William Bernhardt - Dark Justice

“Then you know he won’t let Zakin off with a life sentence. That boy’s gonna fry.”

Ben squirmed in his seat. “Appreciate your sensitivity.”

“With all due respect, Ben, the smartest thing you could do is drive your rental car back to the airport and get the hell out of here. This town is on edge. Everyone’s afraid Green Rage will succeed in closing down the logging and they’ll all be out of jobs. Plus we’ve got a drug problem like we’ve never had before. One of those new designer drugs-about ten times more potent than crack-is all over town. We call it Venom because it’s deadly poison to the people who use it. Screws up their head. Tears them apart.”

“And this just happened?”

“In the last few months. It came out of nowhere, and the next thing we knew it was everywhere.”

“I’m sure that’s-”

“The point is, Magic Valley is a tinderbox, Kincaid, and you don’t want to be caught in the middle when the explosion comes.”

Ben pushed himself out of his chair. “I will expect you to send me any exculpatory evidence. And all your exhibits. And your witness list.”

She sighed. “You’ll get it. You’ll get it.” She slid out from behind her desk and sashayed across the office till she was standing even closer to him than before. “And then maybe, when this unpleasant mess is all over, you and I can relate to one another on a more … personal basis.”

Ben coughed. “What do you-”

She leaned closer. “Like I said, I’ve done some checking on you, Mr. Kincaid. You’re an impressive individual.” She touched his shirt, only for an instant, but more than long enough to send an electric charge coursing through Ben’s body. “I’d like to get to know you better.”

Ben took a step backward, bumping into the chair. “I’d better go,” he said, trying hard to modulate his voice. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

As he passed through the door, he caught a last fleeting glimpse of her, a look of sly amusement on her face, wiggling her fingers. “Stay in touch.”

Compared to the expansive layout of the district attorney’s spread, the public defenders office was a hole-in-the-wall in a separate building half a mile from the courthouse. Ben supposed he should be pleased that a town this small even had a public defender’s office, but he couldn’t help wondering how an operation this size could possibly do battle against an operation like the one he had just visited.

The outer office was just as small as he had imagined it would be-four desks crowded together in a room probably intended for one. Everyone was so busy they didn’t even look up when he entered.

Ben approached the desk closest to the door, where a woman in her mid-thirties was attempting to organize pleadings in an oversized black notebook. He cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a woman named Christina McCall.”

The woman gazed blankly at him.

“She’s about so high”-he held his hand maybe four feet off the ground-“with lots of curly red hair-”

“Ah. She’s in the room in the back. The sucker’s office.”

“The, uh-excuse me?”

Her eyes had already returned to the pleadings. “This is a small office, as you may have noticed. Us four girls are all administrative. We don’t actually have any lawyers on staff. Can’t afford them. Judge Pickens appoints lawyers as necessary. We call ’em the suckers.”

Ben’s chin raised. “And so the room in the back-”

“They usually need a place to review files and prep and whatnot. ’Fraid that’s the best we have to offer.”

“They work in this cubbyhole all through the trial?”

“Trial? I suppose they would.” She leaned toward the woman at the desk closest to her. “Imogene, when was the last time one of the suckers actually took a case to trial?”

Imogene thought for a moment. “Been three years now. Stanley Boxleiter. Convenience store holdup. He got creamed.”

The woman glanced back at Ben. “There you have it.”

Ben frowned. “I get the impression this office doesn’t have a tremendous win-loss record.”

“What can you expect from conscripted defense lawyers? Some of ’em aren’t even familiar with criminal law. They take any plea bargain that’s offered.” She snapped the binders shut on the black notebook and closed it. “But the real reason is Judge Pickens. The Time Machine. He’s … how shall I say it? A strong believer in law and order.”

“Favors the prosecution?”

“That would be one way of putting it. At any rate, he’s never had any problem listening to Granny talk. I’ve seen some poor suckers who never managed to finish a sentence.” Her hand suddenly moved to her mouth. “Omigosh. You must be that fellow from out of town who’s representing the terrorist?”

Yes, Ben thought, I’m the sucker who got that case.

Her eyes lowered. “You may want to consider a change of attire, at least when you go into court.”

“What, I should wear a football helmet?”

“I was thinking more like a bulletproof vest.”

Ben weaved through the crowded desks and found the closed door in the back. He pushed it open and stepped inside …

… and three steps later, his nose was pressed against the opposite wall.

“Welcome to Chateau Kincaid. Kinda cozy, huh?”

Christina sat behind the desk by the north wall. It was a small desk, but it was the only desk that could possibly fit in this tiny office.

“This is where we’re supposed to work?” Ben asked. “This is impossible.”

“You’re being negative. Don’t think impossible. Think … challenging. Quaint. Intimate.”

“No one needs to be this intimate. My jail cell was larger.”

“If you’d like, I could revoke your bail.”

“Very funny.” Ben took a folding chair that was leaning against the wall, unfolded it, and sat. “Christina, you know I’m not accustomed to a plush workspace, but this is ridiculous.”

“Maybe so, but it’s all we’ve got. Our client can’t afford to rent office space for us, and last I looked our firm coffers weren’t overflowing either. It’s going to have to do.”

“Swell.” Ben crossed his legs and tried to pretend he was comfortable. “What have you managed to find out?”

“Nothing you probably don’t already know. But I haven’t had a chance to read the files yet. I will. The murder occurred on July thirteenth. The victim, Dwayne Gardiner, was shot. Soon after, he was caught in the explosion of a huge piece of logging equipment, a tree cutter. He burned to death.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None have turned up. The case against our client is based on his hostility toward loggers and his known proclivity for torching logging equipment, although I have a hunch there might be some forensic evidence pointing toward him as well.”

“There must be,” Ben said. “There wouldn’t be a case otherwise.”

“My thinking exactly. And we have to anticipate that there may be other connections as well. Our client has been in town for at least six months now, since the injunction fell and WLE Logging started building roads to get into the old-growth forest. It’s entirely possible Zakin knew the victim or had some other tangential connection.”

“I’ve talked to Zak. He says he didn’t know the guy.”

“Really? Well, the prosecution must have something.”

“Agreed. We have to figure out what it is.” He paused, relishing the pleasure of dropping a bombshell he knew and she didn’t. “By the way, Zakin is a former client of ours.”

“Right. The Chesterson Chimp case.”

“You remembered?”

She looked at him incredulously. “Of course I did. I knew who he was the instant I heard his name. How many George Zakins did you think there could be?”