“How much?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Polson. I swear. I just know that Kaiden said he was gonna have a talk with Davonte about his bill.”
“Did they talk?”
“Well, yeah. They had a little argument the last night. That’s . . .that’s what kind of broke up the party. Them arguing—I told you all this.”
“What was said?”
“Well, Kaiden told Davonte if he didn’t get some money, he was gonna tell someone—I don’t know who—and Davonte was saying he’d pay Kaiden when he signed with the pros.”
“Did they fight?”
Ronnie laughed despite himself. “Kaiden fight Davonte? No way. Kaiden’s my size. We can wear each other’s clothes.”
“So they didn’t mix it up?”
“Not that I saw. Why?”
Punch ignored the question. “Who left first?”
“Like I told you last week—Kaiden. That I remember. Then Davonte. Then me and Trent.”
“And you never saw Kaiden again?”
“Never. I swear,” Ronnie said. He was staring at the desk.
“What was Kaiden wearing that night?” Punch asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“Jeans. Tennis shoes. A hooded sweatshirt with Custer College on it, I think. He always wore that.”
“Anything else?”
“Like what?”
Punch looked steadily at Ronnie without answering. “Thanks, Ronnie. You can go. I’ll be in touch.”
After Ronnie had left, Jensen—who had been watching through the one-way glass from an adjoining room—entered. “What do you think, boss?”
“I’m thinking he’s not telling me the truth—or at least, all the truth. He’s holding something back.”
“So, how is the investigation going?” Rebecca asked. She and Punch were in her office. “Was it the gay kid?” She had been re-elected last November despite a subordinate’s malfeasance during the Tommy Olsen case. Rebecca had quickly dismissed the woman, who had withheld evidence from Sam before and during the trial. The attorney had gotten her conviction, but Daniels had granted Sam’s motion to set aside the verdict and for a new trial when Sam had found out—courtesy of Punch, Rebecca suspected—that the attorney had withheld exculpatory information from him. Nice’s office had eventually convicted Olsen’s wife of the murder, but the entire situation had given them a black eye.
“It was Kaiden Miles, if that’s what you are asking. Doc Laws just confirmed it.”
“Suspects?”
“Some people we are looking at,” Punch allowed.
“The black guy?”
“Word travels fast.”
“I’m the county attorney.” She shrugged and looked steadily at Punch. When he didn’t speak, she asked the question. “I know you’ve been talking with Paul Norquist’s son, too. Progress?”
“I’m not sure we are getting anywhere,” Punch admitted. “I’m not finding anyone willing to admit the guy is violent. I mean, he looks violent—”
“Because he’s black?”
“No, because he’s six foot nine and acts menacingly. He pulls it off. But he’s got no record of violence. I’ve had my guys calling back to the Detroit area where he is from. They’ve spoken with teachers, coaches, former girlfriends, people who lived nearby—all with the intent of finding someone who will tell us he is a bad guy. So far, nothing. Similarly, I’ve had my officers questioning people on campus and in the community. Insofar as I can tell, this guy lives in the dorm, walks over to the student union to eat, hits the gym, and goes back to the dorm, where he gets high with his teammates and the managers and plays video games.”
“Oh, come on now,” Rebecca said. “No disenchanted girlfriends?”
“Nope.”
“No unhappy one-night stands who think he got a little rough?”
“None.”
“Punch, I don’t have to tell you that with as little evidence as we have, you are gonna need some negative sentiment,” Nice said. “We need someone who’s had a bad experience with him or will otherwise cast a shadow on his character.”
“I know that would be good, but right now I can’t find anyone who will say anything other than he is singularly focused on basketball,” he said.
“You talking with his support system here?”
“Of course.”
“They hanging tight?”
“Oh, yeah. The people that surround him are hand-selected,” Punch said. “I’m told this guy is a professional athlete in waiting. The people in his inner circle want to be there when he hits the big-time, so nobody’s going to say anything that might derail their car on the gravy train.”
“Nice analogy, there.”
