Forceful Justice (172 page)

Something about his relationship with his wife nagged him for the past few weeks; he came to the shocking realization something was missing in his relationship, like a knock off soda tastes almost, but not quite, the same as the real thing. Nevertheless, he loved sex for its own sake, and no one needed to ask him twice to penetrate his woman. He loved kissing for the sexual stimulation it brought him, and she probably noticed he kissed her in wet sloppy bouts for the pure excitement it brought him. Affection was at most incidental. He pulled her lavender panties off and curled her naked legs around his waist, hiking her waist up a little so he could slip inside her wet folds. She put a pillow under her waist to prop up her body. Mike could feel the soft wet warmth of her pussy touch the tip of his dick, which tingled with electricity. He always preferred the tactile sensations of sex to using his imagination, even as a teenager. His entire body was far more sensitive to touch than it was to sexual stirrings in the space between his ears.

His wife reached up and licked the side of his neck, as the cool air chilled the path she traced with her tongue. There was a mirror in the back of the room, where she could watch him gyrate up and down on her body. Watching her man's butt cheeks squeeze in a soft rhythm, along with the accompanying wave of pleasure in her nether regions amplified her arousal tenfold, she claimed. She grabbed his ass with her hands squeezing his butt as if it was a mound of dough, pliable to her touch. She ran her hands up and down the inside of his chest and stomach area, where there was a patch of black hair over his chest muscles. As he pumped into her in a repeated fashion, grunting softly, his breath blew her bangs out of her eyes. She reached down to feel his hard penis at the base of a mound of pubic hair. Even when Mike was working hard, on top of her, his sweat exuded a faintly sweet aroma in the room. His wife thought to herself how ironic it was, that her husband was in many ways the prettier of the two, and the fairer, with his burning blue eyes and black hair. There was not an inch of his body she didn't desire. He was, to her, a home she never remembered having on an exotic island she'd never been to, simultaneously fulfilling in tradition and exciting with newness.

“Oh, Mike,” she said, as he pumped away inside her, in the back of his mind anxious to come and make a quick getaway for the shower. “Who was it?”

“The office. I've been promoted.”

“Fantastic kid,” she said. He slid inside her back and forth, saying nothing.

II

Carter Simmons could feel the same punch to his gut that he felt when he lost his first love that night by the hands of Jaidon Marsh. The feeling in his gut was something that became a familiar omen of terrible tragedy in Carter's life. His stomach hurt the day Jaidon had beat him to a pulp in his house and then stuffed him like a doll into his trunk. His stomach hurt when Presley Watkins interrupted Stetson's attempt at doing the right thing by explaining what happened during the fight at the dinosaur dig. Stetson was arrested, and the punch in the gut that gnawed at Carter had not subsided. Things were going to get worse if Carter didn't take things into his own hands. Carter didn't have the hunter instincts that Stetson had, but he had intuition that told him bad things would happen if you were charged with first-degree murder in a town like Baggs, Wyoming. He knew Stetson's integrity had put him into a bad situation, which he most likely could not escape from. No one would help Stetson, not a single soul; and if someone did want to help, he or she would never stand a chance against the pressure of the local society, with its visceral, primal, and witch-hunting instincts.

After the police arrested Stetson, Carter spent the next 12 hours, without a shower or change of clothes, fighting his way into the visitor's area of the local jail. The guards and clerks showed no signs of an understanding for due process, cruel and unusual punishment, or general human decency. They ran things the way they wanted to, which was to say, they ran things according to whim and caprice.

“Sir we cannot help you,” the lady told him, as she chewed gum while also talking on her cell phone. “I don't have access to that prisoner. They put him in maximum security area for what he did.”

“He didn't do anything,” Carter said. “There's a difference between a charge and a conviction. Does he not get some kind of phone call? Are there not visiting hours?”

“Sir look at the sign hangin' over ya head. Does that sign say 'midnight on a Saturday'?”

