by C. J. Box
“About what?”
“Whatever it is you think I should know,” Cassie said.
*
She retrieved her phone to speed-dial her son while she walked toward her Jeep in the parking lot. It was 9:15 a.m. and she knew he had an open-study period from nine to ten and she assumed that he wasn’t studying.
After she talked to him to find out what the problem was, she planned to touch base with Rachel and give her an update. It roiled her stomach to do so because she knew the missing underwear could be seized upon by the defense, DNA report or not.
While the prosecution had the awesome power and treasury of the state behind them at trial, the defense had the luxury of second-guessing and questioning every move made by law enforcement and spinning simple errors that occurred in every organization into diabolical conspiracies. Cassie had been on the stand on multiple occasions when defense attorneys questioned her motives, ethics, and competence. It was always demoralizing, and it bothered her to think that she could conceivably play a role in a similar effort.
She didn’t want to be a party to that in this case, especially given the overwhelming evidence against Blake Kleinsasser.
ten
Ben Dewell waited for Erin Reese on a cold concrete bench that had yet to warm from the morning sun outside Bozeman High. He kept a close eye on the double doors for her because he planned to spring up and greet her the moment she came outside.
It was pure fortune that Erin’s free period occurred the same time as his. They’d started meeting outside and walking the two blocks to the Kum & Go convenience store for a morning snack. But it was more than that. He couldn’t wait to see her.
Erin was a new kid to Bozeman and the school, like Ben. And like Ben, she’d arrived with no friends or connections or cliques that immediately welcomed her to join them. Ben had the wrestling team but it was almost as if having no group at all because he was a freshman and he was so lousy at the sport. He wasn’t even sure he’d make the freshman team because his only value, it seemed, was to serve as prey for better wrestlers who needed their confidence built up. The coaches made sure of that. As a result, he was a mass of bruises and sore muscles, and the only other wrestlers he’d really bonded with were as inept as he was and most of them had already quit the team.
That Erin hadn’t found her place yet was more of a puzzle for Ben because she was attractive, quirky, and exotic. She was also flighty and book-smart, and she seemed to be very comfortable in her own skin, unlike him. There was no doubt she was considered weird and seemed to care not at all about what other kids said about her with her odd clothing, floppy hats, and flowing scarves.
He expected to lose her friendship at any time when, inevitably, she fell in with the right crowd. He’d noticed some of the drama and theater nerds hanging together at lunch and he guessed she might fit right in with them.
But so far, it seemed, he was her only friend. And he thanked God for it twenty times a day.
They shared two classes, the study period, and late-night texting together. She seemed to like his company and she laughed at his attempts at humor. She lifted his spirits when he was down and playfully called him “Eeyore” after the gloomy donkey in the Winnie-the-Pooh books. When he complained to her about Isabel, which he often did, she laughed uncontrollably in person or replied with laughing emojis in her text responses.
When she appeared behind the heavy glass in the vestibule— her sheer lavender scarf flowing behind her and giving her away— he felt a trill that shot up both legs into his groin.
And, of course, at that second his mother called.
*
“Ben, is everything all right?”
“It’s fine,” he said quickly. He wanted to get off the phone before Erin saw him talking to his mom.
“But you texted me to call you right away.” She sounded rushed and annoyed.
“Isabel went on strike this morning,” he said.
“What do you mean, on strike?”
“That’s what she said. She said I don’t appreciate her and neither do you. She said she was on strike until further notice.”
“Ben, what did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Ben?”
“Why do you automatically blame me? You know she’s a crazy woman.”
“That’s no way to talk about your grandmother, Ben. She means well. So, what happened that she decided to go on strike?”
He sighed. “I wouldn’t eat granola for breakfast. I told her I need protein, like bacon. I’m a wrestler, Mom.”
“And she went on strike over that?”
“That’s what she said. So, you need to come home.”
“I can’t right now,” his mother said. “Look, I’ll call her and try to straighten things out.”
“She’s not answering her phone. That’s part of her strike.”
The conversation was becoming time-consuming and it was getting complicated, he thought. Erin was pushing through the doors to come outside. That she seemed to be searching for him made his legs even weaker.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, making eye contact with Erin and leaping up as planned.
“Ben, you need to try to get along with Isabel.”
“Mom, I’ve got to go. I’m in school.”
He said it as he approached Erin and rolled his eyes for her benefit.
“We’ll talk tonight. In the meanwhile, I’ll try to talk to your grandmother—”
He disconnected the call and slid his phone in his shirt pocket.
“Was that your mom?”
He tried for a dismissive tone. “Yeah. She’s always checking up on me.”
“That’s nice.”
“Not always.”
“Believe me,” Erin said with a flip of her strawberry blonde hair, “it’s better than not caring at all.”
Which made him realize he knew nothing at all about her family. Their conversations had been solely about school, other students, movies, music, and things like that. Ben made a mental note to ask her about her situation when the time was right. He’d heard that girls liked it when boys showed a genuine interest in their lives.
He was so new to this, he thought. This girl thing.