“I thought so,” Punch said. “Takes time to come up with stuff that’s figurative yet colorful.”
“What else?”
“Lab’s looking at everything we could find at the scene—his clothing and stuff. There was a watch cap left behind. Hoping they can scope some DNA off it.”
“This is thin.”
“It’s gonna be thin.” Punch nodded. “Crime scene is crap. Unless someone rolls over or we get a witness or some sort of solid forensic hit, it’s gonna be purely circumstantial evidence. Gonna be tough to convict—who’s going to prosecute?”
“Probably Cathy.”
“Good. She’s tough, but fair. And honest.”
Rebecca looked at Punch for a moment. “I know. I thought Ann . . . well, I just didn’t see that coming.”
“She was an officer of the court. Who would expect a prosecutor to hide evidence?”
“Keep looking, Punch,” Rebecca said. “But we gotta move fast. This town is coming apart at the seams. The county commissioners are in a panic; one or the other of them seems to call every hour.”
“I hear you,” Punch said. “But I work on evidence, not emotion.”
“Then get it—soon. We need an arrest. Now. Before this town blows up.”
9
Downs looked in the mirror in the private restroom in her chambers. She leaned forward to fix her hair, then grabbed a bottle of antacids and swallowed two. She walked back into her chambers, took a drink of water and a deep breath. “Remember,” she said aloud as she released the breath. “You are in control.”
Moments later she entered the courtroom and the preliminary hearing began. Sam was sitting in the audience with Raylene Smith. He had explained to her that preliminary hearings were generally rather perfunctory. The State, he had told her, was required to put on only enough evidence to convince an ordinary person that a crime was likely committed, and that the defendant probably committed it. Cathy Schmidt was certainly capable of that, and it was a near-certainty that Albert Smith would be bound over at the hearing’s conclusion.
“What about bond?” Raylene had asked.
“Raylene, I can’t see a new judge modifying bond. She made her decision last week. She’s unlikely to change it.”
“But I need him home,” she had said. He had sighed. Days earlier she wanted an order of protection; now she wanted him home.
As Sam had expected, Cathy made quick work of meeting the State’s burden. Mike Sharp, Albert’s attorney, asked few questions. Having heard the evidence, Downs announced her decision. “Mr. Smith,” she began, looking first at Albert Smith and then at his wife, who was sitting immediately behind him in the audience. “The purpose of today’s preliminary hearing was to determine if there is probable cause to believe that the offense charged was committed, and that you committed it. As you’ve observed, the State was not required to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you did this. The court will find that there is probable cause to believe that on or about November 4 in Custer County, Wyoming, the crime of felony domestic battery was committed, and that you did so. Your case will be transferred to district court for all further proceedings. Is there anything else we need to discuss here this morning, counsel?”
“Your Honor,” Sharp
said, rising. “My client would like to revisit the issue of bond.”
“I’m not inclined to modify bond, Mr. Sharp,” Downs said. “Just ten days or so ago, I made a decision and provided a rationale for the bond I set. Has something changed?”
“I understand, Judge. But he’s been unable to make bond and it is causing a real hardship on his family. Mrs. Smith is here and can add details if you wish.”
“I don’t need to hear from her,” Downs said. She turned her attention to Cathy. “Ms. Schmidt, what is the State’s position on modification of bond conditions?”
“No change, Judge. Ask that bond be continued.”
“Thank you, counsel. Bond will be continued in the amount of fifty thousand dollars cash,” Downs said, and rose to leave the courtroom.
“Sell the trailer, Raylene!” Albert Smith yelled.
“But we won’t have anywhere to live!” Raylene said, beginning to sob.
“Get him out of here!” Downs said. “I ordered no contact,” she added as the big man was taken away by court security. Downs gave Raylene and Sam a disapproving glance as she left the courtroom. Afterward, Sam sat with Raylene, trying to get her to move out and leave Albert.
“I can’t do it, Sam. I just can’t,” she said. “Now, I brought some money for your fee. Here’s fifty dollars. It’s all I have—”
“Keep it.”
