Uncertain Justice

Road maps went on the large bench seat beside where he would sit. A pair of small but powerful 7X--15X binoculars in a sturdy case went on the gun rack's lower hook and he hanged a heavy-duty rain poncho from the upper one. The shotgun and shells went on the floorboard behind the seat with the butt toward the driver's side ... and then he was finished with all the preparations. He surveyed the interior of the pickup truck's cab but could find nothing to rearrange.

Stepping up on the running board, he sat on the wide bench seat and settled himself behind the big steering wheel. Playing with the floor shift, he depressed the clutch and moved the stick through all five forward gears. It seemed to him the seat should be a little bit forward and he spent a long minute finding the perfect position.

Turning the ignition key to the accessory position, he touched fingertips to the controls for the CB radio, the AM/FM radio with the cassette deck and CD player. He rotated the control knob for the headlights to turn them on and tapped the turn signal to make sure the high beams worked.

He pushed the turn signal lever up and then down. Red and amber lights reflected off the garage walls and the door behind him. The rearview mirror was exactly where it should be. Everything worked.

He knew he was stalling and commanded his hands to relax in his lap. He was still a moment longer, listening to the sounds of the turbulent night beyond the garage doors.

Everything he could do was done and it was time to go, but it was infinitely more difficult to do than he'd thought it would be when he conceived the plan last night. Once he left, he would be severing his ties with everything he had and everything that he had been. It was a hard thing to do.

Shaking his head to clear it, he turned the ignition key. The engine started with a roar that was magnified tenfold in the confined space. The pickup's motor warmed quickly and ran smoothly.

Grabbing the remote control from the dash, he thumbed the button to turn off the garage lights and then the one that raised the garage door. No one in the neighborhood could possibly hear the engine noise or the creaking of the door over the wind and blowing rain.

He backed into the darkness, turning carefully at the end of the driveway, and stopping the truck in the middle of the street. He put the transmission in first gear.

Raindrops reached inside the open window to splash on his arm and face. He delayed once more while he looked stoically at the house he'd bought with money set aside from twenty-two years of scanty military paychecks. Lightning flashes became more numerous and heavy waves of thunder rolled over him. Wind-driven sheets of rain marched along the street toward him.

He forced himself into motion. There was nothing to be done except what he was doing. He pressed the button to close the garage door against the weather. At the last minute, he tossed the remote through the opening with a flip of his wrist. It skittered through just before the door slammed down. Rolling up the window, he let out the clutch and switched on the headlights as the truck lurched into motion.

The curb-deep water on the city streets was no challenge for the truck's high clearance and he had no problem reaching the big loop around the city. He drove carefully to the intersection with U.S. Highway 281 and turned north up the wide four-lane highway. The pickup wasn't the only vehicle on the road, but there weren't many other people out tonight. He saw no police patrols.

Driving steadily for several minutes, he alternated between watching the road and the gauges on the console. With the engine so recently overhauled, he hadn't had time to develop any confidence in its performance. He accelerated smoothly up the grade leading to the Texas hill country.

Stopping for a red light, though there were no other vehicles in sight, his eyes were attracted by the brightly lit windows of a supermarket across the intersection to his right. He felt an urge to go inside to blend one more time with the innocent shoppers, but he knew it would be a foolish thing to do.

Someone might recognize him and he didn't want to leave any clues behind to reveal which direction he was traveling. He shrugged. Thinking about it that way, it wasn't really that hard to curb the urge to go inside.

A massive bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. He could feel heavy, rolling detonations transmitted through the pickup's floorboard as the simultaneous clap of thunder crashed around him. The lights in the supermarket flickered and went out. He could see dim emergency lights coming on here and there on the interior walls.

He was beginning to feel the euphoria of having pulled off a clean escape. He was free. Then he turned his attention to his left and stared blankly for a time, unaware the traffic signal and streetlights had failed at the same time the supermarket's had.

By the light from his headlights, he could see the road leading off to the left but he didn't immediately understand its significance. A memory stirred at the back of his mind and then he knew. His heart pounded harder. The rage he'd felt, then suppressed last night flared into blazing life.

The westbound boulevard led up the low hill to the exclusive community where District Attorney Carl Brady lived. He knew now what had been nagging at him all day. The thing was, he didn't know why all this was happening to him. Why was he being prosecuted for something he could never have done? No one had ever given him an explanation. It was time to get one.

CHAPTER THREE

"In spite of heavy rains forecast for South Texas tonight, President Martin Warren is in town as the keynote speaker at a fund raising dinner for a local banker and entrepreneur. Quincy Ortiz formally announced last week he will be a candidate for Lieutenant Governor in next year's election. Opponents of the President's stance on his Middle East policy and the lack of progress in the War On Terror will be demonstrating in front of the location where the fund raiser is to be held."

The male co-anchor paused and smirked.

"Gosh, Paula, I sure hope all this, uh, precipitation doesn't rain on the President's parade." He waited for her to respond to the humor, but Paula was too tired to pretend she was amused. The producer cut away to a commercial before the highly paid anchor could further embarrass himself.

