Michael McGarrity - The Judas judge

Kerney studied the young woman. Quiet by nature, Mary Margaret had a self-assurance and no-nonsense style that Kerney liked. "I bet you can. But if it gets out of hand, write it up."

"In a heartbeat." She paused, looked down at her shoes and then back up.

"I hope you don't mind my asking, but is somebody stalking you, Chief? This thing with your unit is getting serious."

"Either that or they're making a statement. I've put Duran on it. Work that list hard for me."

Mary Margaret smiled. "Yes, sir."

Owned and operated by the Mescalero Tribe, the resort and its adjoining casino offered luxury amenities in a lush, tranquil setting. Guest accommodations radiated out from the sides of the main lodge, providing rooms with views of landscaped lawns that ran down to the lakeshore with forested mountains in the background. Vacationers could boat, fish, golf, play tennis, and, of course, drink, dine, and gamble.

At the main lodge, Kerney found the personnel office and met with Wheeler Balatche, Clayton's cousin and the human resources director. Built low to the ground, Balatche was thick through the chest. A droopy eyelid made his face look asymmetrical.

"I remember Eric Langsford," Balatche said, in answer to Kerney's question. "He would be a hard one to forget."

"Why do you say that?"

"He worked here right at the time his father ruled against our casino operation. Nobody knew he was even related to the judge until then. But when Langsford issued his order to close down the casino, Eric went ballistic."

"What happened?"

"Well, first you gotta know Eric. He was one of those Anglos who shows up here and falls in love with Indians. He did everything he could to look like an Apache: grew his hair long, went cowboy, tried to hang out with the tribal members he worked with-that kind of stuff."

"Was he successful?"

"As long as he bought the drinks."

"How did Eric go ballistic?" Kerney asked.

"When the judge issued his ruling, I called a series of staff meetings to reassure everybody that the tribe had filed an immediate appeal that would allow us to stay open, and that nobody was going to lose their jobs. Eri'c got up at the meeting he attended and went into this long harangue about how his father was a racist, and that the workers should take action against him."

"What kind of action?"

"Letters of protest, picketing, a sit-in at the courthouse."

"Did he suggest anything stronger than that?"

"He ranted about how white people practice economic and legal genocide against native people, and how they should be held accountable for their crimes. He wasn't wrong, but it wasn't like we weren't aware of his brilliant political insight. We've lived with it all our lives."

"What did you do?"

"I cut him off, and after the meeting, I fired him. We didn't need a gringo agitator in our midst."

"How did he take getting canned?"

"He got upset. Not with me, but with his father. Went on about how Langsford ruined people's lives and shouldn't be allowed to remain a judge."

"Did he make any specific threats against his father?"

"Not that I can recall."

"At the meetings, did any other employees show an interest in taking political action against the judge?"

"Nope."

"You seem to remember these events with great clarity."

"It was an intense time," Balatche said, "and seeing Eric yesterday jogged my memory. He came in, stoned out of his mind, looking for a job."

Kerney stifled his surprise. "Eric Langsford was here?"

"Yeah."

"Stoned on what?"

"At least booze, and maybe pills."

"I take it you didn't hire him back."

Balatche shook his head. "And not just for being a lush, either. Eric worked here at a time when we employed a lot of Anglos. Now, we don't hire outside the tribe unless we have a shortage or a candidate possesses special skills we need. To be courteous, I let him fill out an application, but I'd never hire him again."

"Did he leave an address?"

"I'm sure he did. My secretary has the paperwork."

"Mind if I take a look?"

"Go ahead."

Eighty road miles south of Ruidoso was the tiny settlement of Pinon.

It boasted a senior center, post office, general store, church, and a few dwellings scattered along a two-lane highway that looped out of the Sacramento Mountains through dry, tree-dotted foothills. To the southeast, a chain of hills sliced down to flats that wandered off in the direction of the Guadalupe Mountains. Windblown dust turned the morning sky a mixture of ivory and aquamarine, and the faraway peaks had a ghostly presence.

Never much of a settlement to begin with, Pinon stayed barely alive because of the dry land area ranchers who controlled the grazing rights on vast tracts of state and federal acreage.

On his job application Langsford had given a Pinon rural route address. Kerney stopped at the general store, asked for directions, and was sent down a paved county road that turned to dirt as it wandered through a draw. He spotted Langsford's van just off the road, parked beside a small house.

Beyond the clapboard hideaway, the weather-beaten remains of a much larger house leaned precariously on its foundation. A skeletal windmill missing blades and a drive shaft stood nearby. An old post-and-wire fence enclosed about ten hard rock acres sprinkled with juniper trees and scrub oak.

The door opened as Kerney approached the house, and Langsford stepped out. A skinny five-nine, he had a receding hairline that formed a widow's peak on his forehead, the doughy complexion of a drinker, sleepy bloodshot eyes, and a face old beyond his thirty-two years.

"What do you want?" Langsford asked, words tumbling out in a rush.

Kerney showed his credentials. "I need to speak to you about your father."

Langsford's head twitched up and down. "I knew you were a cop. Is the Judas Judge dead?"

"Do you mean your father?"

"Are we talking about somebody else?"

"No. Why do you call him that?"

"It's just a nickname."

"Not a very endearing one."

"Is he dead?"

"Yes," Kerney replied.

"Good. Let Linda bury him." Langsford swayed and planted his feet to steady himself.

"Don't you want to know what happened?"

Langsford shrugged and almost lost his balance. Kerney couldn't tell if he was drunk, wired on uppers, or both.

"He's dead. That's all that matters. It's a great fucking day."

"I need you to answer some questions."

"Sure. Come on in."

The bare walls of the front room had old newspapers stuffed in the cracks of the uninsulated clapboard siding. The door to a pot belly stove hung open, showing a firebox filled to the brim with dead ash. In the center of the room was a day bed with a metal frame, covered by a soiled sleeping bag. An expensive acoustic guitar rested against the bed frame.

Dirty clothes, beer cans, and wadded-up paper bags littered the floor.

An old phonograph turntable and two battered speakers with disconnected wires stood on a low plank shelf. Under the shelf was a clutter of cassette tapes and compact discs, but the machines to play them were missing.

"Is this your place?" Kerney asked.

"Yeah, I bought it four years ago with Daddy's money," Langsford said, as he sat on the day bed "It gives me a place to chill when I'm not working. Got it for a song." Langsford chuckled at his joke.

"I understand you're a musician."

"And a pretty good one, too, when I'm not drinking or getting high. I'm gonna be a rock and roll star. Not quite there yet. So, the Judas Judge is really dead. What happened?"

"He was murdered."

"Cool."

"You mean that?"

Langsford snorted disparagingly and opened a pack of cigarettes.

"Vernon Langsford. The great man, the pillar of the community. He was nothing but a two-faced, mean, racist pig."