“I believe I offer Coi Than Tien a chance to live with honor. Where we choose to live.”
This was pointless. They had had this debate a thousand times, and he had yet to make the slightest dent in Pham’s thick head. “What are your men doing?”
“We are … building,” Pham said.
“That much I know already. What are you building?”
Pham’s lips remained closed.
“Is it for the parade?”
Pham’s eyes widened in reaction to the last word.
“For weeks now, you have been extremely well informed about ASP’s activities, both past and future,” Nguyen said. “What is your source of this information?”
“I am more interested in learning how much you know, Colonel Nguyen.”
“I know you plan some sort of disruption. A surprise.”
“A warning,” Pham replied.
“You are so eager to issue warnings, yet you yourself have ignored all those we have been given.”
“What warnings?”
“What happened to Nhung Vu was a warning. What happened to your grandmother was a warning. Don’t be a fool!” He shoved Pham aside and started for the door. As he fumbled with the latch Pham’s partner pushed him back. He stood between Nguyen and the door, fists raised.
Pham scrambled back to his feet and positioned himself behind Nguyen, sandwiching him in. All three waited to see who would make the first move.
Colonel Nguyen felt his entire body stiffen. It was a familiar reaction; even subconsciously, he was preparing for combat. “Do not presume to fight me,” Nguyen said, barely audibly.
“You leave me no choice,” Pham answered.
“I would not welcome combat with my own people.”
“Nor I. It is possible that a warrior such as yourself would be able to defeat both me and my companion. But remember—there are twenty more of us just inside these doors.”
Nguyen had to remind himself that this boy was not the enemy, not really. He had to control his temper. A fistfight in the barn would accomplish nothing.
“I beg you to reconsider,” Nguyen said. “For all our sakes.”
Pham repositioned himself in front of the doors. “I am afraid that once again I must decline. Please go.”
Colonel Nguyen slowly pulled away from the barn doors.
“You will see, Colonel Nguyen,” Pham shouted as he departed. “One day you will see that I was right. Tomorrow will begin a new era!”
Yes, Nguyen thought as he walked into the harsh glare of the noonday sun. That much he believed.
Starting tomorrow, everything would change.
39.
BEN ARRIVED AT THE Silver Springs courthouse at nine o’clock sharp. He found Judge Tyler, District Attorney Swain, and Ben’s alleged co-counsel, Harlan Payne, in the judge’s closetlike chambers. The air in the tiny room had a boozy smell; Ben suspected the bottle in the judge’s bottom drawer had made a few trips around before he arrived.
He squeezed into a seat between the DA and Payne. “Where’s Amber?” Ben asked Swain.
“Marjorie has her today.” He appeared faintly embarrassed.
“That’s a shame,” Ben said. “I was hoping to hear you sing ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ in the courtroom.”
Judge Tyler smiled wryly. “That little Amber is welcome in my courtroom anytime, Mr. Swain. Your singing, however, is not. Shall we get to it, gentlemen?”
Both attorneys announced that they were ready to proceed.
“Now, let’s use this time productively and work out our problems in advance so this trial can move along as smoothly as possible. I’m anticipating a large turnout for this trial, and we don’t want everyone to think we’re a bunch of stupid hicks like Mr. Kincaid does.”
“Your honor,” Ben protested, “I never said—”
“Never mind that,” Judge Tyler said. “What can I do for you?”
“Well,” Ben said, “I’ve had a few discovery problems.”
“Like what?”
“The prosecution has not given me a witness list.”
Judge Tyler addressed Swain. “That true?”
Swain chuckled. “I hardly see what difference it’s going to make. Vick’s guilty as sin.”
Ben leaned forward. “Your honor—”
“Not necessary,” the judge said, holding up his hands. “Mr. Swain, regardless of your private assessment of the defendant, we’re going to run a good clean trial. So give Mr. Kincaid a list.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you will make your witnesses available to Mr. Kincaid if he wishes to chat with them before they take the stand.”
“Yes, sir,” Swain agreed. “I will.”
“Now see,” Tyler said, peering across at Ben. “Maybe we hicks know how to run a trial after all. What else can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see all his exhibits,” Ben said. “Before trial.”
“Well now,” Tyler replied, “I believe you’re only entitled to see evidence deemed exculpatory.”
“Swain doesn’t consider anything exculpatory, since he’s certain my client is guilty as sin.”
Judge Tyler tapped his pencil impatiently. “Mr. Swain, I believe it might be best if you provided copies of all your exhibits to Mr. Kincaid.”
“But, sir!”
“I think you can probably have those ready for him by noon, don’t you?”
Swain swallowed. “I’ll … do my best, sir.”
“Good. I’ll have Mabel drop by your office just to make sure you haven’t forgotten.”
“Uh … that’ll be great, sir.”
“I’m glad we got that taken care of. What else can I do for you gentlemen? Any motions I need to consider?”
“Yes, your honor,” Ben said. “I have two.”
“Two?” Tyler wiped his brow. “Great balls of fire. I sometimes go months without hearing a motion. I’ve tried entire cases that never had any motions. And you waltz in here with two!”
