Long Range

by Box, C. J.

  When he heard Stovepipe’s voice and another coming toward the lobby in the hallway, he flipped all the log sheets back to the current one and returned to where he’d been standing on the other side of Stovepipe’s alcove. Stovepipe appeared with Norm, who was a heavy guy wearing a short-sleeve shirt and a lanyard that extended to his belt buckle.

  “Forty-eight hours,” the old cowboy said as he shuffled back to his desk. “Norm says the files are kept for forty-eight hours and then deleted or something. Some kind of technical jargon.”

  “I keep asking to update the system so we have more storage capacity on it,” Norm said. “Nobody pays any attention to me.”

  “Forty-eight hours of memory is not very long,” Joe lamented.

  “Talk to the county commissioners,” Norm said. Then he glanced at his wristwatch to suggest that it was time for him to go home for the night.

  Stovepipe shrugged. He had no opinion on the matter.

  “Is there something in particular you’re looking for?” Stovepipe asked after Norm had retreated to the bowels of the building.

  “Whatever it was, it happened more than forty-eight hours ago,” Joe said.

  “Sorry,” Stovepipe said as he gathered up his jacket and lunch box. “I guess it’s close enough for government work.”

  “Isn’t that always the case,” Joe said.

  “Come on,” Stovepipe said, “I’ll walk you out. They’re locking all the doors. We don’t want to get trapped in this hellhole for the night.”

  “Is Duane Patterson in his office, by any chance?” Joe asked.

  “He’s always in his office,” Stovepipe said.

  “I need to see him. Don’t worry, I’ll go out through the back.”

  “Suit yourself,” the old man said. “And have a great night.”

  “You too.”

  “Too damned bad about Sue,” Stovepipe said as he pushed through the front doors.

  *

  JOE BYPASSED the metal detector after Stovepipe was gone and entered the hallway that led to the courtroom. He paused and forwarded the series of photos he’d taken to Marybeth’s email account.

  *

  LIGHT SPILLED on the floor from the county attorney’s office when Joe turned the corner. The door was open and Joe peered inside without entering. The receptionist’s desk was empty, but behind it he could see Patterson sitting motionless at his desk behind an interior window. The county attorney could be seen in side profile. He was staring at the wall with his hands resting on his desktop.

  Joe paused. It was probably not the best time to bother him. Patterson looked to be deep in thought or in some kind of coma.

  That’s when Patterson turned his head and caught Joe peeking in. The county attorney looked lost and forlorn. Pitiful, even.

  “Do you have a minute?” Joe asked, knowing his words probably couldn’t be heard through the glass.

  Patterson motioned weakly for him to enter and then dropped his hand back to the desk.

  “How are you doing?” Joe asked as he sat down across from Patterson.

  “You know, Joe,” Patterson sighed, “it’s the shits.”

  “You’re taking things hard,” Joe said.

  Patterson leaned back in his chair. “I deal with criminals and victims all day long. I think I do a pretty good job. But that’s at a distance, you know? I don’t really know these people. They’re cases. So when something happens this close to home, when it happens to people you actually know, it’s different. Does that make sense?”

  Joe nodded that it did and said, “Not to mention that somebody took a shot at you as well.”

  “That, too,” Patterson said, almost as an afterthought. Joe found that an unusual response. Barely avoiding a bullet in the face would deeply affect most people, Joe thought. Including himself.

  “Maybe you ought to go home,” Joe said. “It’s been a rough day.”

  “Why?” Patterson asked.

  Unlike Joe, Patterson didn’t have anyone to go home to. Joe had been to his apartment over the hardware store on Main Street just once, to watch a Wyoming Cowboys football game. The Cowboys had lost, and Joe had found himself looking at the walls within the apartment. There was nothing on them except a few old posters that had probably been in Patterson’s college dorm room. That was one reason, Joe always assumed, that the man spent so much time at the office. The courthouse was his home, in a way, whether he was the public defender or now the prosecutor. This was Patterson’s world, and it had been violently disrupted.