Carter glanced above him at the sign, which displayed standard business hours during the weekday. He didn't answer the clerk and walked away, collapsing in the blue plastic chair in the foyer of the police department. Things were hopeless. He just could not figure out why Detective Watkins thought Stetson had murdered Jaidon, or how he even found out that Jaidon had been shot. Carter figured the police must have arrived after they left, or maybe Stetson's cell phone had given him a single unnoticed moment of reception. He remembered for a second the fact that his brother Jamie was still alive and that maybe he had something to do with all of this.

III

“This trial is expected to last two weeks. We move very quickly around these parts, as you'll see. We're also short-staffed so many of our deputies will be assisting us in the jury selection process. Is there anything about the length of scheduling of the trial that would interfere with your ability to serve?”

Lieutenant Presley Watkins plopped his pen into his mouth, waiting for an answer from the man sitting to the right of him. The man seemed somewhat uneasy about Watkins, whom the district attorney had commandeered from his usual investigatory assignments for this “special circumstance,” as they called it. Presley Watkins was very familiar with Jaidon Marsh's criminal history, but he was also acutely aware of the circumstances surrounding Marsh's death. Stetson Carthswaite and Jamie Simmons had entered his office determined to find out who took Jamie's brother, Carter. Watkins had sensed an aggressive impulse in Stetson; when Jamie Simmons entered his office at the crack of dawn, his face bloody and nose broken, claiming that Stetson shot Marsh in cold blood, Presley was not surprised. Stetson had rubbed Watkins the wrong way from the moment they met. He just knew there was something off about Stetson.

He assured the D.A. there was no conflict of interest. This was not a sham comment. Presley believed with all his heart that Stetson Carthswaite killed Marsh and that it was not in self-defense. Marsh may have had a rap sheet a mile long, but a crime is a crime, and it was Presley's job to seek justice, particularly in this circumstance, where he was privy to special information pertinent to the crime committed. No matter what, no matter how, Presley Watkins would make sure that Stetson Carthswaite went to the electric chair for the crimes he committed.

The man in front of him averted his eyes, choosing instead to look at the ground, out from under Watkins' heavy gaze. He was a mechanic, Latino, with no priors, fully legal. The presiding prosecutor returned from lunch, spaghetti sauce dribbled on her white shirt. She plumped down into the empty metal chair beside the Hispanic mechanic. She took a deep breath and smiled, parsley stuck in her main tooth.

“As a general proposition,” she said, looking at the mechanic in his blue jump suit, “do you think that a police officer is more likely or less likely to tell the truth than a witness who is not a police officer?”

The mechanic thought for a moment. “Neither. Police officers are people just like anyone else. He would tell the truth, unless he was trying to save hisself from something he done.”

The prosecutor smiled. “Good answer.” She looked over at Presley Watkins, whose smile turned into a scowl.

The day wore on, as Watkins watched scores of people move in and out of the courtroom. The people he thought would serve well on a jury, unafraid of sentencing the man to the justice, which he deserved, were all chosen as backups. And, on top of that, the people he thought were the softest about letting a man get away with murder were the prosecutor's top choices.

Three of the chosen people he found especially abhorrent were the Hispanic mechanic, a waitress with red hair and witch's nose, and a slight, frail pharmacy technician. All these subjects were sympathetic to what they called “the wrongfully accused,” and it was clear to Presley that these fools were so soft, so forgiving, so gullible, they would let a murderer go free, even as he stood on the witness stand with his arms still covered in blood.

And that, for Presley, simply would not do.

--

Presley Watkins stood outside the door of Mr. Hernandez's car garage. This was the first of three people Watkins had determined were not fit for jury duty, people who stuck a thorn in his side on the path of justice. He finished his cigarette and crushed it into mulch on the pavement. The sun beat hard and hot down on the back of his neck. Watkins was only somewhat nervous as he watched from several yards away that Hernandez handed a mysterious plastic bag to a customer from behind two large trash bins. Hernandez was never caught selling drugs, but Watkins knew everything about everyone in Baggs. The court of law may have dictated that Hernandez was innocent until proven guilty, but Watkins knew the truth. It was his duty to make sure he stood in Hernandez's way to getting a spot on the jury. Sure it was illegal, but the courts were slow and plodding and, in Watkins' eyes, criminally inefficient.

