An Unequal Defense (David Adams)

by Chad Zunker

  There’s more to the story.

  NINETEEN

  David immediately exchanged texts with Dana, who was having lunch at the Roaring Fork with two colleagues just up the street from his office. He wanted to talk with her right away. He entered the restaurant and spotted her at a table in the corner. She noticed him, excused herself, and they slipped off together down a quiet hallway near the restrooms where they could talk in private.

  “What’s so urgent?” Dana asked.

  “This,” David replied, holding up his phone.

  He played the new video for Dana, showing her the footage of the woman in the ball cap and gray hoodie.

  “Where’d you get this?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Doesn’t matter. Why is this not on the DA’s video?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re telling me this is the first you’ve seen of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, Dana. Why is the DA’s video edited?”

  Her forehead bunched. “You think I’m lying to you, David?”

  “I don’t know, but something’s going on here.”

  “I’ve never seen this part,” Dana assured him.

  “Has Mason?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know that?”

  “You work with him.”

  “I work for him,” she clarified. “There’s a difference. And you and I both know I’m only on this case because he’s trying to mess with you. Seems to be working, if you ask me. You’re acting a little paranoid.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. But what’s the source of the DA’s video?”

  “A city camera, I think.”

  David shook his head. “Funny, Dana, no one with the city will even respond to any of our requests for footage. We keep getting the runaround.”

  “Careful with your accusations, okay? Not everything is a government conspiracy. Mason may be an ass, but I’ve never known him to be unethical. There’s probably nothing to it. This footage could be nothing more than some random woman who walked into the alley and saw your client shoot Murphy. Hell, she might help our case and not harm it. I think you need to calm down, take a step back into reality, and stop drinking from your client’s crazy Kool-Aid cup.”

  “Except this woman had just met with Murphy at a bar a half block away.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “According to a bartender at the Dirty Dog, Murphy was sitting closely with this very same woman just a few minutes before he was killed. Do you recognize her?”

  “Play it again.”

  Replaying the video, he paused it with the woman’s face in full view. Black hair, ball cap, pretty eyes.

  “I don’t know her,” Dana insisted. “Maybe they were just flirting. People do that in bars. Murphy was a good-looking guy.”

  “He went to the bar specifically to meet her, Dana.”

  She tilted her head. “Are you sure?”

  “He wrote it down in his day planner.”

  “Where’d you get his day planner?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. He wrote down her name?”

  “No, only the initials KP. But this same woman approached me two nights ago outside the county jail, right after I’d gotten through meeting with Rebel. She asked me if I was representing the guy who was accused of murdering the prosecutor. She claimed there was more to the story. But she got spooked and took off before I could get anything more out of her. I didn’t take her too seriously—until now.”

  Dana crossed her arms, brow furrowed. “Do you think Murphy could have been having an affair?”

  “I’d had that initial thought. But then I’d never even heard him talk about another woman, even in joking terms. From everything I knew about Murphy, the guy was a faithful oak.”

  “You’re right. I made a pass at him once at a law school party. He didn’t even entertain it for a moment.”

  David’s mouth dropped open. He’d never heard that story. “Damn, Dana.”

  “Not my best moment, okay? But me and tequila aren’t friends.”

  “Not to mention Murphy wouldn’t write down a meeting for a fling in his day planner, right? That would be stupid.”

  “So who is she?”

  David shrugged. “Doc cross-checked the contacts in Murphy’s day planner, but we can’t find anyone who matches up with KP.”

  “This could still be nothing.”

  “Or it could be everything. Will you at least look into it for me? Check Murphy’s files, his work contacts, see if you can find a connection? And while you’re at it, find out why the hell your video cut this woman completely out.”

  She frowned at him. “Do I need to remind you that we’re not on the same team here?”

  “When did finding the truth begin to have teams?”

  “When the legal system was created. Don’t be naive. I have a job to do here. And you’re pushing me to step into dangerous territory.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to put you in a bad spot. But what if Murphy’s killer is still out there? What if he was involved in something that got him killed? Murphy always had your back. Don’t you owe it to him to look into this?”

  Dana sighed. “Send me this video. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  TWENTY

  David found Curly waiting for him, along with another man, in a parking lot under I-35 later that afternoon. The busy interstate overhead rumbled loudly with the steady passage of heavy 18-wheelers. Curly wore the same denim jacket, jeans, and work boots that he’d had on nearly every day since David had first met him at the Camp last year. Even with the extended wear, the clothes were clean, in good shape, and absent from the usual odors of the streets. The boys at the Camp used to regularly wash their clothes with the same makeshift rain bucket system they’d also used for showering. When their camp was destroyed, they’d all had to scramble to make temporary homes in other parts of the city.

  Some of the guys were really struggling. Curly had told him that more than missing the conveniences of the Camp—like the showers, kitchen, and chapel—they mostly missed the community. They were stronger together. David understood. There had been something magical about a group of men of all ages, races, and creeds, sitting around a campfire sharing their lives with each other in such an open and honest way. That’s why developing Benny’s village was so important to him.