  “He actually broke down and cried,” Patterson said.

  “Judge Hewitt?”

  Patterson nodded. “He put his head on my shoulder and cried.” As he said it, Patterson reached up and touched his collar with the tips of his fingers, as if feeling for dried tears.

  “This may not be a good time,” Joe said, “but I’m following a lead that may exonerate my friend Nate.”

  Patterson reacted with alarm, but that was replaced quickly with a dispassionate professionalism. “What kind of lead?”

  “Nate didn’t do this,” Joe said. “I’m starting from that premise. So who did?”

  “Don’t let your loyalty blind you,” Patterson cautioned.

  “I’m not. I’m just here to let you know that as far as I’m concerned, the investigation isn’t over.”

  “Do you want to clue me in on where you’re headed?”

  “Not yet,” Joe said, “but I’ll keep you apprised. I want to keep this on the up-and-up. It’s not right to brief the prosecutor on my suspicions without facts backing them up.”

  “Dudley Do-Right until the end,” Patterson said. “You do know that I have to prosecute this case, don’t you?”

  “I know you have to do your job,” Joe said. “That’s why I’m telling you this in confidence. I don’t plan to tell the sheriff until I have to.”

  “Wise decision,” Patterson said.

  “And I don’t want to bother the judge right now.”

  “Good, because he’s a mess.”

  “But if I find solid evidence of Nate’s innocence, I’ll turn it over to you and Nate’s lawyer,” Joe said. “You’ll have to make the call then if you want to continue.”

  “I’ll make that call if I have to.”

  Joe held out his hand because he didn’t know what else to do. When Patterson grasped it, Joe said, “I know this has been tough. Get some rest.”

  “I will.”

  “Go home. Have a drink.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  As Joe stood up and put on his hat, Patterson asked, “Who knows about this?”

  Joe said, “Nobody.” He chose to keep Marybeth out of it.

  Patterson nodded.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Joe said.

  He avoided the sheriff’s department on his way out and he used a utility door to exit the building. Sheriff Kapelow’s unit was still in the lot, parked in its designated space right up front.

  TWENTY

  LESS THAN FIFTY FEET FROM WHERE JOE LEFT THE COUNTY building, in a small room built of lime-green-painted cinder blocks and a stained tile ceiling, Nate met his defense lawyer for the first time.

  Nate sat at a scarred table with shackles on his ankles and handcuffs on his wrists. He wore an oversized orange one-piece coverall with tscj—Twelve Sleep County Jail—stenciled across the shoulders. They’d taken his boots and given him a fifteen-year-old pair of cracked Crocs for his feet.

  After Nate heard a key in the lock of the interrogation room door, the lawyer blew into the room and extended his hand. The man was tall and sandy-haired with a ruddy complexion and wide-spaced eyes. He wore an open sports jacket and a string tie over jeans and pointy-toe cowboy boots. His demeanor was rushed but friendly and there was no doubt he commanded the room.

  “Kink Beran,” the lawyer said to Nate. “I drove a long way to meet you and now we’re going to set about getting you out of here and getting the charges dropped.”

  Nate tried to ra
ise his hand, but a chain tethered at his ankles to his cuffs prevented it. Beran wheeled on the heels of his caiman cowboy boots and erupted at Deputy Woods, who was in the process of closing the door.

  “Unlock my client this instant,” he bellowed. His tone was high and grating like a chain saw. “This fucking instant.”

  Woods was taken aback. “I’m not sure I can—”

  “You can, oh you can,” Beran said. “In fact, if you don’t produce the keys, I’m bringing proceedings against you and everybody else in this department. I need to consult with my client and you have him bound up like he’s Charles Manson.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Woods said, cowed. He backed away and closed the door.

  Beran leaned over the table so close to Nate that Nate could breathe in his aftershave lotion.

  “That was just for show,” Beran whispered. “And so is this.”

  With that, he strode across the room and his hand shot out and thumped the mirrored glass that dominated the east wall.