Erin smiled at him and gestured up the street in the direction of the Kum & Go. She said, “Ice cream for breakfast sounds awesome to me.”
“Ice cream it is,” he said, taking her backpack and throwing it over his shoulder. She was a few inches taller than him but he was stronger. She’d told him she really liked how polite he was. She’d called him a “true gentleman.”
Ben casually reached into his pocket to make sure he had money. He knew at this rate he’d burn through all the cash his mother had given him in a couple of days. And he didn’t care.
*
Ben listened as Erin told him about her English teacher from second period, how they’d gotten into an argument about The Iliad. They were side by side down the sidewalk and twice she grasped his hand for emphasis as she made a point. Her touch made his mouth go dry.
“I told him the poem would be much more interesting if it was told from Helen’s point of view,” she said. “As it is it’s no better than a cheap sword-and-sandals B movie. He disagreed.”
He loved the way she talked. It was lyrical and sophisticated and nothing ever seemed to bother her. And she had courage taking on a teacher like that.
Ben couldn’t stop staring at her naked ankles as she walked. The hem of her pants was short and he didn’t know if it was because her family couldn’t afford clothes that fit her or if it was her style. He came down firmly on her style.
As she told him about the flaws she found in the narrative of the epic poem, how she thought it was a “cheap trick” to have Zeus suddenly appear and solve the problems of the Greeks versus the Trojans, Ben realized that it was getting harder to hear her because of escalating street noise. A low rumbling filled the air.
Her spell over him temporarily broken, he looked up w
ith annoyance.
It was a clear shot to the parking lot of the Kum & Go and the street ahead was empty. Then he turned around to see the grille of a huge tractor-trailer rumbling up the street behind them. It was black and dirty and massive, and he couldn’t see the driver because the windows were tinted.
Ben couldn’t believe it when the semi crossed the center line of the street into the other lane. It kept coming until the front tires were on the sidewalk right behind them.
Then it sped up.
He grasped Erin’s arm and pulled her into an alleyway between the corner and the convenience store. As he did so her backpack slipped off of her shoulder and fell to the pavement. He felt a wave of hot exhaust on his back.
They both watched as the Peterbilt rolled over the top of the backpack. Two sets of front wheels and two more sets of dual tires under the trailer.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
*
Once the truck was gone, accelerating loudly as it passed in front of the Kum & Go and turned at the corner, they looked at each other as if to confirm what had just happened.
“That idiot almost ran us over!” she said. “What do you think he was doing?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “He wasn’t looking where he was going. Maybe he was texting or something. I hear they do that when they drive.”
“He could have squashed us.” Then she said, “You saved my life.”
Ben flushed red. No one had ever said anything like that to him before, something so dramatic yet clichéd.
“Thank you, Ben Dewell. You’re my hero.”
He didn’t think he could turn any redder, but he was sure he did.
Ben was surprised by what Erin did next when she leaned into him and kissed him on the mouth. He was too surprised to respond.
Then she laughed as she retrieved her backpack from the sidewalk. She peeled it off the concrete and marveled at the fact that it was totally flattened, like the Road Runner in the cartoons.
Ben’s heart raced, and not just from the unexpected kiss. The vehicle was just like the truck his mom had chased for years. He knew the description of it by heart. He also knew his mom had been there for the last breath of the Lizard King.
So, who had been behind the wheel? And why had the driver targeted him?
Should he tell Erin about the Lizard King? Would she think he was crazy or paranoid? Or would she really get into the story because it was so lurid and dramatic?
He thought he knew the answer to that question.
eleven
Attorney Andrew Johnson was seated at the defense table in Lochsa County courtroom number one when Cassie entered the room. His back was to her.
She knew his location because she’d called Johnson’s law office and asked for him. The secretary said he was in court.
Cassie slipped into an empty bench and placed her bag next to her. The security officer in the outside hallway had kept her phone and keys. She’d known better than to enter the chambers with her weapons or electronics and she’d left them in her Jeep.
The pretrial hearing had already begun, and Johnson sat next to his client. Across the aisle from him was a young woman prosecutor.
The courtroom was virtually empty except for two other defendants and their respective lawyers who sat on opposite sides of the aisle. Both defendants—an unkempt man in his sixties who noticed her and scowled and a stringy-haired thirtysomething with the toothless grin of a meth addict—seemed as if they’d been there before. There was also an older woman knitting a baby blanket. Cassie guessed she was the type who simply enjoyed sitting through courtroom procedures.
Johnson’s client wore an orange jumpsuit with LOCHSA COUNTY DETENTION CENTER stenciled in black across the back of it. He had jet-black hair in a ponytail, and when he turned his head toward Johnson she could see he had Native American features.
The judge was a severe woman who had a grating voice. She seemed bored with the proceedings. Cassie assumed the morning was scheduled for multiple hearings and that it was the judge’s intent to bang them out as quickly as possible.
“Mr. Johnson,” the judge said, “your client”—she glanced down at her notes for a moment—“Mr. Leland Red Star Wolf, has been charged with driving while under the influence of alcohol and resisting arrest. How does he plead?”