“I think they’re important, your honor.”
“No doubt. You big-city lawyers are scads more creative than us dumb country boys.”
Ben tried to ignore the jab. “First I have a motion in limine.”
The judge blinked. “Say what?”
“A … motion to exclude certain evidence.”
“I know what a motion in limine is, counselor.”
“He wants to keep out evidence that incriminates his client,” Swain explained.
“Well, wouldn’t we all?” Judge Tyler peered down at Ben. “Just what is it you wish to exclude?”
“A hearsay statement allegedly made by my client at the Bluebell Bar after a fight.”
Swain piped up. “My witness will testify that Vick said, ‘I’ll get you, you perverted little Vietnamese gook.’ ”
“The statement has no probative value,” Ben insisted, “but it would prejudice my client’s case. And it’s hearsay testimony. No question about it.”
“Well, maybe so,” the judge said. “But wouldn’t it also be an admission against interest? And as such admissible as an exception to the hearsay rule?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Swain said.
“No,” Ben said. “How could it be an admission? An admission of what? That Vuong was a perverted gook? It’s just name-calling.”
“Ah,” Swain said. “But that’s the point, your honor. It shows Vick hated Vuong. It proves his motive.”
“Thank you,” Ben said. “Mr. Swain has just confessed that he wants to admit this statement to prove the truth of the matter asserted—that Vick planned to kill Vuong. It is therefore by definition hearsay and cannot be admitted.”
The judge pursed his lips. “Any response, Mr. Swain?”
“Uh, no, your honor.”
“Mr. Kincaid,” the judge said slowly, “your motion will be granted.”
Swain was all eyeballs. “What?”
“I think you heard me.”
Ben was almost as astonished as Swain. He had
felt obligated to make the argument, but he hadn’t expected to win. Wonders never ceased.
“Wait a minute, Judge,” Swain said. “I need that testimony. It’s practically a confession!”
“I’ve already ruled, counsel. Anything else?”
“I have another motion,” Ben said. Why quit when he was on a winning streak? “For a change of venue. I want this case transferred somewhere else.”
“Now, why would you want to do that? Don’t you like our fair city?”
“It isn’t—”
“Are you hoping to cut a few of your city-slicker lawyer friends in on this case? Maybe split some fees?”
“No, Judge. I just don’t think Donald Vick can get a fair trial in Silver Springs. You said it yourself last week—this town is a powder keg. Everyone’s running scared. A jury elected from this pool might convict my client just in the hope that it would set the world right again. Whether they’re convinced of his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt or not.”
“Got any evidence to support this theory of yours, Mr. Kincaid?”
“Well, how could I? I haven’t taken a poll.”
“Anybody come up to you and say they were going to convict your man no matter what?”
“Of course not.”
“You’ll have the chance to voir dire every prospective juror just like everyone else. If you find anyone who’s biased, you may excuse them.”
“Your honor, no one is likely to admit that they favor a quick conviction just because they’re frightened.”
“Then what am I supposed to rule upon? Your motion is denied.”
“Judge, that was only my first ground for a change of venue.” Ben had hoped he wouldn’t need the second. But now it appeared he was going to have to go all the way. “The second reason for a transfer is the trial judge’s obvious bias against my client.”
“What? How dare you—!”
“Judge, you told me yourself you read the DA’s file on the case. That’s improper. You said the evidence against my client looked pretty bad. You’ve already made up your mind.”
The judge rose halfway out of his chair. “I was simply stating facts!”
“The jury is supposed to determine the facts,” Ben said. “Not the judge. I want a transfer.”
“Mr. Kincaid, I am beginning to understand why you’ve had such a hard time holding down a job! I have served on this bench for twenty-eight years, and never—never!—have I been accused of being unfair!”
“You may not be conscious of it, sir, but you’re still—”
“Be quiet!” He pounded his fist on his desk. “I heard you out, now you listen to me. You’re right about one thing. I don’t like your client. And I’m starting to like you even less. But my likes and dislikes are irrelevant. Justice is what matters. And this court will serve justice—perfect justice—to the best of my ability.
“Your client will have a fair trial. And if he loses, it will be because the evidence was against him and he was found guilty by a jury of his peers. And for no other reason. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” There was nothing else to say.
“Very good. Your motion is denied. Understood?”
Ben nodded.
“Anything further?”
All attorneys present shook their heads.
“Very good, gentlemen. See you in court.”
40.
VICK WAS HUNCHED OVER the exposed sink in the middle of his cell when Ben arrived. He was splashing water on his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He didn’t look as if he had been up long.
“ ’Morning,” Ben said amiably.
Vick peered out over his wash towel, then went on with what he was doing.
“This will probably be our last chance to talk before the trial.”
Vick threw down his towel. “Why is there going to be a trial? I thought I told you I wanted to plead guilty?”
Ben chose his words carefully. “The DA didn’t give me a deal.” Not that he asked for one.
“I don’t give a damn. I’m pleading guilty.”