  “Clear the observation room,” he shouted directly into the mirror. “There’ll be no spying. Do you think this is my first rodeo?”

  Then he turned to the closed-circuit camera that was mounted high in the corner near the ceiling and he approached it with a sneer. “The same goes for you, Sheriff,” he said. “Turn it off and make better use of your time. Maybe hold another press conference or something.”

  With that, he winked at Nate and sat down.

  “They’ve been put on notice,” Beran said. “You’d be dismayed to find out how many local yokels listen in on attorney-client meetings. It happens all the time.”

  “What happens now?” Nate asked.

  “As tough as this is going to sound to you, you need to have patience. We’ve both got all the time in the world. So we’ll wait for the deputy to unlock you.” He opened his briefcase and placed a fresh yellow legal pad on the tabletop. “Then we’ll start the process to get you the hell out of here.”

  Nate said, “I was hoping Governor Rulon would show up.”

  Beran winced at that. “He handles civil law in our firm. I do criminal. I’ll keep him apprised of the case, because he has a very keen interest in it, as you might have guessed. But Rulon would be the first to tell you that a criminal courtroom is not where he shines. In fact, Rulon’s best work is done behind the scenes. I can’t even recall the last time he was before a judge. Criminal defense is my bag at the firm. At times I might scare you and I’ll sure as hell cost you a fortune,” Beran said, “but you’re in good hands.”

  “I’d better be,” Nate replied.

  The door opened again and Woods came in with the keys. Nate said nothing as the deputy opened the locks on his ankles and wrists.

  “Sorry,” the deputy whispered as he did it. “Boss’s orders.”

  Nate nodded.

  When Woods retreated and closed the door again, Beran used a low whisper to say, “I met Sheriff Kapelow before I came in here. He’s a piece of work. He’s all full of himself now that he thinks he’s caught the killer.”

  Beran said the word “killer” with derision.

  “There’s nothing worse than a small-time sheriff who’s full of himself,” Beran added. “Except maybe a judge who thinks he’s God.”

  “We’ve got ’em both,” Nate said.

  “Yes, and it poses a bit of a procedural issue,” Beran said, leaning in, in case someone was listening to their conversation. “In fact, we’ve got problems on top of problems with this situation.”

  Nate responded by raising his eyebrows.

  “First,” Beran said, “you’ll have to spend at least tonight in jail, I’m afraid. There’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

  “I don’t like jail,” Nate said. “I found out in federal custody that I’m not built for it.”

  “I heard you were some kind of nature boy,” Beran said. “But nobody likes jail except creeps.”

  “I’ll do anything to keep out of a cage,” Nate said. “I’ve done all the time I’m ever going to do and it doesn’t suit me.”

  Beran shrugged. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. Like I said, we’ve got problems on top of problems. Tomorrow should be your preliminary hearing where bail is set and we could get you out of here, but Judge Hewitt isn’t returning calls and the court has postponed any hearings of any kind for the rest of the week while he mourns.”

  Nate nodded. He’d anticipated that hurdle.

  “Even if he does come back to the bench,” Beran said, “we’re talking about a judge presiding over a procedural hearing where the accused is there for killing his wife. Even Judge Hewitt will have to recuse himself in this case, which means we need to go before another judge. It might take days to find one who will hear the case, and we might encounter even more delays, because judges tend to protect their own. No Wyoming judge wants to be the one who frees the alleged killer of Judge Hewitt’s wife.”

  “How long are we talking about?” Nate asked.

  “I don’t know,” Beran said. “These are special circumstances. I’m already seeking a bond hearing date to get you out on your own recognizance until we can get a new judge or a new venue, but there’s nobody to rule on the motion.”

  Nate scowled.

  “I’m going to get with the county prosecutor as soon as I can,” Beran said. “I don’t know him, but I’ve heard he’s reasonable. My hope is that we can bypass Judge Hewitt and hold the preliminary in front of another judge, maybe Judge Hartsook-Carver over in Shell County. If I ask her, she’ll take a pass, believe me. But if Duane Patterson asks her, she might consider it. I left a message at Patterson’s office and I hope he calls me back first thing tomorrow.”