  Curly introduced him to the other man. “Shep, this is Moses. He said he hangs with Rebel here and there.”

  David shook the man’s dirty hand. Moses had a long, unkempt gray beard, a trucker cap, and wore jeans and a white T-shirt that were both soaked in stains and reeked something awful. His tennis shoes had big holes in both fronts, showing the man’s mangled and bloodied toes.

  “Good to meet you, Moses.”

  Moses just nodded.

  “How do you know Rebel?” David asked.

  “Met him a few years back. Couple of guys tried to rob me behind the Broken Spoke one night. Rebel put one of them down with a swing of the fist and chased the other off. We kinda been running buddies ever since.”

  “I’d heard Rebel didn’t have too many friends.”

  “He don’t. Got too much of a temper. But I don’t talk much, you see. I think he likes that, ’cause that man won’t ever stop talking.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  Curly interjected. “Tell him what you told me, Moses. About the other night.”

  “You were with Rebel the night of the murder?” David asked.

  Moses nodded, spit at the pavement. “We was drinking and shooting pool over at the Buffalo, like we do sometimes.”

  “Buffalo Billiards?”

  Another nod of the head. David knew the pool hall was on Sixth, right around the corner from where Murphy was killed.

  “Around what time?” he asked Moses.

  Moses shrugged. “Time don’t mean too much to me, mister. It was night and pack
ed, so must’ve been getting kinda late. Anyways, Rebel was going on and on about things, like he usually does, getting himself all worked up. Then he put his stick down on the table, right in the middle of our game, says to me that he’s got to go somewhere. I asked him why, since we usually drink and play until the place closes down—especially when Rebel has rounded up a bit of extra cash somehow. He tells me he’s got to go settle a score with someone.”

  “A score? With who?”

  “Hell if I know. He always talked that way. But this felt a little different.”

  “Why?”

  “He’d been keeping an eye on the clock. Like he had to be somewhere at a certain time or something.”

  “He never mentioned any names?”

  Another small shrug. “Didn’t pay much attention to most of what he said. It was always the Russians this, the CIA that.”

  “Was Rebel wearing a green jacket and a black knit cap that night?”

  Moses shook his head, spat again. “Nah, he was wearing one of them Western pearl snap shirts. Think he has two or three of them. Nice shirts. He says he got them from Clint Eastwood out in LA.”

  “You ever seen Rebel with a gun?”

  “Nope. He hates guns. I think it has to do with his time in the marines or something.” Moses smiled, showing a severe case of stained teeth. “He also hates wearing hats. Says it would be a sin to cover up his beautiful hair.”

  “You left the pool hall together?” David asked.

  Moses nodded. “No reason for me to stay. I never got more than two bucks to my name. I came back over here to hit the hay.”

  David looked over, noticed a tightly wound sleeping bag on the pavement next to a black backpack. All the man’s worldly possessions.

  “Where did Rebel get his money?” David asked.

  “Beats me. But he always seems to have a little extra cash on him.”

  “He sell drugs?”

  “Nah, that ain’t Rebel.”

  “You ever seen him black out?”

  “Whatcha mean?”

  “Like become disoriented and pass out for a few minutes.”

  “Only after drinking too much. But he’d be out all night.”

  “You know where Rebel stays at night?”

  “Nah, he don’t like company. If he wants to play pool, he knows how to find me. That’s about it.”

  David thanked Moses for the information, watched the man get his stuff and wander off. Then he and Curly discussed the situation.

  “What do you think, Shep?” Curly asked.

  “I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “You think Moses is lying?”

  “No, I don’t. But sounds like Rebel was going somewhere with the intent to harm someone in particular.”

  “Sure does.”

  David sighed. He kept trying to find an opening that led him down a path toward Rebel’s actual innocence. But so far everyone they talked with—Marcy and now Moses—had told credible stories that made it hard to believe.

  “I’ll keep checking around,” Curly said. “See who else I can round up.”

  “Thanks, Curly. Hey, you get any work over at that construction site?”

  Curly possessed some good carpentry skills, so he was usually able to find odd jobs here and there. Just enough work to barely keep his feet beneath him. Most of David’s street friends lived day to day—or even hour to hour. A stressful path of survival that David felt like he was beginning to better understand as the money in his own bank account continued to dwindle down to nothing.

  “They throwing me a few hours here and there. Not much. But enough for a couple of meals, some change for the Laundromat. But I ain’t complaining, you know. Some of the boys got it way worse than me out here.”

  Although David’s street friends never had much, they rarely complained about it. He admired that. His former colleagues over at Hunter & Kellerman had damn near everything but never seemed to stop whining about wanting more.

