Outside the Law

by Phillip Thompson

  He watched the two over his coffee cup: John with his hands on his hips, jaw set, eyes hard. Hayes, ever haughty, in a cheap public defender suit, effete gestures, and tolerant attitude.

  John cut his eyes at him, and he tried to hide behind his cup and the desk, but he caught the exasperated look in John’s eyes. Yeah, he owed John a beer after this one. He set his cup down.

  “Gideon,” he called, beckoning for the lawyer to come.

  Hayes snapped his head round, and he could see the relief in John’s eyes. He tried not to grin.

  Hayes walked in with his trademark gangly gait, a lot of arms and legs and a prominent Adam’s apple. In a wrinkled brown suit that clearly came straight off the rack, he looked every bit the part of a shabbily dressed, modern version of Ichabod Crane, right down to the wrinkly forehead, huge nose, and ears too big to fit under a haircut that looked like a pile of hay.

  “Good afternoon, Samuel,” Hayes said as he came to a stop in front of the desk.

  He gritted his teeth. “Gideon, how many times have I told you that nobody calls me that anymore?”

  Hayes adjusted the crooked wire-rimmed glasses on his hawk-like beak and grinned. “And how many times have I told you that Samuel is the name you were born with, thus the name by which you should be called. I stand on the principle that men should be called by the name given at birth.”

  He scoffed. “Do tell. For somebody whose principles are as elastic as yours, that’s an interesting one to stand on.”

  “Be that as it may, Sam—”

  He held up a hand to cut him off.

  “What’s this I hear about you filing a motion to dismiss on Delmer Blackburn?”

  Hayes huffed and put his hands on his hips in a very lawyerly show of exasperation. “Indeed I am,” he said. “You scared him to death with a double murder charge, but you don’t have anything to back it up.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “C’mon, Gideon, he all but confessed to shooting those two dealers not two hours ago.”

  “Outside the presence of an attorney,” Hayes said. He crossed his arms and looked at him over the top of his cockeyed glasses. “You don’t have a murder weapon. You don’t have any drugs or money, or any proof that my client was even on the scene.”

  “I’ve got motive,” he said. “And his lack of an alibi constitutes opportunity.”

  “Huh. That could be said for half the population of the county,” Hayes said.

  “And he had weed on him when we arrested him.”

  Hayes grinned. “So all you have is a possession charge.”

  He stared at Hayes. The man had no idea he was acting according to plan. He stared out the window to give Hayes the impression he was struggling with a dilemma. Finally, he said, “Dammit, Gideon, I hate to say it, but you’re right. I can’t hold him or charge him with murder—not yet—but I’m going to charge him with possession. You can figure out jail with the judge.”

  Hayes beamed and flung his arms open in triumph. He looked like a skinny, ugly bird of prey. “Of course,” he bellowed. Then, with a lowered voice, “Although, part of me would have thoroughly enjoyed ripping apart this flimsy case of yours.”

  “Get out of my office, Gideon. Go see to your scumbag client.”

  Hayes smirked, did an about-face and loped out of the office past a scowling John.

  He waited until Hayes was completely out of sight before he smiled. Fucking lawyers.

  On the desk, one of the lights on his phone blinked. He ignored it, set the cup down, and turned to his computer screen. He had his own work on the Bibb case to finish and submit to the feds.

  An hour later, Becky leaned into his office. “Colt,” she said. “Line one.”

  He looked up, nodded, and took the call. “Harper.”

  “OK, Sheriff, it’s me, Delmer. I’m calling just like you said to.”

  “Glad to see you cooperating,” he said.

  “So, uh, what next?”

  “Well, for one thing, don’t try to rip off any more drug dealers. Go home and sit tight. I’ll let you know when I need you.”

  He hung up and turned his attention to a pile of paperwork Becky had left for him, mostly reports and requests that required his signature.

  DELMER

  After he hung up with Harper, he listened to the voice mail from Ross again, and looked at the number he had scrawled on a paper towel in his kitchen.