  Nate said, “I need to get out however I can.”

  “Of course you do,” Beran said.

  “It’s not just that I don’t like jail. It’s that someone has threatened my family. It’s totally unrelated to this idiotic case. But I need to protect them.”

  Nate briefed Beran on what ex-FBI agent Sandburg had told him. While he did, Beran doodled idly on his legal pad. Whether he did it consciously or not, he drew a skull and crossbones.

  When Nate was through, Beran said, “That’s good information to know. We can use that to bolster our motion to get you out of here until trial—if there is a trial.”

  “Do what you can,” Nate said. “Or I might have to get out of here on my own.”

  “Please don’t say that,” Beran cautioned in a whisper. He chinned toward the camera and the two-way mirror.

  “I’m not kidding,” Nate said. “I’m not a fan of our legal system. It can be a stacked deck. I’ve seen too many unaccountable bureaucrats use it to frame innocent people and ruin lives.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Beran said. “To cut ’em off at the pass. So let me do my best. My best is really, really good. We can start by you not explaining how much you dislike and distrust officers of the court. That could be construed by the prosecution as a motive in this case.”

  “I didn’t kill Sue Hewitt,” Nate said. “And I didn’t take a shot at Duane Patterson.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” Beran said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Don’t do it again.”

  Nate shrugged. “I’ll tell anybody and everybody. That’s why I need to get out of here.”

  “Please,” Beran pleaded. “Let me do my job.”

  Nate said, “You’ve got a couple of days. After that, all bets are off.”

  Beran took a deep breath in an effort not to respond. Then he folded the doodled-upon page back to a fresh one. He said, “Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you the night Sue Hewitt was shot?”

  “At home with my family. You can check that out with Liv.”

  “Oh, we will. And we’ll confirm it using your cell phone GPS log. Were there others besides your wife who can verify your whereabouts?”

  “Loren Jean Hill, our nanny.”

  “G
ood, that’s good,” Beran said. “Our hope here is to destroy the prosecution’s case before it ever gets legs. Our goal is to have the charges dismissed at the preliminary hearing—wherever it is.”

  Then: “Where were you the night somebody took a shot at the prosecutor?”

  “Same place,” Nate said. “I’m a family man.”

  “Very good,” Beran said, scribbling. While he did, Nate could hear the attorney’s cell phone vibrate.

  “They didn’t take your phone?” Nate asked.

  “Not this one,” Beran said with a wink. He reached down and hiked his pant leg up and drew the phone out of the shaft of his boot.

  “Speaking of Rulon,” Beran said. Then: “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

  “Tell him howdy,” Nate said.

  He waited while the two lawyers talked. Beran paced the room and became more and more animated the more he heard. Beran said, “Um-hmmm, Um-hmmm” several times and grinned while he did it. Then he said, “Spell it for me.”

  Nate watched as Beran scratched out two words on the pad.

  “You’re sure about this?” Beran asked Rulon. After hearing an affirmative response, Beran said, “I owe you one, Spencer.”

  *

  BERAN SAT DOWN across from Nate with a sloppy smile on his face. After sliding the illicit phone back into his boot top and covering it with his pant leg, he said, “Governor Rulon sends his regards.”

  Nate acknowledged them.

  “He also said the firm received a call this evening from a man claiming he could exonerate you in this case.”

  “Go on,” Nate said.

  “Rulon talked to the witness personally. He said the man had a very heavy accent,” Beran said. “But according to the witness, he saw someone come to your house when you and your wife were away and plant the rifle in your birdhouse.”

  “It’s called a mews,” Nate said.

  “Whatever. That doesn’t matter. What matters is this witness saw the gun being hidden. And there’s more.” With that, Beran’s eyes got large and his grin even larger. “The witness says the vehicle that came to your house was a white SUV with an insignia on the front doors. He’s pretty sure it was a Twelve Sleep County vehicle.”