Michael McGarity - Serpent Gate

"What is it you would like to say to the court?" RossGorden asked.

"I don't think Ms. Lassiter will flee your jurisdiction, Your Honor," he said.

"I believe she is a woman with a strong sense of right and wrong who feels a great deal of guilt about what she did. If I may. Your Honor, I suggest that reasonable bail be set."

"That recommendation will not make you very popular with your fellow officers," Ross-Gorden noted as she watched Wesley Marshall glare at Kerney.

"Or with the prosecutor, for that matter," she added.

"I realize that. Judge."

Before Marshall had a chance to react, Ross-Gorden swung her attention back to Pullings.

"Your client's attempted suidde troubles me, Counselor. Therefore, I order that she be held in custody pending the results of a psychiatric evaluation. Should the evaluation show that Ms. Lassiter is not a danger to herself, bail is set in the amount of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, cash or property. This hearing is closed."

Kerney turned to leave.

"Mr. Kerney," Judge Ross-Gorden called out.

"Ma'am?"

Willene Ross-Gorden smiled.

"The morning newspaper noted your promotion. Congratulations, Chief."

"Thank you. Judge." He watched Nita, Pullings, and the deputy sheriff move to a side door. Before Lassiter stepped through the doorway, she stopped and looked back at him. Kerney couldn't read her expression. the district courtroom ate up the center core of the courthouse. Prom the main lobby, two hallways ran along both sides of the courtroom, leading to various county offices. In the lobby, a large plate-glass window separated two entrances at the front of the building.

Through the window, Kerney could see Wesley Marshall surrounded by a group of reporters and camera crews, eager for the prosecutor's latest pronouncement.

Three television station vans equipped with satellite antennas were parked in the lot, sending live feeds back to the studios in Albuquerque.

Without being noticed, Kerney walked to his car parked on the side of the building. Robert Cordova leaned against the driver's door, wearing clean jeans, running shoes without laces, and a worn but serviceable navy pea coat.

Kerney was surprised to see him. Marda Yearwood had supposedly arranged for Robert to stay at a halfway house in Albuquerque. Before he could ask Robert what he was doing back in Torrance County, Cordova stood on his tiptoes and punched Kerney in the jaw.

Kerney picked Robert up by both arms and held him against the side of the car. Robert's feet flailed at Kerney's shins.

"What are you doing here, Robert?" Cordova's punch had a sting to it, and Kerney held him tight to avoid another blow.

"Why aren't you at the halfway house?"

"I ran away. I came back to kick the shit out of you."

"Why?"

"Because the television said you shot Nita," Robert answered, trying to butt his head against Kerney's face.

Kerney kept him pinned against the car at arm's length.

"Calm down."

"Tuck you, calm down. Put me down, dammit."

"Will you behave if I do?"

"Did you shoot Nita?"

"I had to," Kerney explained.

"She was trying to kill herself."

"Nita would never do that."

"I swear it," Kerney said solemnly.

"She's going to need your help, Robert."

Cordova squinted at Kerney with one eye and stopped thrashing his feet.

"What do you mean?"

"You know why she killed Paul Gillespie. You need to tell me what happened."

"I saw the asshole rape her, man."

"Will you tell me exactly what you saw?"

"What good would that do?"

"You're a witness, Robert. What you say can help Nita."

"You're just trying to fuck her over some more."

"No, I'm not. But you'll fuck her over if you don't help," Kerney shot back.

"Nobody's gonna believe a crazy fucking mental patient."

"I thought you were a stand-up guy, Robert.

Somebody who would take the heat for his friends.

Maybe I was wrong." Kerney dropped Robert on his feet and pushed him away from the car.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving."

"Wait a minute," Robert said anxiously.

"Will you help Nita? Yes or no?"

Robert struggled with the decision, shifting his weight back and forth on each foot.

"I'll tell you," he finally said.

"But just you."

"Get in the car and we'll tape-record it," Kerney replied, opening the car door.

Robert balked.

"I want to see Nita first."

"You can't see her now. She's going back to jail."

Robert stuck his chin out defiantly.

"That's where I want to go."

"It's a deal," Kerney said.

"I'll put you in protective custody as soon as you tell me what you saw Gillespie do to Nita. Just don't try to hit me again. Okay?"

"Did it hurt?"

"Damn right it hurt."

Robert swaggered around the front of the car, looked at Kerney over the roof, and cocked his head.

"I told you I could fight, man."

"You're one hell of a tough dude," Kerney agreed.

"Now, get in the car." ^ Kerney tape-recorded Robert's statement, put him in protective custody at the county jail, and headed back to Santa Pc. He called in his ETA to headquarters and was asked to report to Governor Springer at his ranch.

Harper Springer rarely stayed at the governor's mansion in Santa Fe, instead favoring his ranch thirty miles outside of the city near the small village of Pecos.

Nestled behind the mesas and foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the ranch headquarters was several miles down a dirt road from the interstate highway.

Kerney parked in front of a hundred-year-old double adobe hacienda surrounded by a stand of mature cottonwood trees. At the edge of a wide acreage of fenced pasture were a duster of buildings consisting of equipment sheds, barns, corrals, and staff living quarters, all painted white. Thick stands of evergreens along the base of the hills confined and sheltered the ranch, giving it a sedate feeling of isolation. The east slope of the mountains, snowcapped and charcoal gray, towered above a mesa shaped like the prow of a sailing ship.

An unmarked state police unit was parked next to the governor's Cadillac. A thin, middle-aged woman answered Kerney's knock and ushered him into a vast living room that could easily accommodate a dance band and a hundred party guests. Large hand-carved beams spanned the high ceiling, and long windows ran down two lateral walls. On the walls were oil paintings of ranching scenes and Western panoramas. None of them paintings Hetcher would approve of, Kerney decided.

On the back wall above a fireplace was a portrait of the governor's father, the man who had bought scrub rangeland in southeastern New Mexico that eventually yielded a fortune in gas and oil royalties, m the center of the room, oversize leather chairs and couches were grouped around a massive coffee table. Governor Harper Springer sat on a couch with his jacket off and his cowboy boots propped up on the coffee table. Vance Howell slouched in a nearby chair, looking relaxed and perfectly at home.

Kerney sized up the governor as he moved across the room. In his late sixties. Springer was a stocky man of average height with a large head and a full mane of gray hair. He had round cheeks that sagged a bit, and close-set eyes beneath a high forehead.

While Springer fancied himself a rancher, he was mostly a politician who had worked hard over the years to gain the governor's office. He had a down-home style that put just about everybody at ease, and a shrewd mind for cutting political deals.

"Chief Kerney," Governor Springer said as he rose and extended his hand across the coffee table with an amiable smile.

Howell grudgingly got to his feet.

"Thanks for stopping by," Springer said.

"Governor," Kerney replied. Springer's grip was firm.