a risk for flight? If he revokes my bond, the only way I’ll leave this place will be in handcuffs. With Cody Anders missing and me in jail, they’ll have won.”
“Quinn, you seem to think Schrader and Whitaker are little tin gods or something. One’s a borderline-senile judge, the other’s a paid dirt-worker for the road-construction lobby. They don’t own the legal system.”
Relax, Quinn thought scornfully as anger made his jaw muscles bunch tighter. Yeah, right. Here he was, a brand-spanking-new Assistant U.S. attorney only recently sent out west from D.C. No friends in high places, no good-old-boy support network, and he had to go into hock just to pay a bail bondsman. Yet here he was, up against men so rich they drilled oil wells as tax write-offs.
Again Quinn recalled that afternoon this past April. He and Sheriff Cody Anders were standing in the quiet hallway outside Schrader’s slanted-open door. Neither of them could miss the scene inside the door: Whitaker handing the thin Swiss briefcase to Schrader. Remember, Jerry, Whitaker’s suave baritone joked, it’s not the money that matters—it’s the amount. And then both men laughing as Schrader started counting the tightly banded bills….
Pollard’s voice rudely jogged Quinn back to the here and now.
“Let me do all the talking,” he ordered as he knocked on the solid oak door of Winston’s chambers.
Quinn took a deep breath to steady himself.
A bailiff he recognized, but didn’t know by name, let both men in. Immediately, Quinn was put on guard by the ominous scene inside the comfortably appointed chambers.
As he had expected, neither Judge Jeremy Schrader nor attorney Brandon Whitaker were present. Only Judge Winston, federal internal affairs prosecutor Dolph Merriday, and two armed U.S. Marshals from the Justice Department.
The armed marshals were not routine and instantly alerted Quinn to danger. The bailiff was already armed—which most likely meant the marshals were here to “escort” Quinn to the federal lockup in Billings.
“Thank you, gentlemen, for being prompt,” Judge Winston greeted the new arrivals. He bent his shaggy white, leonine head to study the notes spread out before him on a wide pecan-veneer desk. “Please have a seat.”
Winston radiated a sober, proper steadiness that usually had a calming effect on Quinn. Not so today as he and Pollard slacked into chrome-and-leather chairs arranged before the desk. Suddenly aware his scalp was sweating, Quinn stood back up to remove his topcoat.
After some preliminary questions to refresh his memory, Winston addressed himself to the prosecutor.
“As you know, Dolph, one reason for this meeting is to determine what evidence you intend to proffer. But I also have to determine if said evidence warrants litigation. Now, I’ve read Judge Schrader’s deposition. I agree it’s quite damning.”
Winston’s stern gaze cut to Quinn, and again, despite his innocence, those old feelings of guilt lanced him deep. The leopard cannot change its spots.
“However,” the judge continued, “at this juncture it’s a classic standoff. One man’s word against another’s. If you have no further evidence besides hearsay, I’m inclined to dismiss right now.”
Pollard sent Quinn a triumphant grin. But Dolph Merriday spoke up quickly.
“There’s more evidence, Judge Winston. Pursuant to a search warrant issued in the District of Columbia, certain items were seized during a search of Mr. Loudon’s residence in Washington. This was discovered hidden behind a cooling vent.”
Quinn felt the blood drain from his face as Merriday unzipped a canvas tote bag and set several stacks of new one-hundred-dollar bills on Winston’s desk.
“In addition to nearly seventy thousand dollars in cash,” Merriday said, “we found this list with it. A handwriting expert has determined that it was written by Loudon. It contains the names of various officials in the Montana Department of Highways. Loudon obviously hoped to bribe others besides Judge Schrader. It’s a classic construction-kickback scheme, and Loudon hoped to be their legal go-between.”
When he first saw the money, Quinn just sat there gawking like a fool. A moment later, however, angry blood hammered at his temples. He came suddenly to his feet.
“That’s a bald-faced lie!” he shouted. “This is a setup! They killed Cody Anders and now they aim to get rid of me. Of course I wrote the list. I intended to investigate those men. But the money was planted. Schrader and Whitaker are the perps here, not me, and Merriday is either their partner or their dupe.”
“Quinn,” Pollard urged him, “calm down and shut up.”
But he was past calming down, Quinn realized desperately. Already one of the U.S. marshals was reaching for the cuffs on his utility belt. A cold panic seized him—if they locked him up, he’d never clear his name. He would be remembered always as the very demon he had fought so hard to defeat. Either he got away now, or his fate was sealed.
In a heartbeat the .38 snubby was in his hand.
“Quinn!” Pollard shouted. “What in bleeding hell are you…?”
But it was too late for oaths, too. As the marshals went for their guns, Quinn aimed deliberately high and sent two quick slugs thwapping into the wall just above their heads, forcing them to take cover.
From shout to shots was a matter of mere moments. Caught completely off-guard, the bailiff had not even drawn his pistol. But he still stood, solid as a meeting house, before the room’s only door. Quinn lowered one shoulder and literally knocked him aside as he bolted into the hallway.
At the end of the hall, old Hank had his gun out, his face a mask of confusion.
“Quick, Hank!” Quinn shouted as he sprinted toward him. “Judge Winston needs you!”
The guard was too rattled to question the order. Quinn barrelled past him as the two marshals and the bailiff took off after Quinn. For a moment, Hank got in their line of fire, and Quinn gained a precious lead.
Just as he hit the stairs, however, there came a hammering racket of gunfire behind him.
Quinn felt a bruising blow between his shoulder blades. But the Kevlar vest he routinely wore these days absorbed the bullet’s lethal impact. He had started down the steps when a second bullet punched into the back of his left thigh.
He almost lost his footing as fiery pain erupted between his hip and his knee. But sheer determination not to let himself be sacrificed by crime barons kept him on his feet.
The wound hurt like hell, but luckily it wasn’t slowing him down yet. Quinn got his second break of the day a few moments later—he heard his pursuers burst out the front of the courthouse and automatically run toward the parking structure across the street.
Earlier, however, Quinn had avoided the parking structure because of the annoying queue out front. Instead, he had parked around the side on Willow Street. That chance decision gave him a precious few minutes’ head start.
It took very little time to get beyond the Kalispell city limits. Although relatively large, as Montana towns went, the population was barely 12,000. Thus he cleared town with no cops on his tail. But he knew his luck couldn’t hold forever. He had to get off the roads
