tolletson, then a deputy DA transplanted from San Jose, got the case.

  It took him one week to order the arrest of the Hinton Valley High School football coach.

  The town erupted. Art O’Connor was a town legend, a family man, and perhaps most important to the citizenry, a consistent winner. Only two years before, the Eagles had gone undefeated. And now this new, zealous prosecutor was dragging the beloved football coach through the mud.

  Tolletson was a decorated Vietnam War vet, and he handled life like it was his own personal battlefield. Even with all the pressure against him and with a case built almost entirely on circumstantial evidence, Tolletson proved that Art O’Connor was indeed a double murderer and a planter of evidence.

  When the shock finally wore off, the people of Hinton looked at Benton Tolletson as a true hero. The next year they elected him district attorney.

  As far as I knew, Tolletson hadn’t tried a case since his election. He was content to oversee the office and move his deputies around like chess pieces. That’s why it was so odd to be on my way to see him face to face.

  Maybe he liked what he was hearing about me. Maybe he was going to offer me a job.

  Any thoughts about the largesse of Mr. Benton Tolletson disappeared the moment I stepped into his office.

  The place was neater than any office I’d ever been in and cleaner than most hospital rooms. I got the feeling that Tolletson walked around with a white glove, testing for dust. It was impressive and ominous at the same time. My favorite professor in law school was an ex-judge. His office was always a mess with open books everywhere and unfinished cups of coffee on the shelves. He once told me, “Never trust a man whose office is too neat.”

  I didn’t trust Benton Tolletson.

  His handshake was “the crusher,” the kind that tries to stop the blood flow of the other fellow’s hand. His hair was clipped in the same tight military style he had in the portrait downstairs. He wore a vest that was buttoned up against a frame that looked hard and lean.

  “I’ve heard some good things about you,” Tolletson said. I was sure he was lying. What would Sylvia Plotzske have told him that was good? And any information he may have gleaned about my career down south was anything but exemplary.

  He offered me a seat on a chair that was absolutely devoid of any dirt or stain. I was almost afraid to sit in it. He took his big executive chair behind an enormous desk. “How do you like our little town?” he asked.

  “Nice,” I said.

  “You bet it’s nice. A little bit country, but not out in the boonies. My wife and I love it here. We have a place in the north valley. Beautiful.”

  I nodded. This was just the salad before the meat and potatoes.

  “The Patino case,” Tolletson said, swiveling slightly in his chair. “You really want to take this thing to trial?”

  “I haven’t heard a reason why I shouldn’t.”

  “We gave you a good reason before the prelim. Voluntary manslaughter. I was pretty amazed you passed that up.”

  “Well, some people just can’t appreciate a gift.”

  Tolletson snorted a laugh. It was a laugh I’d heard many times before, the condescending fluff of the prosecutor who thought he held all the cards. It wasn’t much different from the schoolyard bully who wants to shame you before he lays you out. In our system, prosecutors wear the heavy gloves. The power of the state is like the horseshoe inside the glove. When a prosecutor knows he’s facing someone without much clout, he laughs like Tolletson.

  “It’s against my better judgment,” Tolletson said, suddenly becoming ever generous, “but I’m willing to put that back on the table once more. Plead him out and let’s all avoid a very bad situation.”

  “What’s so bad about it from your standpoint?” I asked.

  “Time. That’s all. It would take up some of my time.”

  “Your time?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to try this case.”

  Now there was a shot, like a left hook I didn’t see coming. I knew that was his big blow as soon as he said it, the one he had called me up here to deliver in person.

  Benton Tolletson himself, the local legend, the man who was in it to the death once his steel jaws clamped shut—he was going to step into the courtroom against me.

  Any false bravado I might have had walking into the office melted away like a thin layer of frost under the morning sun. Sylvia Plotzske I could handle. Tolletson was another matter entirely.

  I tried not to swallow or let my face give away my feelings. Tolletson looked at me, waiting for a reaction. I tried to think of something casual or clever to say to show him I could deflect his best punch. Nothing came to mind.

  “Well,” I finally said, “that doesn’t really change anything.”

  “I think it does,” Tolletson said. “Look, Jake, I’m very serious about trying your client for murder. And you know, the people around here just don’t like murder.”

  “I can move for change of venue.”

