"You won't mind this one," Charlie said. "This one is a lawyer."
The Old Man smiled, more at Charlie's rare attempt at levity than the fact that the next target was a lawyer.
Tibbs turned and smiled an awkward smile back at the Old Man. "We've done good work. We've been losing for thirty years. We've just been sitting back and taking it and taking it and taking it because we think that somewhere, somehow the politicians or judges will wake up and set things right. But we've waited too long and we've been too quiet. We've let them have just about everything they want from us. It's about damn frigging time our side went on the offensive. And you and me are the front line. We are the warriors," Charlie's voice hissed. "We've opened a gaping hole in the front line of the environmentalists. All of those bastards with their sandals and little glasses and lawsuits and trust funds don't even know what's hit them yet. Now it's up to our employers to take advantage of that gap in their front line and ram straight the hell through it. This is the first step in reclaiming our land, and our West." The Old Man was speechless. Since he had met Charlie Tibbs three months before, throughout the training and the traveling, Tibbs had not spoken this much in a single week. Charlie Tibbs was eloquent, determined, and filled with righteous vengeance and passion. He was also, the Old Man reflected, the most terrifying man he had ever met.
16
The next morning, Twelve Sleep County Attorney Robey Hersig looked up from his desk, saw Joe Pickett standing at his door with his hat in hand, and sighed theatrically
"Joe, come on in and please close the door," Hersig said, pushing his chair back. "You're not going to like what I'm going to tell you."
Joe entered and sat down in a worn hardback chair facing Hersig's desk. The office was tiny and claustrophobic. Even with his knees tight up against the desk, Joe could still be hit by the door if someone opened it. Three of the four walls in the office were covered with bookcases of legal volumes. An old beige computer monitor, stained with fingerprints, sat lifeless on the desk. Behind Robey was his framed University of Wyoming Law School diploma and a photo of his young son holding a thirteen-inch brown trout. Hersig was in his first term of office but was well known throughout the county because his father and uncles were third-generation ranchers. Hersig had rodeoed in college until he broke both his pelvis and sternum at the Deadwood rodeo, which was when he decided to get serious about law school. Joe did not know Hersig well on a personal level, but they had gotten along professionally Joe had come to Hersig with two previous cases. Hersig had aggressively prosecuted a local pilot who used a helicopter to herd elk into a clearing so his thirteen-year-old son could shoot them. In the second case, Hersig hadn't had any qualms recommending high fines for a fisherman Joe caught with fifty-seven trout--fifty-one over the limit.
Hersig was tall and balding, with short salt-and-pepper hair and a close-cropped beard. He liked to wear his large rodeo buckles with his suit in court. He was methodical and persuasive, and the only criticism Joe had heard about him was that he was extra cautious, that he insisted the sheriff bring him only cases that were airtight.
"I was going to call you," Hersig said.
"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd see if you were in," Joe explained. "I need to ask Sheriff Barnum a couple of things about that Stewie Woods incident." Barnum's paper-strewn office was down the hall in the county building.
"I hope to hell that's the last exploding cow in my county" Hersig lamented.
"So what is it that I'm not going to like?" Joe asked.
Hersig leaned back in his chair and put his boots up on the desk. He looked squarely at Joe.
"Jim Finotta is an asshole. Everybody knows that."
Joe nodded.
"But we're not going to take these poaching charges against him any further."
Joe waited for a punch line. There wasn't one. He felt anger start to well up, but he stayed measured.
"Yes?"
Hersig swung his feet down and leaned forward. "I went and talked to Matt Sandvick so we could prepare his affidavit. He denies that he ever did any work for Finotta and denies he even talked with you about the man. He no longer has that photo you told me about, and his records from June suddenly can't be found."
"I can't believe it," Joe said, stunned.
"You should have kept that picture, Joe," Hersig said.
Joe looked away Of course he should have. But he had taken Sandvick at his word.
"Did you tell Finotta that Sandvick was going to blow the whistle on him?" Hersig asked, cocking an eyebrow.
Joe thought for a moment, then: "Yup. I did tell him that when I saw him the other day"
Hersig raised his hands in a "what can I do?" gesture.
"I trusted Matt," Joe said.
"What's not to trust about Matt?" Hersig said cynically
"Finotta got to him, didn't he?" Joe asked. if Hersig looked thoughtful. "Probably But there's not a whole hell of a lot we can do to prove it unless Sandvick changes his mind again. And believe me, if he changes his mind, Finotta will slaughter him in court and point out that Sandvick changed his story three different times. That's not real credible."
Joe shook his head. "What kind of a guy are we dealing with here? Finotta, I mean. Would he intimidate a witness over a poaching charge?" Joe knew that if Finotta were convicted, he would, at best, lose his hunting privileges and have to pay $10,000 in fines. Finotta could certainly afford that. Game violations were shamefully lenient compared to other crimes, Joe thought.
Hersig smiled ruefully "You know about those big hunters he hosts every year. He's got the governor, both senators. Lawyers and judges from all over. It would be a real loss of stature if word got out that he was convicted for poaching. That's a crime for lowlifes not big-time lawyers and developers. It would get press attention and embarrass the hell out of Finotta in front of his big-shot pals. So you bet he'll fight it. He's the kind of guy who will work behind the scenes and call in all his chits to get what he wants. Finotta isn't the kind of guy to just accept a bad hand."
"Look, Joe," Hersig said, "Finotta's made most of his money by settling cases out of court. He's merciless in working the system and putting pressure on people. He's even been officially warned about intimidating those who plan to testify but never brought up on charges, and no sanctions have ever been filed against him."
Joe sighed. Then he thought of something. "I still have the DNA sample of the dead elk," Joe said eagerly "We don't need Sandvick if we can get that mount and prove that it's a match."
Hersig shook his head. "I thought of that. I brought it up with Judge Pennock and he won't sign a warrant to go get that elk. He told me he thinks you've harassed Mr. Finotta quite enough."
"He said that?"
"It's a direct quote."
Joe banged the desk with his knuckles. "Finotta is Pennock's pal. Pennock has an interest in Elkhorn Ranches." Finotta, Joe thought, played in a different league than he or Robey Hersig.
Hersig held up his hand to caution Joe. "It's best not to cast aspersions on the judge in this office."
"Shouldn't Judge Pennock give this one to another judge? Isn't this a conflict of interest?"
"Recuse himself, you mean?" Hersig said, raising his eyebrows. "Do you actually want me to suggest that to him?"
Joe read in Hersig's expression that challenging Judge Pennock was absolutely the last thing Hersig wanted to do.
"Yup," Joe said. "That's exactly what I want to do. What about Judge what's-his-name in Johnson County?"
"Judge Cohn?" Hersig placed both of his hands on his face and rubbed his eyes as if Joe were torturing him.