“Look, Vick. I know you’re young, inexperienced, and not incredibly … worldly-wise. Let me explain the facts of life to you. This case is going to trial, whether you like it or not. Therefore you have fulfilled your goal of protecting whoever it is you’re determined to protect. Maybe you’re concerned that if the jury finds you not guilty, the prosecution will go on trying people until they get a conviction. Wrong. Prosecutors bet all their chips on the first trial. If they win, great. If they lose, they complain that they were screwed by the judge or the lawyers or the press. They almost never bring charges against a second defendant following an acquittal. After all, to do so would be to admit they made a mistake.”
“I don’t need your—”
“Just shut up and listen. Given that this trial is going forward, and given that no one else will ever be tried for this crime unless he confesses his guilt on national television, the only remaining question is what the outcome of your trial will be. Will I get you off, or will you be on the receiving end of a lethal injection?”
Vick stepped away from the iron bars.
“It isn’t going to make a bit of difference to anyone else. Only to you. So what’s it going to be? Will you let me try to save you?”
Vick walked back to his cot, then seated himself on the edge. His eyes remained locked on Ben.
“I made a promise,” he said finally.
“Fine. Keep your goddamn promise. We’ll work around it.”
Eventually Vick’s head began to nod. “What do you want to know?”
Hallelujah. “They found a bloodstain on the crossbow. They say the blood is your type. Any idea how it got there? I thought possibly you were practicing with the crossbow out at the ASP camp one day and cut your finger. Then maybe someone else picked up the crossbow and used it to kill Vuong.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Forensic evidence doesn’t lie,” Ben said. “If I can’t come up with an explanation for how your hair and blood got on that crossbow, the prosecution will ram it down our throats.”
“Nothing like that ever happened,” Vick said.
Oh, well. It was worth a try.
Vick’s answers were largely useless, but Ben was nonetheless encouraged. Vick hadn’t actually proclaimed his innocence, but he was at least expressing interest in something other than a one-way ticket to death row. “Have you heard about the fire? At Coi Than Tien.”
“I read the paper the sheriff gave me.”
“Was this an ASP operation?”
“How would I know? I’ve been locked up in here for weeks. Was the fire … bad?”
“Destroyed one home, damaged two others.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“A few people with scorched lungs or smoke inhalation. One woman was burned severely. We don’t know if she’s going to live.”
Vick looked down at his hands. His sorrow appeared genuine.
“So,” Ben continued, “if you know who set the fire—”
“I don’t,” Vick said firmly. “No idea at all.”
Ben hated to add to Vick’s already hefty guilt load. On the other hand, if there was any chance he might have information about the night of the fire …
“There was a baby in the burned home,” Ben said softly. “We found her in the ruins. Her remains, anyway.”
Vick stared up at him, his eyes wide. “A”—his voice choked—“baby?” He barely got the word out.
“Yeah. Newborn. We don’t know who she was or where she came from. Do you?”
“Of course not.”
“I just thought that since you’re—”
“I said I don’t know anything about it!” Vick’s voice echoed down the narrow stone corridor. “What the hell does it have to do with Vuong’s murder, anyway?”
“I think there’s a connection,” Ben said, “although I’m not sure what it is. But I can tell you this for certain. Everyone in town thinks ASP is resp
onsible for the fire, just as they think ASP is responsible for this murder. And those people are going to be your jurors.”
“Maybe you should talk to someone at the camp.”
“I’ve tried,” Ben said. “Without any luck. But speaking of your friends at the camp, I gather you weren’t all that friendly with them. Any reason in particular?”
Vick looked away. “I’m new to the club. Relatively. Takes a while to make friends.”
Ben suspected Vick could have been in this club for decades and never made any friends. He just didn’t belong. It was as if ASP was a gigantic “What’s wrong with this picture?” puzzle, and the answer was Donald Vick. “You wouldn’t have fallen in with these people if not for your father, right?”
Vick didn’t answer him.
“Donald, there comes a time when you have to shake loose of the person your parents want you to be. You have to be yourself.” Ben stopped and listened to his own words. Good advice, Ben. Good advice.
“Donald,” Ben said, “your father is dead. If this ASP crap isn’t for you, shake loose of it.”
Vick’s head turned up slowly. His face was almost smiling. “A little too late, isn’t it?”
Ben only hoped Vick was wrong.
41.
ON HIS WAY OUT of the jailhouse, Ben was greeted by the sound of tinny, blaring music. It seemed to be coming from the north end of Main Street.
Ben saw something moving his way, but he couldn’t make out what it was. A field of green, creating a strange shimmering sensation just over the pavement.
He felt a chill creep down his spine.
As they approached, Ben determined that the music was martial—a John Philip Sousa flag-waving special. And then he saw the camouflage uniforms, and the wooden cross towering over them.
Dozens of them, six across, several rows deep.
ASP was on the march.
They were in full regalia: green fatigues with the burning-cross emblem over their breasts. Several marchers were carrying placards, RELEASE DONNY VICK read one; JUSTICE FOR ALL read another. A large banner was emblazoned with AN ENEMY OF ONE IS AN ENEMY OF ALL.
No doubt about it—this was a pretrial protest parade. A public demonstration designed to inform all prospective jurors that a guilty verdict could bring the wrath of ASP down on their heads.
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