  “Never happen.”

  “It might.”

  “Come on, Jake. You ever moved for change of venue before?”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “Where’s the evidence of adverse publicity? You claiming the Hinton Valley News has a vendetta against your client? You
see an angry mob clustering outside the jail?”

  “I can get a hearing.”

  “What’ll that do? Delay? You want a continuance? I’ll give you a continuance. You can try all you want to put off the inevitable. But sooner or later you and I are going to square off in the Hinton County Courthouse. And you know what? That’s when the publicity will kick in.”

  There was something going on behind his eyes. He was the proverbial gambler with a winning hand.

  “What publicity?” I asked.

  “Oh, people interested in me stepping back into the courtroom again. I have some friends in the media who would be very interested in that. You know, we’ve never had a camera in the courtroom here in Hinton. This case would be the perfect debut.”

  He had some connection, if he wasn’t bluffing, that meant the trial would get far more media exposure than it otherwise would have. That would mean putting the entire Patino family through a publicity wringer. Not to mention yours truly. The background stories on me would be wonderful—just what Mandy would like to see on TV.

  “So what do you say, Jake?”

  Tolletson was starting to remind me of someone.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” I said.

  “I’d like your answer now.”

  “I can’t give it to you.”

  Benton Tolletson let out a huge theatrical sigh. It was a breath of exasperation, a signal of utter annoyance at someone very stupid—me. Then I realized who Benton Tolletson reminded me of.

  My father.

  He was treating me as if I were a fool, and that is exactly what my father had been so good at. It was probably one of the reasons I drank, maybe the main reason. So when the picture of my father merged with the presence of Benton Tolletson, all rationality left me. It was replaced by a range of emotions bubbling up from the distant past but still alive somewhere inside me.

  I stood up and said, “My answer is no. We’re going to trial.”

  For an instant Tolletson looked shocked, as if he couldn’t believe I had turned him down. He recovered quickly, and his face became rock hard. “I’m going to put your client away for a long, long time. You can leave now.”

  I felt like a naughty child as I left the office, the same way I used to feel when leaving my father’s bedroom after getting yelled at.

  I handled it the same way now as I did then. I looked for somewhere to get a drink.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE FIRST AVAILABLE pub was a place called Frisbee’s, just about a mile from the main highway.

  It was spacious and cool inside with two large-screen TVs at either end. Both were blaring a baseball game for the afternoon crowd, which appeared to be young locals and a few older professionals.

  Surprised at how tired I was, I took a seat at a small table. There was some sort of psychic combat going on between Tolletson and me. It went beyond the usual sparring between prosecution and defense. It had something to do with reminders of my father, but it also felt like something deeper. I didn’t know what. All I knew was that I had to beat Benton Tolletson.

  But how?

  My case was extremely weak. Although the defense doesn’t have to prove innocence, it’s an unwritten rule that in fact, it does. Ninety-five percent of the time, the prosecution wins either through plea agreement or verdict. Occasionally, a strong case of reasonable doubt takes the verdict away. However, when the defense wins a not-guilty verdict, it’s almost always because it has proved to the jury’s satisfaction that the defendant is innocent.

  A young waitress in a Frisbee’s tee shirt asked what I wanted. I almost said, A friendly person around here to talk to. I ordered a beer instead.

  The TVs were carrying a contest between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Chicago Cubs. I watched the game half-heartedly for awhile, ordered another beer from the pretty waitress, and got a little drowsy. In fact, I started drifting toward slumber, snapping my head back to upright every time it started to droop.

  In this state, I had a vision.

  I’m not talking about a bright, bold movie before my eyes, but merely the hint of a dream, or a nightmare.

  In this scant hallucination I saw a courtroom hallway. I was looking through my eyes as if I was actually standing in this corridor and waiting to go inside a courtroom. People walked up and down the hallway silently, looking more like the walking dead than real folk.

  Then I saw Benton Tolletson walking toward me. He had on a three-piece suit and held a briefcase and walked in slow motion. He walked with purpose, his face set like a stone god. Then he came right up to me and stopped. I looked at his face. It was frozen for an instant.

  Then it changed, transforming from the stern but benign visage of the local district attorney to a horrible, monstrous face—with hungry, lupine eyes and sharp, fanged teeth that dripped blood.

