“God damn it,” Raymond snarled. “You knew what I meant.”
“Me?” Sanchez spread his hands. “How was I to know?”
Raymond made a strangled sound deep in his throat and pointed the pistol at Sanchez. Sanchez didn’t move.
“I was your father’s foreman,” he said. “He trusted me with a lot of things. If you kill me, there are many things you will never know.”
Raymond slammed the pistol down on the desk. John Lee flinched. “Then tell me, asshole!” Raymond yelled. “Quit playin’ games! I need me some goddamn help here!”
Sanchez’ face clouded with anger. “You have never asked. You have never asked me for anything, least of all help. All you have done is wave your pistola around and shout orders.” He looked at John Lee. “The two of you are out to avenge your father. All right. It is a matter of honor. A man understands such things. A man might be willing to help. A stupid ‘greaseball’ who must be ordered around--” he shrugged. “Such a one will only do what he is told, no more.”
Raymond stared at him for a long moment. “I ain’t gonna beg you,” he said finally.
Sanchez shook his head. “That is not what I ask.” They continued to stare at one another, neither one willing to be the first to look down. It was John Lee who finally spoke.
“Mr. Sanchez,” he said, “will you help us find the man that killed our daddy?”
Sanchez smiled. “Si, I will help you,” he said. “And call me Oscar.” He pointed at the desk. “When the man Julio talked about came around, he left a phone number where he could be reached. I saw your father write it on the pad on the desk.”
Raymond looked down at the desk blotter. It was covered with ink stains, coffee rings, doodles and hastily scrawled notes.
Finally he located something. “DeWayne Puryear,” he read. “That sound familiar?”
Sanchez nodded. “That is the name that he gave.”
“There’s an address and phone number here,” Raymond said.
Sanchez turned around and walked out the door. He was already waiting in the truck when Raymond and John Lee followed him.
Like most of the people who wore the black robe, Judge Harold T. Tharrington was a former prosecutor. The District Attorney had handpicked Tharrington to run for election to the bench. He had run without opposition; none of the other prosecutors would dare to buck the boss’ choice. For their own part, the lawyers of the defense bar declined to take the salary cut that came with going on the State payroll. Defendants paid better, and often in cash.
Tharrington looked over his glasses at Keller, who was standing before him. He was a short, balding man with a round face and a fussy demeanor. He clearly found Keller’s presence in his courtroom distasteful.
Keller had spent the previous day and night sharing a jail cell with a pair of Jamaicans. The two men had totally ignored him. They spent the time playing a seemingly endless game of cards and arguing in low, incomprehensible voices. The argument and the fact that the lights had never been turned off in the cells had made it impossible for Keller to sleep. His eyeballs felt raw and gritty. He hadn’t been allowed to shave. His hands were shackled in front of him and his ankles were fastened together with a short length of heavy chain. His lawyer stood by his side.
The lawyer’s name was Scott McCaskill. He was an imposing figure, a full six and a half feet tall. He had thick snow-white hair brushed back until it resembled a lion’s mane. His face tended to remind people of someone they’d seen on TV, someone playing a Senator or President. He had represented Keller several times before. Part of the secret to his success was his massive presence that seemed to draw all attention in the room to him and away from his raggedy-assed client.
“Your Honor,” McCaskill intoned in a voice so deep that it almost rattled the water glasses, “my client has no prior record. He is a bail bondsman licensed by the State of North Carolina. He served his country with distinction in the armed forces and was decorated for bravery in the Persian Gulf. In addition, we are confident that these charges are the result of a misunderstanding and will be resolved in his favor at trial.”
The judge picked up a sheet of computer printout and studied it. “Your client,” the judge observed, “has been remarkably lucky to have no record of convictions. The PIN check provided by officers Jones and Wesson shows a remarkable string of charges that were either dismissed by the local prosecutor or resulted in ‘not guilty’ verdicts at trial. Can you explain this?”
McCaskill shrugged and smiled. “The nature of Mr. Keller’s business is such that the people he returns to custody are often, shall we say, less than happy with their situation.”
“Two of them apparently ended up dead,” the judge said.
“For which incident a jury returned a verdict of not guilty by reason of self-defense,” his lawyer replied smoothly.
Tharrington put the printout down and looked at Keller again. Keller was beginning to feel like a piece of livestock being haggled over at the market, but he kept his face neutral.
“I’m concerned here, counselor,” he said, “that your client is a violent man. He was apprehended with a shotgun in his car. He was carrying a weapon concealed on his person--”
“For which--” McCaskill began, but fell silent when Tharrington raised a hand. “I realize he claims to have a carry permit for that weapon. He has not been able to produce it.”
“That’s because Officer Wesson took it. Sir.” Keller said.
“Which brings us to my greatest concern,” Tharrington said. “The contempt and disrespect shown to law enforcement. It’s bad enough that Mr. Keller apparently fancies himself some sort of bounty hunter, despite having no official standing as a sworn law enforcement officer. But for him to assault a real officer and threaten him with further violence--”
“Sir,” Keller said. “Officer Wesson assaulted me.” He ignored the lawyer’s hand on his shoulder urging him to keep quiet. “He struck me with his baton while I had my hands on the car. Officer Jones can confirm that.”
Tharrington looked behind Keller. “Officer Wesson,” he said. “Is Officer Jones present in the courtroom with you?”
Keller didn’t trust himself to turn around and look, but he could hear the smooth confidence in Wesson’s voice. “No sir,” he said. “She had, ah, other duties to attend to. And your honor, I was forced to use my baton to subdue Mr. Keller when he attempted to reach for the firearm I was taking from him.”
“And is it not true, Mr. Keller, that you threatened to take Officer Wesson’s baton away from him and beat him with it?”
“No sir,” Keller said through clenched teeth. “I told him I was going to take it away from him and shove it up his ass.”
Tharrington reddened. He picked up his gavel. “Bail is set at fifteen thousand dollars. Cash.” He nodded to the deputy Sheriff standing at one end of the bench. “Take him back to the holding cell.”
“Your Honor,” a soft female voice said. “I’ll