  “Hey, Delmer, it’s Alan Ross, man. I just ran into some guy from Memphis, black guy, looked like a thug, and he was real interested in you. Said something about you having pissed off a cold-blooded guy who could be dangerous to your health. I’m not making this up. Said you could fix things if you wanted, but you better do it quick. He left me a number—”

  He ended the call, deleted the message. He should have told Harper about it, but at the last second he decided not to. Harper didn’t give a fuck about him and would probably just burn his ass anyway after he caught up to whoever killed Pritchard and Munny.

  There may be an angle to work here, he thought. If I can just figure out what it is.

  COLT

  He read the newspaper story about the Munny homicide—it wasn’t nearly as lurid as the story about Pritchard being fished out of the Luxapalila—over a barbecue plate at Sally’s on Catfish Alley.

  When he finished and had overtipped Sally, he walked the three blocks to the courthouse, even though the humidity made it feel more like a swim.

  He managed to make it to the steps of the stately, columned courthouse building without completely sweating through his uniform shirt, but he still said a prayer of thanks for conditioned air when he heaved on the heavy tinted-glass door and stepped into the cool, dark interior. He nodded at the security guard who waved him around the metal detector and made his way down the wide corridor past people who spoke in whispers on account of the fact they were in the seat of the county government.

  He went through a green glass door on his right and found Rhonda at her desk in a cubicle, her brow furrowed as she clacked on her keyboard and scowled at the screen over her cheap plastic reading glasses. He draped his arms over her cubicle wall and smiled.

  “Nice glasses,” Ms. Raines.

  “Sheriff Harper,” she said without looking up, “that comment is dangerously close to harassment, which could have an effect on your reelection campaign—if you ever start one.”

  He put his hands up in mock surrender. “The department apologizes for the insensitive comments of the sheriff.”

  She shook her head and laughed, then snatched the glasses off her nose. “Colt, what are you doing?”

  “I was in the area.”

  “Right.”

  “Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  She laced her fingers in her lap “Thank you. I’m fine.”

  “Still going to your meetings?” he said in a low voice.

  She nodded. “They help. Wouldn’t hurt you to go, either.”

  He scoffed. “The last thing I feel over Winston is grief.”

  She looked down. He looked around the cube farm at the tops of heads, all busy with the business of the county. He cleared his throat.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I just wanted to make sure you’re doing OK. How’s John?”

  She looked up at him, surprised. “You’re asking me? You work with him every day.”

  “That’s not what I was asking.”

  She leaned forward on her desk and drummed her nails on the space bar on her keyboard. “He’s fine. Worried a little about you, just like me.”

  “Worried about me? What did I do?”

  She looked around the room, then back at him. “Colt Harper, this is not the place to have personal conversations. Now, if you’d like to stop by and visit every so often, or even at all, I’d be happy to tell you all the things about you that worry me.”

  He smiled; at this point, it was his only defense. “OK, OK, I’ll stop by.”

  “Soon.”

  “Yes, soon
. Get back to work.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Take your own advice, Sheriff,” she said. And smiled.

  As he came down the sidewalk, he noticed a tall man in a blue suit approaching. He knew most of the lawyers in town, but this wasn’t one of them, and even the ones he knew certainly didn’t wear suits as expensive looking as the one coming toward him. Cuff links glittered under the sleeves and his brown shoes gleamed. When he got closer, he noticed the man’s eyes more than anything else. Laser-beam blue, cold and steady. The stranger walked right down the middle of the walk.

  He stopped four feet from the man.

  “Sheriff Harper, I presume,” the man said.

  “I am,” he said. Deep in his brain, a quiet alarm sounded. “And who might you be?”

  Mr. Blue smiled—big, white teeth. “My identity is irrelevant for your purposes, Sheriff, but you may address me as Hack.”

  He studied the man’s smile, thinking he could have easily just said, “My name is Hack.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Hack?”

  The smile dimmed one notch. “I believe you are in possession of something of great value to me.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “I believe you made an arrest this morning.”

  He nodded. “You mean Delmer Blackburn? Yeah, I arrested him. But I had to let him go.”

