William Bernhardt - Perfect Justice

“After appointing a designated driver, I’m sure.”

“Uh, right.”

Ben noticed a restaurant offering OZARK BAR-B-Q. “We’re a bit south of the Ozarks, aren’t we?”

“Ozark barbecue describes a kind of cooking, not the place you get it. Like Mexican food. You don’t have to be in Mexico to eat a burrito.”

“Gotcha.”

“See that auditorium over there?” Payne pointed at a flat limestone building at the crest of the next hill. “Bill Clinton once played with his high-school band in that very building. That was in 1963. They’ve got a plaque up there now.”

“Do tell.”

A few minutes later Payne parked in front of the county sheriff’s office. They went inside, where Ben was introduced to the local lawman.

Sheriff George Collier was a wiry man with a brown-and-gray-flecked mustache. He was wearing a western shirt, Levi’s, and silver-tipped cowboy boots.

“You’re out of uniform, Sheriff,” Payne said jokingly.

“One of the perks of being the boss,” he replied.

“My friend Ben is here to see your prisoner,” Payne explained.

“That a fact? You’ll be the first. Other than Mr. Payne, of course. When’s this case going to trial, anyway?”

“Next week,” Payne answered.

Ben did a double take.

“Good,” Collier said. “I’ll be glad to get him out of my cell.”

“Has he been troublesome?” Ben asked.

“Naw. It’s just a hell of a lot of work, keeping a prisoner. Bringing him meals, cleaning the toilet. I got bigger fish to fry.”

Ben tried to appear sympathetic. As they spoke a man in a gray uniform entered from the back.

“Ben, this is Deputy Gustafson.”

Ben extended his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Ben is going to represent your prisoner,” Payne explained. “Well, probably.”

Gustafson withdrew his hand. “That so?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Ben said. “I haven’t even met the man yet. …”

“You’d best watch yourself,” Gustafson said coolly. He waved them toward the back door.

Payne steered Ben and Christina through a wooden door to the iron-barred cells.

“What was that all about?” Ben asked.

“Oh, nothing. You know how law-enforcement boys hate to see anyone get a fair trial. They think they ought to be allowed to perform executions from their patrol car.”

The sole resident of the jailhouse was in the first of three cells. He was a young man, probably in his early twenties, with a muscular build. His hair was a sandy red; he had a clean-cut, boy-next-door look about him.

Ben smiled, pleased. The accused would look great in front of a jury.

“Ben,” Payne said, “meet Donald Vick. Donald, this is Ben Kincaid. I’ve asked him to be my co-counsel on your case. Actually, I want him to take over. He’s a murder-trial expert.”

Ben tried not to grimace. “Pleased to meet you.”

Instead of taking Ben’s outstretched hand, Vick folded his arms across his chest and scrutinized Ben through the iron bars. “Whose side are you on?”

“Whose … side?” Ben’s brow furrowed. “Well, if I take the case, I’ll be on your side.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I guess I don’t understand.”

“Ben,” Payne interceded, “why don’t you ask Donald whatever you need to know to get through this pretrial? We’ve only got a few more minutes.”

“What can you tell me about—”

“What’s in it for you?” Vick interrupted.

“What?” This was turning into the strangest client interview Ben had ever conducted. “I suppose I’ll be paid by the court, if I accept the case. There’s probably a flat fee. Is that what you mean?”

“Hardly.” Vick threw his shoulders back and walked to his cot.

Ben lowered his voice to a whisper. “What’s bugging him?”

Payne smiled halfheartedly. “Oh, you know how it is. He’s been in jail for weeks. He’s scared, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. I’m sure a trial expert such as yourself has seen this before. So, will you take the case?”

“Don’t rush me. Who’s he accused of murdering?”

“A Vietnamese boy about his age. Name of Vuong. Friends called him Tommy. Lived in a communal settlement a few miles outside of town—about twenty or so families all running a chicken farm. You know, Fort Chaffee was a major intake point for Vietnamese hightailin’ it out of their country. Since then, Arkansas has been drowning in ’em. Most of ’em are no trouble, but this Vuong kid was no damn good. He’d been in trouble with the law ever since he got here.”

“Why do the police think Vick killed him?”

“Apparently he and Vuong got into a fight in a local bar the afternoon before Vuong was killed. I’m sure Vuong picked the fight—like I said, he was no damn good. Anyway, Vuong got the better of Donald, and Donald got tossed out on his butt. There were several witnesses who say Donald threatened Vuong. And that night, Vuong was killed. Sheriff didn’t have a good suspect, so he went for the obvious.”

Ben had seen that happen before. He knew that when a high-profile crime occurs, the pressure is on the police to haul in a suspect. “If that’s all they have on him, we should be able to get an acquittal. In fact, we should be able to get the charges dropped.”

“That’s great,” Payne said. “Exactly what I wanted to hear. Does this mean you’ll take the case?”

Christina interrupted. “You seem in an awful big hurry to enlist Ben’s services.”

“Well, like I said, the pretrial is only a few minutes away, and I don’t have the slightest notion what to do.”

“I don’t want to be rude,” Christina said, “but I have the feeling there’s something you haven’t told us.”

Ben had learned to trust Christina’s instincts. “Is that true? Are you withholding information?”

Payne glanced nervously at his watch. “Gosh, Ben, I’ll be happy to tell you whatever you want to know after the pretrial, but we just don’t have time—”

“We’ll make time,” Ben said firmly. “Tell me now, or you’ll be on your own at the pretrial.”

Payne sighed. “I suppose you might want to know … that Donald is a member of ASP.”

“ASP? What’s that?”

Another deep sigh. “It’s a white supremacy group. The Anglo-Saxon Patrol. They have a paramilitary training camp not too far from here.”

“You’re kidding.” Ben looked back at the innocent-looking youth eyeing them warily from his cot. “ Him? ”

“ ’Fraid so.”

“Is he a Silver Springs native?”

“Oh, no,” Payne explained. “None of them are. They came over from Alabama and set up this camp a few months ago. Apparently some Silver Springers didn’t appreciate having all those Vietnamese so nearby, especially when it looked like they were going to cut into the local chicken-farming profits. That’s a big-bucks concern around here, you know.”

“So they called for their friendly neighborhood racist terrorist group,” Christina said. “That’s revolting.”

“I don’t know who called for them,” Payne explained, “but the town hasn’t been the same since they arrived. They’ve been stirring up trouble—making threats, setting fires, bombing cars. No one can prove they’re the culprits, but no one has much doubt, either. Then we got a bunch of lawyers in from some Montgomery organization called Hatewatch. They go around trying to shut down outfits like ASP by compiling evidence and filing civil suits. That made matters even worse. Everybody in town’s tense, afraid of their own shadow. There’s more hate going around than a small town like this can bear.”

Ben nodded. The fog was finally clearing. “That’s why you were appointed to represent him. No lawyer would voluntarily take this case.”