“Sam,” Raylene said. “I know. . . I know you don’t understand. No one does.”
“I’m trying, Raylene. Let’s not worry about the money, though. Plenty of time for that later, okay?”
“Okay, Sam.” She stood and pulled on her coat. Ten years ago, it was clean and probably fit her. “I’ll—I’ll see you later, okay?”
Sam was back in the office when Cassie came in. “Good morning, Sam,” she said. “Paul wants to see you if you have a minute.”
“Okay, I'll be right there,” Sam said. He got a coffee from the small kitchen, and a couple of minutes later he wandered into Paul's office.
“Close the door if you would,” Paul said, and after Sam had done so, added, “Sit down, Sam. I wanted to talk a little bit.”
“What’s going on?”
“Would you like the good news or the bad news?”
“Always better to start with the bad news and end on a high note.”
“Well, Sam, the bad news is you haven't covered for three months or so.” Paul slid a spreadsheet toward Sam. “I know you’ve had appointments with your counselor and stuff, but we’ve had to draw on our line of credit twice now, and I’m getting concerned.”
Sam looked at the spreadsheet intently, shaking his head. “Damn, Paul, I thought I was doing a little better than that. I’ve got some stuff coming in here this month. I did a trust a week or so ago. That’ll help.”
“Okay, Sam. But keep an eye on it. We can’t go on like this forever. As much as I wish we were in this for altruistic reasons, we’ve still got to make a living.”
“I promise, Paul. I know I need to hold up my end of things. I appreciate the opportunity. You know that.”
“I know you do,” Paul said. “Want the good news?”
“Sure,” Sam said.
“I know that you don’t get the paper, but I thought you’d be interested.” Paul handed the local paper to Sam, who took a quick look at the headline on the back page. The story had to do with a survey run by the newspaper asking readers to name their favorite restaurant, store, dentist, and the like. Under “Best Attorney” was Sam’s name and picture. He looked at it for a second, and then at Paul.
“Paul, I’m sorry,” Sam said.
“What are you sorry about?” Paul asked. He looked tired, Sam thought.
“Paul, you’ve been named ‘Best Attorney’ about ten years in a row.” Sam looked at the plaques lining Paul’s wall. “I come in, and because of the Olsen case—”
“Sam, there’s more to it than that. You’ve represented a lot of veterans and other folks who needed it—and at a discount, I might add,” he added with a slight smile.
“And that gets us back to that, huh?” Sam nodded toward the spreadsheet.
“We’ll figure it out,” Paul said, standing. “And hey, we can always use good press. Let’s use it to our advantage. Now, go bill someone’s ass off, will you?”
“Got it,” Sam said, and started to leave. Then, thinking better of it, he turned to face Paul. “I just want you to know how much I appreciate you giving me this opportunity. I mean . . . It has changed my life.”
“We’re friends.” Paul waved Sam off. “You don’t have to thank me.”
Moments later, Paul’s secretary Monica came into his office with a stack of documents. “Paul, you said you wanted to see the discovery in the Bank of the Bighorns case. Here you go!” she said brightly.
“Just leave ’em, Monica,” he said. “I’m going to take the rest of the day off.”
Punch found Richter in his on-campus office eating a donut. “Man, have I got a job for you,” Punch said.
“That’s not gonna happen, Punch. This is a good job.” Richter licked some sugar from his fingers. “Aside from the occasional fistfight or someone smoking weed in the dorms, I’ve got a nice, quiet gig. Check some locks, watch the video.”
“So the Miles case has upset your rhythm, huh?”
“You know it. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Davonte Blair.”
“He’s probably in the gym,” Richter said. “He’s always in the gym.”
“You okay with me heading over to the field house?”
“Oh, yeah,” Richter said.
“All right, Jeb, I’ll keep you updated.”
“Thanks, Punch.”