  Hack’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. Technicality. Let me guess, you were hoping to represent him.”

  Big smile from Hack. “Something like that. Well, Sheriff, I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.”

  He stood, waiting for Hack for step aside. He noticed that, even with the sun directly overhead, Hack did not appear to be sweating one drop. The man just stood there, blue eyes holding steady on his, grin fixed in place. The odd encounter was turning into an annoyance.

  “Is there something else you want, Mr. Hack?”

  A slight shake of the head. “Perhaps some other time, Sheriff.” He stepped back and turned to go back from where he had come.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said.

  He watched Hack walk down the sidewalk, two blocks, without looking back.

  Arrogant fucking lawyers.

  He pulled his cell from shirt pocket and dialed Blackburn.

  “Delmer, you know a guy named Hack?” he said when Blackburn finally answered.

  “No, why?”

  “I just met him at the courthouse. Said you were something of great value to him. You have any idea what he’s talking about?”

  “Hell no. Like I said, I never even heard of the guy.”

  “If he contacts you in any way, you let me know.”

  “OK, Sheriff, no problem.”

  He hung up and walked away from the courthouse, his mind fumbling with a piece of information that didn’t seem to fit. He stopped at his car, dialed John.

  “John, I need you to run a name for me.”

  “Sure, Colt, what you got?”

  “Look for a male, midthirties to early forties, named Hack or some variation. May be just a nickname, but run it anyway. At first I thought he was a lawyer.”

  “Got it. Any particular reason?”

  “Could be nothing, but I got a weird feeling that I just ran into the guy killing the dope dealers in the county.”

  When he walked back through the office bullpen, John was banging away on a computer keyboard. John glanced up and nodded as he walked past and into his office.

  An hour later, he was staring out the window at the cemetery when John came in reading from a sheet of paper.

  “Fresh off the presses, boss,” John said. “Nothing under Hack, but there’s an interesting sheet on a Lewis Hackett, born McQuady, Kentucky.”

  “Jesus, where the hell is that?”

  “Looked it up. Western Kentucky coal country. Hackett, thirty-eight, apparently did some juvie time, records sealed. Arrested for possession when he was eighteen, got probation. Then, a few months later, he killed a man in Cincinnati, did three years for manslaughter at Lake Erie Correctional Institution.”

  He turned and faced John, who was still reading off the sheet. “I didn’t know there was such a place.”

  John looked up. “Oh yeah. Even guys in Chicago know what a shithole that joint is. Medium-security, maximum deathtrap.”

  “You’re still reading. What else?”

  “Five years ago, arrested for attempted murder. Knoxville. Charges dropped. Same with an aggravated assault charge in Memphis two years ago.”

  He sat on the window sill and shook his head. “This guy was wearing a suit that would cost me a paycheck. And this is the same guy?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “How’d you get this so fast?”

  John grinned. “Made a friend in Jackson last year when we were trying to run ballistics on that gun that killed Clifford Raines.”

  “Yeah? What’s her name?”

  “Rita. This guy, if it’s the same guy, supposedly has ties or has had ties to crime bosses all over Tennessee and a few in Kentucky. Drug dealers, mostly.”

  “McNairy?”

  John shrugged. “Don’t know. Last known address was Memphis.”

  He walked back to his desk and flopped into his chair. “So maybe the rumors are true. This guy is a Memphis hitter sent down here to discipline some low-level dealers for being sloppy.”

  John slid the sheet across his desk. “Maybe so,” he said. “That’d be my bet, anyway. So, now what do we do?”

  He pulled the paper toward him, spun it around and read it over. “Stick with our plan. If that’s why he’s here, he’s not leaving without the money Delmer has. He needs something to take back to his bosses.”

  HACK

  He walked the length of the blazing hot street knowing that Harper was likely watching his every step. At least, that was his hope. To get Harper’s attention. The news of Blackburn’s release surprised him, but it also boded well. The sheriff himself was another matter. Seldom did he face a man who exuded equal amounts of confidence and hostility. Perhaps he’d spent too much time of late dealing with the dregs—the drug dealers, addicts, and the various lowlifes that populated the empire of Mr. Brooks. Harper, he surmised instantly, could be dangerous. Managed, certainly, but dangerous nonetheless.

