William Bernhardt - Dark Justice

“ ’Sides, can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs,” Rick chuckled.

“Yeah. That’s what Timothy McVeigh said, too.”

“Ben,” Maureen said, “surely you can see the difference between planting a bomb for the express intention of taking lives, and planting a spike to prevent taking lives-tree lives.”

“Ends don’t justify means.” Ben sat down on his bunk, frustrated. This wasn’t going at all the way he wanted. He decided to try to reboot the conversation. “So why were you protesting in front of the courthouse? Shouldn’t you have been chaining yourself to some old-growth trees?”

Maureen’s mouth twitched again, and this time he was almost certain it was a smile. “One of our members-our leader, in fact-has been incarcerated. Accused of a crime he didn’t commit. And Judge Pickens has set a bail so enormous he has no chance of getting out before trial.”

Somehow this didn’t surprise Ben. “What’s his name?”

“George Zakin. He goes by Zak.”

Zakin, Ben thought. Zakin. The name seemed familiar to him. As unusual as it was, he should be able to remember where he’d heard it. His memory must be in low gear.

“What’s he charged with? Destruction of property?”

“Far worse,” Maureen answered. Her eyes fell, and her voice grew somber. “Murder. In the first degree.”

“Murder?” Ben’s jaw literally fell with surprise. “What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything. He’s accused of planting a bomb in a tree cutter rigged so it would explode as soon as a logger turned the ignition.”

“And someone was killed?”

“Yes. Horribly. In flames.”

“Good God! Surely that’s proof enough of why your extremist tactics are unacceptable.”

“But we didn’t do it!” Maureen said. “Zak didn’t do it. We’re being framed.”

“Who would want to do that?”

Rick pressed his face between the bars. “Who wouldn’t, chump? This whole one-horse town is supported by the logging industry, which is busy replacing humans with more efficient machines and blaming Green Rage for the layoffs. We’re like the Antichrist around here.”

“Surely they understand-”

“All they understand is that they’re out of a job, or might be someday soon. Some of these families have worked in the logging industry for generations. They literally don’t know anything else. It’s as if we marched into town and wanted to burn down their church.”

“It’s pathetic,” Maureen said. “People consider us terrorists. But we’ve been assaulted right and left since we moved into this area. We’ve been beaten up, had our camp destroyed, had our personal belongings stolen. We can’t even walk down the street alone; we always travel in groups. Have you seen those yellow ribbons all around town?”

“Yeah,” Ben said. “I have.”

“That’s WLE’s Nazi-like yellow ribbon campaign. Businesses are supposed to display the yellow ribbons to show solidarity with the logging management against the so-called environmental threat. Anyone who doesn’t display the ribbons could find themselves on the wrong end of a boycott or out of work or with a store that’s been burned to the ground. Truth is, we’re not the terrorists-they are.”

“Still, it’s hard to believe anyone would frame your leader for murder.”

“If they thought it would get Green Rage out of their forests, I’ll bet half the people in this town would do it. And someone did.”

“The police must have some evidence.”

“Of course they have evidence. Otherwise the frame wouldn’t work. But I know this for a fact. Zak is not responsible for that logger’s death.” She stopped for a moment, catching her breath. “You know, Ben, if you’re a lawyer-”

Ben held up his hands. “Wait just a minute. I’m just passing through.”

“We’ve been searching desperately for someone to take Zak’s case, but of course none of the locals will touch it with a ten-foot pole. The court appointed some schmuck, but he doesn’t exactly have his heart in it. If you took over the case-”

“Stop right there. I can’t do it. I’m in the middle of a book tour. Also, I’m in jail.”

Her eyes widened. “A book tour? You’re-a writer?”

“Well, it’s only my first book.”

“Nonfiction?”

“Yes.”

“Ben, that’s perfect! You’re-you’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

“I am?”

“Yes! You’re perfect. Zak needs someone to take his case. Someone who’s committed to the cause, to the truth. Someone who cares whether justice is served. And Green Rage needs a scribe. You could wear both hats!”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“You’re a writer. You must know how important publicity is. God knows the logging companies have their propaganda machines working full-time, painting us as black, evil marauders. You’ve been exposed to it yourself-as soon as you heard the name Green Rage, you thought eco-terrorist. That’s what the loggers want.”

“Or perhaps it’s just the truth.”

“But you could change all that. You could expose the world to our point of view. Make them see things the way we do. Make them understand that time is short, that if we don’t take action now, it will be too late.” She looked at him eagerly. “What do you think?”

“I don’t see how-”

“Aww, forget it, Maureen,” Rick growled. “Look at this chump. He’s not going to stick his neck out for us or anyone else. He’s got his comfy little lawyer world. Probably a nice swimming pool and a big screen TV. He’s not going to put himself on the line for us.”

“That’s not fair,” Ben protested. “You don’t know-”

“Please consider it, Ben,” Maureen implored. “You don’t know what a difference this could make. I can’t explain it totally. I–I just have a sense that if you were on our team, sending the world our battle reports from the front lines, that might be just what we need to win the day. And God knows Zak needs you. If you don’t help, he’s going to end up railroaded, spending the rest of his life in prison. Or worse.”

Ben didn’t answer. She was staring at him, waiting for a response that wasn’t coming.

“Please, Ben. I don’t mean to pressure you, but I think you could be the best thing that happened to the environmental movement since Rachel Carson. You could make all the difference.”

Her words had an unmistakable appeal. As his assistant Christina McCall had pointed out on any number of occasions, he was a total sucker for an underdog. He had certainly represented unpopular clients in the past; in fact, he considered it an attorney’s duty to do so. But this was different. This wasn’t simply a difference in opinion or belief. These people were terrorists .

“I’m sorry,” Ben said. “I hear what you’re saying. But I can’t do it.”

Maureen’s face fell. She eased away from the bars, back into her own cell. She said nothing, but her disappointment was evident.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rick said. “You’ll be a lot more comfortable back in the safety of your La-Z-Boy recliner.”

Ben bit back his response. Rick wasn’t being fair, but of course, there was no reason why he should be. Maureen had played fair, and look what it got her.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Ben stretched out on his cot. He knew he was making the right decision. He was almost proud of himself. For once he wasn’t running off on whatever half-baked quest fell into his lap.

But he couldn’t quash the tiny voice in the pit of his brain that kept saying that maybe, just maybe, he was making a mistake. The tiny voice of doubt.

And guilt.