Moments later, Punch entered the field house and could immediately hear the rhythm of a basketball being dribbled, followed by the sound of the ball passing through the net and then landing on the floor: dribble-swish-bounce, dribble-swish-bounce. Punch came from the north side and stood unseen, watching Davonte. Time after time Davonte shot the ball from far beyond the collegiate three-point line, watched it go through the net, picked it up after one bounce, then dribbled back beyond the three-point line and shot it again. After making ten shots in a row, he picked the ball up on one bounce, and instead of dribbling back out to the three-point line, viciously dunked the ball with one hand.
“Mr. Blair,” Punch said, walking onto the court. “Detective Polson, Custer PD.”
“I remember, cop,” Davonte said, dribbling the ball away from Punch.
“I wanted to follow up with a few questions,” Punch said.
“Told you all I know,” Davonte said, making a shot from the top of the key.
Punch rebounded the ball and bounce-passed it to Davonte. “We’ve had a development.”
“Yeah?” Davonte asked as he shot the ball and jogged toward the baseline.
“Yeah,” Punch said. The shot was good, and he rebounded the ball and chest-passed it to Davonte. “We identified the body.”
Davonte shot the ball from the baseline—it was long—and jogged slowly to the other side of the court to retrieve it. “What’s that got to do with me, man?”
“It’s your buddy, Kaiden Miles.”
“And I’m thinking you misunderstood me,” Davonte said, dribbling the ball. “We didn’t have a relationship. He was a manager.”
“That’s odd,” Punch began. “According to what I found on his cell phone, you and Mr. Miles were in contact on an almost daily basis.”
Davonte dribbled over to the first row of seats and sat down. “Look, cop, the dude was the team manager. He took care of stuff for me, you know?”
“Like supplying you with weed?”
Davonte drank red liquid from a plastic bottle. “He maybe had a little once in a while,” he said.
“Oh, come on, Davonte, I’ve read the damned texts. Want to look at the ones on your phone to refresh your memory?”
Davonte drank again from the bottle. “Look, I called
him lots of times. He got my stuff for me. And we were . . . friends, I guess.”
Punch looked at Davonte for a long moment. “You didn’t ask me about the body.”
“And?”
“Most people would ask questions like, ‘Where did you find him?’ ‘Who found him?’ ‘What happened?’ You didn’t ask.”
“Man, I seen bodies before. I ain’t from some hokey shit town like this.” Davonte was on his feet now, dribbling the ball steadily.
“Davonte, I checked,” Punch began. “You’re not from inner-city Detroit. You’re from Berkley, Michigan. If there’s anyone in this town born with a silver spoon in his pie hole, it’s you. So don’t play the street bro with me, okay? You can play that game with the kids in the dorm, but I’m not buying it.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to be black, man!”
“I don’t. I don’t know what it’s like to be black, and I don’t know what it’s like to be from some rich suburb of Detroit, either,” Punch said. “There’s a lot of things I don’t know, including and especially why the last guy to see Miles has absolutely no interest in what happened to him—unless he already knows, of course.”
Davonte stopped dribbling the ball. “Can I be straight with you?”
“It would be in your best interest,” Punch assured him.
“I owed him some money, ’cause he fronted me some shit. He was callin’ me on it and I didn’t have the money. So, him disappearin’, well, let’s just say that didn’t bust my balls, okay?”
Punch looked at Davonte for a long moment, assessing him. “In some of those texts, you called him a fag.”
“That’s just talk, man.”
Punch thought he saw movement at the south entrance. He moved slightly so he could appear to be looking at Davonte while he scanned the facility. He saw what he was looking for. “Mr. Norquist, will you join us?”
While Ronnie made his way slowly across the gym floor, Punch turned his attention back to Davonte. “Yeah, well, look at it from my perspective, okay? I got a dead guy in the creek here on campus. His acquaintance—you, who just happens to owe him a couple thousand bucks for weed—is calling him a fag and telling him to ‘get screwed’ over the money. You were telling him you will pay him when you sign a contract with the NBA. That’s what you told him, right?”
One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2) Page 9