Johnson gathered himself and stood up. “He pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”
The judge snorted and rolled her eyes. “Lovely.”
“Your Honor,” Johnson said, “my client is a member of good standing of the Nez Perce nation. In addition to serving on the Salmon Recovery Board, he’s a former vice-chairman of the Nez Perce Tribal Executive Committee. Therefore he’s not a flight risk. We would ask the court to consider a reasonable bail so that he can resume his duties for the tribe while he awaits trial.”
“That’s touching,” the judge said with sarcasm.
“This is Mr. Red Star Wolf’s first offense in Lochsa County,” Johnson continued.
The prosecutor stood up quickly. “Your Honor, what Mr. Johnson fails to note is that although this is Mr. Red Star Wolf’s first offense in Lochsa County, he’s been arrested two times for the same offense—DWUI—in Missoula County and another time in Idaho.”
Johnson looked over at her with faux indignation. Cassie had seen it all before.
“Right,” the judge said. She glared at the defendant and said, “Let’s hope your client sees his way to a plea deal and doesn’t take any more valuable time in my courtroom,” before setting his bail at twenty-five thousand dollars.
She banged her gavel and said, “Next!”
Cassie found that amount unusually high considering the charges. She thought that they didn’t mess around in Lochsa County.
*
After whispering briefly with his client, Johnson watched as the deputies led Red Star Wolf away. When the defendant was gone, the attorney abruptly loosened up and exchanged pleasantries with the prosecutor and both of them laughed at a shared joke Cassie couldn’t hear.
As Johnson gathered papers to clear the table for the next case, Cassie approached the bar that separated the spectator gallery from the well where the lawyers’ tables and bench were located.
“Mr. Andrew Johnson?”
He turned around as if startled. He was thin with close-cropped silver hair, a sharp nose, darting blue eyes, and a cautious manner. His suit seemed to be a size too big.
“Can I help you?” Johnson said.
“I’m Cassie Dewell with Dewell Investigations in Bozeman. I’m working on behalf of Mitchell-Estrella and I was hoping I could ask you a few questions in regard to the case against Blake Kleinsasser.”
When she said Mitchell-Estrella she noticed a tightening of his jaw.
“As you can see, I’m busy,” he said.
“I’m happy to make an appointment for later today.”
“Not possible,” Johnson said. “I’m on my way right now to do depos in another case. I’ll be occupied for the rest of today and tomorrow.”
“It won’t take long,” she said.
“I can’t be late.”
“Then we can walk and talk.”
He sighed and turned his back on her so he could slide his files into his briefcase. When he turned back around she was still there.
“Walk and talk,” he said without enthusiasm.
Cassie noted that the prosecutor watched the exchange with a small grin, as if Johnson’s sudden predicament amused her.
*
“I want to get my facts straight,” Cassie said as she trailed Johnson in the hallway. He was a fast walker, and he was determined to get to where he was going.
There were several small knots of people in the hallway; cops, prosecutors, defendants, lawyers, witnesses.
“What is it that you want to know?” he asked sotto voce over his shoulder. It was in the same manner, she noted, he had talked with his client before the defendant was led away.
“Our records show tha
t you were Blake’s initial criminal attorney. Is that correct?”
“Blake? He’s Blake to you?” As if the accused was her close friend.
“Only because there are so many Kleinsassers in this valley that I want to be clear.”
“Ah, got it.”
“So that’s correct? You were his defense counsel?”
“That’s correct.”
“You petitioned the court for a change in venue from Lochsa County. May I ask you why?”
“You can ask,” Johnson said, his voice rising inexplicably. “But there’s such a thing as attorney-client privilege. I can’t tell you about our discussions and if you continue to ask about them I may need to notify the sheriff.”
Cassie snorted. “Come on, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’m not asking you to re-create your discussions with Blake and you don’t even represent him anymore. I’m not asking that you be a witness in his defense, either. I’m just trying to verify the facts and the time line.”
Johnson paused at the elevator and pushed the down button. Loud enough for everyone milling in the hallway to hear including cops and court personnel, he said, “Ms. Dewell, I’ve said all I’m going to say about the Blake Kleinsasser case.”
The doors opened and he stepped in and turned around to face her. He crossed his arms in a petulant fashion. Nevertheless, she joined him in the elevator car.
As soon as the doors closed, she said, “Our understanding is that you quit the case on account of your health but I have to say you looked pretty spry in the courtroom back there. How are you feeling?”
“I’m making a living,” Johnson said softly as if he were concerned about microphones inside. “I do have prostate cancer.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you at a critical stage?”
He shrugged. “My urologist says every man either dies with it or dies from it. We’re doing what’s called ‘watchful waiting’ or ‘active surveillance’ to figure out what we’re going to do next.”
“So, it’s really not that bad,” Cassie said. “Thank goodness.”
“I suppose,” Johnson replied. “If there’s such a thing as not bad cancer. Is there such a thing as not bad cancer?”