  Confident Harper was no longer watching him, he turned right and walked half a block in the shade of two brick buildings. He punched Dee’s number up on his cell phone and told him of Blackburn’s release.

  “Find him,” he said. “I want him to bring the money to us. Twenty-four hours.”

  He hung up before Dee could answer and speed-dialed Brooks’s Memphis office. The receptionist put him through when he identified himself.

  “Yes?” Brooks said from what sounded like a speaker phone.

  “I will recover the money within twenty-four hours,” he said.

  “Good,” Brooks replied. “Anything else?”

  He smiled into the phone. “Actually, yes. It concerns the sheriff here.”

  “I’m listening,” Brooks said.

  COLT

  He laid the rod on the deck, then stood and stretched his arms over his head while the boat drifted atop the sluggish black current of the Tombigbee. He craned his neck skyward to work out the kinks, and he gazed at a cobalt afternoon ceiling that warned him of thunderstorms later.

  The impending storms did not faze him. Quite the opposite. As a boy, he would sit on the back stoop or a sidewalk or sometimes in a soybean field and await the violence and splendor that always followed the dimming of the light, the quickening breeze that carried the intoxicating scent of rain. His senses had always been keen to the changing moods of summer days, and today those senses told him the tempest was still distant.

  He toed the control of his trolling motor and hopped into the cockpit. He had trolled his way up an almost-forgotten stretch of the old river, a convoluted channel that coursed through a series of limestone bluffs and deep hardw
ood forests. The Tennessee-Tombigbee Waterway, a few hundred yards to his left behind an impenetrable wall of trees and canebrake, gouged a straight channel through the river’s ancient bends, sandbars, and eddies and reduced the current to a sleepy crawl while monstrous barges laden with coal and scrap iron chugged through a series of locks that connected the Tennessee River to the Gulf of Mexico. An engineering marvel forty years in the making, the waterway created a playground for boaters, skiers, and watercraft of all kinds. But it also wrecked hundreds of habitats for bass—unless you knew the still-pristine spots on the old river.

  He’d been fishing this river for years, and while he groused about the loss of some of his favorite spots when the Tenn-Tom opened, he was surprised to find a few places that resulted from the dredging and digging.

  He steered the boat with one hand while his eyes scanned the banks and water’s edge. Sunlight seeped through the canopy of trees overhead, casting a greenish hue on the dark water. He kept to the middle of this narrow stretch of river so as to avoid the water moccasins he knew lurked in the willows at the muddy bank, coiled around low limbs, awaiting prey.

  He made a sweeping turn to his left—he still called it port—to avoid an archipelago of stumps and deadfall—the same spot that allowed him to fill his live well with bass an hour earlier—and opened up the throttle under the lip of a bluff. The boat planed out and skimmed the glassy surface for fifty yards before bouncing into the chop of the main channel. He smiled in the sunlight, enjoying, as he had his entire life, the solitude and freedom of the river. It was his sanctuary, a place where he was most content. He would admit, though only to himself, that the river had a therapeutic, even spiritual, effect on him. After he’d come home from the war, he came here to think—and to escape. Sometimes to hide.

  He summoned his mother’s image and hymn. The only words he could remember besides the part about the everlasting arms had something to do with being safe and secure from all alarms, but he whistled the melody. He smiled in spite of himself. Today was a thinking day. The encounter with this Hackett asshole at the courthouse still nagged at him. He was pretty sure he killed Pritchard and Munny, even though he had jack shit for evidence, even with a rap sheet a mile long—something John pointed out more than once. But showing up the day Delmer got arrested sure seemed a hell of a coincidence. He knew that, in his heart of hearts, he just wanted to nail the guy. Hack’s audacity had pissed him off, plain and simple. But there was more to it than that. Under the fancy suit and the perfect smile there seemed to be a malevolence that he could barely understand.