  I sat bolt upright, my heart pounding. I may have said something out loud, something like, “What in the . . .”

  For a moment I sat there like a person coming out of a coma who had to readjust his vision for a minute or two to get his brain back to working order.

  As I felt my way back to awareness, I heard the fight start.

  Someone was yelling at the far end of the bar. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable. Whoever it was, he was ready to take on all comers.

  Then I saw two bodies wrestle each other off their bar stools and onto the floor. Almost immediately, they were surrounded by other patrons and a bartender pulling them away from each other. The shouting drowned out the din of the ballgame.

  The pretty waitress arrived with my beer and set it down on the table even as she watched the commotion.

  “Is it always like this?” I asked with a laugh.

  “No,” she replied. “It’s just Darcy.”

  “Darcy?”

  “Hazelton.”

  I thought a moment. “Where have I heard that name before?”

  “The winery,” she said. “He’s the captain’s kid.”

  That was it. Captain Warren Hazelton. I’d read a story about his winery in the local paper.

  The bartender and a couple of other patrons were showing Darcy to the door. “He come in here often?” I asked the waitress.

  “All the time. Never a dull moment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He gets that way when he’s had a few.”

  “Likes to make a scene?”

  “You got it.”

  “Spoiled rich kid?”

  “Something like that. His parents . . .” She shook her head and made a face like she smelled something distasteful.

  “What about his parents?”

  “Weird.”

  I heard the sound of a car engine angrily revving up, followed by the din of a radio station cranked all the way up and booming some sort of urban beat right into the bar and my chest.

  “Nice sound system!” I shouted to the waitress. We listened as tires squealed and the blaring music did a Doppler effect away from the bar. I noticed the waitress was smiling. “In what way are his parents weird?” I asked.

  “What? Oh, just weird. His mom’s really his stepmom.”

  “What happened to his birth mother?”

  “No one knows,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I mean, one day she just wasn’t there.”

  “She left?”

  “Some say. When I was little, my friends and I used to say the house up there was haunted by the ghost of Darcy’s mother.”

  “Is it?”

  “Maybe,” she laughed, then scurried away to take care of another table.

  For the first time I felt as if I’d finally gotten to know this town, the way you do when you hear about the skeletons in someone’s family closet. Maybe it was just my morbid curiosity, but I suddenly wanted to find out more about this particular set of bones.

  I motioned for my waitress and asked her to send the guy over who had scuffled with Darcy Hazelton. She looked puzzled but did it for me. I
watched as the guy at the bar looked my way, hesitated, then grabbed his glass of beer and walked to my table.

  He was a big man in his mid-twenties. He wore a tank top that gave ample room for his muscles to show. On his upper right arm was a tattoo of a cobra ready to strike. His head was shaved, and he had a stud in his right ear. I was immediately sorry I’d asked for his company.

  “Who are you?” he said coldly. His face was flushed, an obvious aftereffect of the scuffle. More than that, his eyes were red, a classic sign of some sort of substance abuse.

  “Sit down a second,” I said.

  He didn’t move. “What do you want?”

  “I want to buy you a beer,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m a lawyer,” I said.

  “So?”

  “I’m working on a case up here.”

  His eyes seemed glassy now, unfocused. His voice was low and thick. “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Please, have a seat.” I motioned for him to sit down. As he sat, I said, “My name’s Jake Denney.”

  “Cool.”

  “You have a name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you like to share that with me?”

  He had a dumb half-smile on his face, as if the littlest thing might amuse him. “Hang Creswell,” he said.

  “Hank?”

  “Hang. As in loose, man. Or noose.”

  I raised my hand for the waitress. “What’ll you have?”

  “Bud. Wise. Er.” He laughed.

  After I ordered two of them, I said, “That’s an interesting first name you have. Where’d it come from?”

  “Nickname. My real name is Chaney. Now wouldn’t you want a nickname if your first name was Chaney?”

  I shrugged. “Beats some names I know.”

  “I hate it. I surf. Hang is short for ‘Hang Ten.’ Get it?”

  “You live around here?”

  “A few miles. What’s this all about, man?”

  The waitress returned with the beers, and Hang happily accepted.

  “I want to get a feel for the town. I may be picking a jury here soon, and it pays to know the personality.”