But suddenly he got a better idea, and checked his watch. Two hours until sundown. He decided he would find Hernandez in his element, and then call Michael Ingram, his new partner, for backup.

He spent the next few hours getting drinks at the local bar where most drug deals took place. As the sunset, he could see Hernandez pull into the parking lot after work. Mike Ingram sat in the car next to him.

“You know we have to see him actually make the deal,” Ingram said.

“No. We'll do what we have to do. I'm glad you came along, kid. You're better off hitting the ground running. Don't you think?”

“I guess. Are you sure this is legal?”

“Of course not. We can't help it, though. He's guilty, I saw him earlier make the deal. I've known for years. I know everything that happens in this town, sir. But you're a good man, so I know you'll watch my back. Right?”

“For sure, Lieutenant. If he's guilty, I definitely don't mind bending the rules.”

Watkins smiled, feeling secure his new partner would reciprocate his feelings of brotherly love.

“OK let's go,” Watkins said. They stepped out of the car.

When they reached the back entrance, Ingram tried the doorknob quietly.

“No,” Watkins said. “Let's do it this way.” He grabbed a steel pipe from the side and slammed it against the door as hard as he could. The door opened to a sea of people, all gyrating against each other, inebriated and dancing. Watkins walked over to the jukebox with a bolt cutter and cut the cord. The music died and everyone stopped dancing.

“Good evening, everyone! My name is Lt. Presley Watkins. We are here to arrest you. Who knows what sorts of trouble you're in!”

Everyone, feeling his or her hidden crimes vibrating in public, stepped away from Watkins slowly, as if he were made of radioactive waste. He walked from person to person, looking them in the eye.

“My partner here, Michael Ingram, will help you get the handcuffs on. That is, unless you know the main person I'm looking for.” Watkins reached the bar and grabbed a random man's hat, dumping the drugs hidden in the lining of the felt. He shook the drugs in the beer glass, ruining them.

He shouted, at the crowd, without so much as blinking. “Who here knows where Edgar Hernandez is hiding?” The crowd was silent.

“He's here, boss,” Ingram shouted from the back of the room, by the bathroom. He held Hernandez by his wrists, which were already cuffed behind his back. Watkins walked over to the back of the room, all eyes on him. “Hi Edgar. It's been a whole day since we last met. It's clear to everyone here you would be a horrible jury member. You're coming with me.” Watkins took Hernandez by his hands and shoved him into a police car.

IV

Carter remembered the only person besides he and Stetson who witnessed the incident at the archeology dig was Jamie, his brother. He was the only person, therefore, who could have framed Stetson for murder. In his panic, Carter knew that his plans almost never worked out. He knew that he was weak, powerless, and ineffectual at fighting the people who were determined to put Stetson behind bars and eventually in an electric chair. And he knew that no one would listen to him as a witness. Never mind that Carter would testify against his brother, calling him out as a liar that he was. Carter was well aware of his surroundings--a small town in the middle of nowhere could get away with corruption national politicians would envy. No one would listen to Carter, he was certain, because Jamie would cast him out as a homosexual. So he needed a backup plan. Jamie was an idiot, he knew from everything his family had told him growing up, even though he didn't grow up with Jamie. He drove Stetson's blue truck up the mountain toward the cabin in the mountains where all this had started. He pulled into the driveway, a knot in his stomach pulled violently as he saw Jamie's car standing there.

“Calm yourself Carter,” he said to himself. “You have to save him. This time things are going to be different. You can do it.” He thought for a moment, and suddenly a light bulb clicked in his brain. He jumped out of the car and made shaky steps toward the cabin. Carter held his hand in his pocket, hiding something. Then he knocked on the door.