“Why did you arrest my client for this murder?”
“Because he did it.”
“Could you give me a little more?”
“He had motive, means, and opportunity. Call me simpleminded, but I think that’s enough to bring charges.”
“The motive, I assume, would be Zak’s hostility toward the loggers and the logging industry at large.”
She did not quite look him in the eye. “At the very least. And he certainly had the means. Those Green Rage nuts make no secret of the fact that they’re stockpiling bomb components. To the contrary, they advertise the fact to terrorize the loggers. Every time I turn around they’ve torched another tree cutter or eighteen-wheeler. Those people are insane.”
“It isn’t insane to want to keep the forests from being flattened.”
“Oh, yeah? And how about dressing up in a Sasquatch suit?”
Ben reddened a bit. “I don’t know that the Sasquatch sightings had anything to do with Green Rage. For all I know, it could be a logger plot to make Green Rage look ridiculous.”
Granny leaned back and laughed. “Yeah, right.”
Ben tried to bring the conversation back to the case. “What about opportunity?”
“In case you don’t know it, your man admits he was in the forest around the time of the murder, although he says he was just smooching with some Green Rage floozy. I agree that he was in the woods-planting the bomb that killed Dwayne Gardiner.”
“Even if Zak planted a bomb on the tree cutter, and Gardiner had the misfortune to set it off, that wouldn’t be first-degree murder. It’s just bad luck that Gardiner was around when the bomb went off.”
“I disagree with you. First of all, planting bombs is a felony, and if someone gets killed in the perpetration of a felony, he can be charged with felony murder, which is a first-degree murder charge in this state. But it doesn’t matter.” She paused, allowing Ben to wonder for just a moment. “Because the autopsy report showed that Gardiner had been shot.”
“What? But I thought-”
“Yes, the body was caught in the explosion and burned. We almost didn’t do an autopsy, especially since the fire didn’t leave much to be examined. But being the dutiful soldiers we are, we did the tests. And it turned out the man had been shot.”
“Then he was already dead.”
“We don’t think so. The gunshot appears to have caught the poor man in the shoulder. I’m sure it hurt like hell, but it wasn’t fatal. It was the explosion that killed him. Nonetheless, the fact that he had been shot just before the explosion tells me there was a second person present-a second person with the express, premeditated intent to kill him.” She folded her hands on the desk. “And that, Charlie Brown, is why Zakin has been charged with first-degree murder.”
Ben couldn’t argue with her logic. He would’ve drawn the same conclusions himself. “Anything else linking Zak to the murder?”
“Tons. Footprints. Fingerprints. You name it.” She leaned forward. “Seriously, Ben-and I’m just talking lawyer-to-lawyer now-I don’t want to jinx your good deed for the day, but you’re gonna lose this case. We’ve got that murderous zealot dead to rights. And let me tell you, when the sentence comes down, it’s not going to be pretty. Judge Perkins has a reputation.”
“I’ve heard.”
“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.”
Chapter 11
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.