Robert’s aggressive bearing and the sharpness of his face reminded Tim of the Green Beret who had trained him in hand-to-hand. He’d taught Tim a close-quarters front-move, a downthrusting punch to the opponent’s groin, tight and viciously hard, timed with the twisting sink of the hips to give it more force. It could shatter the pelvis like a dropped dinner plate. The Beret claimed that if the punch was correctly aligned so the knuckles struck the top of the pubic bone, it could knock a man’s dick clean off. His smile when he’d related the fact had a particular gleam that told of strange appetites and vivid memories.
Robert and his brother were dangerous men, not because they gave off anger but because they exuded a fearlessness that years of training and combat had attuned Tim to distinguish. They shared a graveyard gleam in the eyes.
Dumone continued, “And this is Eddie Davis, aka the Stork. He’s a former sound agent and forensic locksmith for the FBI.”
The little man waved awkwardly before rewedging his hand between the couch cushions. Given the weather, the sunburn on his nose was as mystifying as his nickname.
Dumone paced behind Tim, and Tim pivoted slightly to keep him in view. “And this, fellow members of the Commission, is Timothy Rackley, a former platoon sergeant who used to wear the Rangers tab. His military training includes Close Quarter Combat School, Night Movement School, SERE School, HALO School, Jumpmaster School, Pathfinder School, Land Nav, Sniper School, Demo School, SCUBA, Urban Warfare, Mountain Warfare, Jungle Warfare. Did I leave any schools out?”
“A few.” Tim noticed an antique mirror hanging on the far wall, and he crossed to it, taking a letter opener from the desk on his way.
“Would you like to name them?”
Tim touched the tip of the letter opener to the mirror. The gap between the point and the reflection indicated all was normal; a one-way would have showed none. He returned the letter opener to the desk. “I’ve always thought credentials are overrated.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
Tim bit the inside of his lip, his impatience growing. “When it comes down to it, everyone bleeds just about the same.”
Robert, who’d risen to lean cross-armed against a bookcase, snickered. Dimpled finger marks on his T-shirt sleeves showed he’d stretched them first to get his biceps through. Neither twin had spoken yet; they were busy posturing and exuding menace. Their intensity was displayed in the flush of their cheeks. Tim knew their type from his Ranger days: competent, vigorous, and fiercely loyal to what they thought their ideals were. Not afraid to get mean.
Dumone turned back to the others and continued, “In his three years with the U.S. Marshals Service, Mr. Rackley has received three Outstanding Performance Ratings, two Distinguished Service Awards, and the Forsyth Medal of Valor for saving a fellow deputy’s life, one Mr. George ‘Bear’ Jowalski. The September before last, Mr. Rackley kicked through the wall of a crack house, retrieved Mr. Jowalski’s injured body while taking fire, and carried him to safety. Isn’t that right, Mr. Rackley?”
“That’s the Hollywood version, yes.”
“Why didn’t you stay in Spec Ops for the army?” Dumone asked. “Bump up to Delta?”
“I wanted to spend more time with-” Tim bit his lip. Rayner started to say something, but Tim held up his hand. “Listen to me carefully. I will leave if you don’t tell me why I’m here. Right now.”
The men and Ananberg exchanged looks, seeming to reconcile themselves to something. Dumone settled heavily into a chair. Rayner took off his jacket, revealing an elegant shirt with flared sleeves and gold cuff links, then hung it across the back of an armchair. He stepped in front of Tim, ice jiggling in his glass.
“There is one thing we all share, Mr. Rackley. Everyone in this room, including you. We all have loved ones who have been victimized by perpetrators who managed to evade justice due to loopholes in the law. Procedural defects, chain-of-possession mishaps, warrant irregularities. The courts of this country, at times, have trouble functioning. They’re backed up, choked with statutes and new case law. Because of this we’re forming the Commission. The Commission will operate within the strictest legal guidelines. Our criteria will be the Constitution of the United States and the Penal Code for the state of California. We’ll review capital cases in which defendants have gotten off due to technicalities. The three responsibilities with which we will be concerned are those of judge, jury, and executioner. We’re all judge and jury.” His eyebrows drew together, forming a single silver line. “We’d like you to be our executioner.”
Dumone used both arms to help himself out of the chair. He headed over to a collection of bottles on a shelf behind the desk. “Can I get you a drink, Mr. Rackley? Christ knows, I need one.” He winked.
Tim looked from face to face, searching for some hint of levity. “This is not a joke.” He realized his remark sounded closer to a statement than a question.
“It would certainly be an elaborate one and a considerable waste of time if it were,” Rayner said. “Suffice it to say, none of us have a lot of time on our hands.”
The ticktock of the grandfather clock was slightly unnerving.
“So, Mr. Rackley,” Dumone said, “what do you think?”
“I think you’ve all been watching too many Dirty Harry movies.” Tim dropped the RF emitter wand into his bag and zipped it up. “I want nothing to do with vigilante retribution.”
“Of course not,” Ananberg said. “We would never ask you to engage in such activities. Vigilantes are outside the law. We’re an adjunct to it.” She crossed her legs, lacing her hands over a knee. Her voice was soothing and had the practiced cadence of a newscaster’s. “You see, Mr. Rackley, we have an immense luxury here. We can concern ourselves exclusively with the merits of a given case and the culpability of the defendant. We needn’t stand on procedural formalities or permit them to get in the way of justice. Courts regularly have to make rulings irrelevant to the merits. They’re not always ruling on the case itself-they’re ruling preemptively to deter illegal or improper government conduct in the future. They know that if they overlook warrant limitations or Miranda rights even once, it can set a precedent that will open the way for the government to act without regard for individual rights. And that is a valid and compelling concern.” She spread her hands. “For them.”
“Constitutional guarantees will still function,” Dumone said. “We’re not in conflict with them. We’re not the state.”
“You understand firsthand how complex Fourth Amendment search-and-seizure issues have grown,” Rayner said. “It’s gotten to the point that good-faith efforts by the police fall short. The system’s rough patches aren’t due to crooked cops who feel they’re above the law, or bleeding-heart knee-jerk judges. These are men and women like you and me, of good conscience and fair temperament, who are seeking to uphold a system that’s increasingly undercut by its neurotic fear of victimizing the accused.”
Robert finally chimed in with a smoker’s voice, his hands flaring in disgust. “An honest cop can’t even fire a shot without being waylaid by an internal investigation, shooting board…”
“Maybe a criminal and civil case on top of that,” Mitchell said.
Dumone spoke coolly, mitigating some of the twins’ sharpness. “We need those people, and we need the system. We also need something else.”
“We’ll be tied not to the letter of the law but the spirit.” Rayner gestured to the sculpture of Blind Justice on the desk. Their prop.
Tim noted how carefully orchestrated the presentation was. The affluent milieu, designed to impress and intimidate him, the arguments laid out succinctly, the language heavy on law and logic-Tim’s language. The speakers hadn’t so much as interrupted one another. Yet despite their skillful maneuvering, they also evinced circumspection and righteousness. Tim felt like a buyer annoyed with the salesman’s pitch but still interested in the car.