  David’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Staring at the text message on his screen, he didn’t recognize the random phone number. He found only a link in the text message to a news article from the Austin American-Statesman. Clicking on the link, he skimmed a story in the newspaper from a few days ago about the fatal shooting of a young man in a parking lot outside a local Tejano nightclub. Police suspected a drug deal. David had no idea who or why someone would send him such a link. He replied with three question marks, but no response came back. So he shrugged it off. His clients would often pass out his phone number to other friends on the streets. It wasn’t odd for David to receive random text messages from anonymous phone numbers.

  “Do me a favor, Curly,” David said. “Bring Moses by the office tomorrow. We need to get him some new socks and shoes before he loses a couple of his toes.”

  “You got it, Shep.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Late that afternoon, David got a call that Shifty had found Rebel’s dog and his camp. As the sun was setting on the day, David met the old man with the missing two front teeth and patchy white hair under an overpass near the running trail on the south side of Lady Bird Lake. Shifty was holding the small dog, Sandy, which looked like some version of a Yorkshire terrier. David knew his client would be relieved to hear that his beloved mutt had managed to survive without him.

  Following Shifty, David cut through a narrow path off the main trail, climbed over a short concrete wall, until they made their way up into the darkest recesses of the overpass. David doubted many people would find their way up here. Rebel probably liked the solitude and the fact that no one would likely steal his possessions while he was away. Theft was commonplace among his street friends, which is why so many of them carried, pushed, or pulled everything they owned everywhere they went.

  David found a gray backpack and a rolled-up green sleeping bag among an assortment of empty beer cans and some random trash. Next to it were two empty silver dog bowls.

  “How do you know this is his stuff?” David asked Shifty.

  “Check the dog tags on the bag.”

  Kneeling, David found official metal military tags on a chain that were looped through a strap of the backpack: North, Roger Eugene.

  “Elvis talked to a guy who thought he saw Rebel up here the other day,” Shifty said. “Sure enough, when I came walking up here, this little guy started barking his head off. I recognized that yapping right away.”

  “Good work, Shifty.”

  The backpack looked rather new. David unzipped the front pocket. Inside, he found two packs of Marlboro cigarettes, a couple of lighters, two packages of peanut butter crackers, and a wad of rolled-up cash secured with a rubber band. David pulled out the cash, began counting it, which made the dog growl at him.

  “Easy there,” Shifty told the dog. “We’re not stealing anything.”

  David calculated $600. How did Rebel have that much money on him? It was highly unusual for his street friends to have a roll of cash. Moses had mentioned earlier that Rebel always seemed to have a little extra cash. So where did he get it?

  Checking the second pocket, David found a large Ziploc bag that contained a toothbrush and toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, a travel-size shampoo, a couple of bars of soap, a can of shaving cream, and several razors that were still in their new packages. He also found a prescription pill bottle for something called Clozaril. The bottle was about half-full.

  “What’s that, Shep?” Shifty asked.

  “Not sure.”

  On his phone, David did a quick Google search. The drug was used to treat schizophrenia. The prescription was under Rebel’s real name and written nine months ago by a Dr. M. Wong in Tucson. David did another quick search and found that Dr. Wong was legitimate. Rebel had apparently been to a doctor about his condition after all.

  “Rebel doing drugs?” Shifty asked.

  “Doctor prescribed,” David clarified. “Supposed to help keep him stable.”

  “Drugs don’t do that,” Shifty said with
a toothless smile. “The only thing that can do that is the Holy Ghost.”

  Shifty had a joy about him that had always made David feel good. Whether it was the Holy Ghost or something else, Shifty had managed to overcome a difficult road. He’d once been a truck driver from Alabama. Came home from a road trip and found his wife in bed with another man. Shifty said he lost his mind and put the man in the hospital with a broken jaw, a cracked skull, several broken ribs, and a punctured lung. It was hard to imagine the frail old man in front of him doing so much damage to another human being. The injured guy recovered, but Shifty didn’t. After serving sixty days’ jail time, he hit the bottle even harder, wrecked his company’s truck, destroyed all the valuables he was carrying, and got fired. Thus began his drifting days. The out-of-control boozing continued for nearly two decades and kept him wandering from town to town just to survive. The old man found refuge with the boys at the Camp three years ago and finally got sober. It changed his entire life. Shifty had spent the past couple of years helping others on the street also get clean. He claimed it was his life purpose, his second chance, and he liked to keep a running tally of the number of street friends he’d helped get into treatment centers.

  “What’s your number today, Shifty?” David asked him.

  Another big smile. “Thirty-two.”

  “That’s three more since the last time I asked you.”

  “Yessir! And I’m real close with two others. Pray for Willy and Janet.”

  “Will do.”

  David continued his search of the second pocket, finding paperback copies of The Catcher in the Rye and To Kill a Mockingbird. He never took Rebel for a reader of the classics—or any books, for that matter—but he’d found similar books in the box the ex-wife had given him.

  Finding a leather-bound Bible in the pocket, David opened it and read an inscription written on the first page.

  My prayers are with you. —Benny