KSAA Channel Nine

San Antonio Texas

"Evening News"

February 16

§

By chance one evening, he'd caught sight of Brady leaving the courthouse after one particularly acrimonious court session. Miles had discretely shadowed the prosecutor's car all the way through the city to a residence on the north side of the city. He was going to get an answer for why the District Attorney's office was prosecuting him so zealously.

Fortunately, he'd cooled off before he'd made that particular blunder. It wouldn't have been a very smart move, even he could see that, and he never followed up on the urge to confront the prosecutor. His attorney would have had a fit and the judge would surely have revoked his bail. Additional charges would have been filed.

But ... the rules were different now. It didn't really matter if he angered the authorities a little more. Pulling the wheel hard left, Miles steered across the empty lanes and up a slight grade onto the wide boulevard.

It was just a mile or so up the road to the ornate formal entry into the exclusive little gated community. It was unguarded tonight; the little security post was empty and the gate wide open.

Miles remembered the path Brady had taken through the neighborhood, so it was only a few minutes before he slowed and stopped in front of the Bexar County District Attorney's home. It was as impressive a residence as Miles recalled. The district attorney did very well for himself.

The big, two-story home sat well off the street, straddling two of the multiple-acre sized lots that seemed to be standard here. His eyes were drawn to a triangle of three closely planted pine trees to the left rear of the house. A wide driveway swept around the right end of the home to a three-car garage behind and to the right of the main house. On both sides, tall privacy fences separated the house from his neighbors. The expansive front yard was meticulously groomed and very lush.

Through several windows, Miles could see shadows of a male figure moving around the front rooms of the house but he couldn't tell what the man was doing. After five minutes of watching, Miles still hadn't seen anyone else inside.

He put the transmission in first gear and slowly let out the clutch to move on without creating unnecessary noise. Sitting in the middle of the street staring at an expensive residence like this was asking for unwanted attention and he needed to be less conspicuous, not more. What he did need was some out-of-the-way place where he could park the truck while he had a conversation with Mister Carl Brady.

He couldn't find a good hiding place at first. He wandered around for a while before coming upon the perfect spot ... on the next street north of Brady's house. One of the palatial homes there was being renovated but the process was a long way from being finished. The front lawn was strewn with building materials and dumpsters full of debris. He pulled the pickup to the curb and stopped to look around.

There was a house down the street with lights glowing behind drawn curtains. If he could see the windows, it was reasonable to assume anyone looking out of them could see him as well.

The night was a thoroughly miserable one though. There was little reason for anyone to peer out rain-streaked windows to look for unknown people in old pickup trucks. With the headlights turned off, there actually was little chance his pickup would be seen at this distance.

Three other homes were closer and had a better view of the reconstruction site, but the interiors of those houses were dark with only a few outside security lights burning. The occupants were either gone or had sensibly decided to go to bed early on the wild, stormy night. After a long moment of debate with himself, he decided to take the risk of being seen sneaking onto the unoccupied property.

He pulled past what would be a driveway again someday. Tonight, it was no more than a long gravel pit marked by wooden supports along the sides. It wasn't concrete or asphalt, but driving on gravel was a lot better than mud on a rainy night.

Reversing, he backed the pickup up the curving strip of gravel between tall stacks of lumber and mounds of roofing shingles into one side of a gaping hole in the front of the house. When he stopped, he was seventy-five or eighty feet from the street and deep in the shadows of the unfinished garage. His dark green truck was almost impossible to see in the night. He killed the engine and sat quietly.

The anger that had flared so hot down at the highway intersection had faded during the search for a hiding place and he wasn't sure he wanted to do this any longer. Until now, he hadn't done anything that couldn't be explained away with some imagination and a little luck.

Once he barged into Mr. Brady's house, all that changed.

Logically speaking, there wasn't much good that could come from what he was about to do. It really didn't matter why he was being prosecuted for something he didn't do. In a sense, the only relevant item was that he was being hounded into prison.

There was a small voice at the back of his mind that demanded to be heard. The voice kept saying he at deserved to hear the motives of the district attorney--and directly from that worthy person too.

In the end, the voice in his head--perhaps it was no more than pure stubbornness--prevailed. He'd play this out and see what happened.

The decision made, he watched the storm a moment longer. A strengthening wind toyed with a loose end of a sheet of canvas covering heavy rolls of roofing shingles near the outside wall of the garage. In a few minutes, the loose end was flapping in the wind, making loud popping noises as it whipped around.

He pulled the key from the ignition, stuffed it in his right front pocket, and made ready to leave the safety of the truck. Twisting around on the seat, he grabbed the poncho from the hook behind him and pulled the olive drab raingear over his head, draping it about his body as best he could in the confined space. Turning the shotgun upside down, he loaded four express double-aught buck cartridges into the tube magazine. Turning it over, he worked the slide to move one of the thick, three-inch shells into the chamber. Reaching under the receiver, he thumbed one more into the magazine. The weapon was fully loaded and cocked. He checked the safety to make sure it was on.

Miles took a deep breath and opened the driver's side door. The glare from the dome light revealed piles of plumbing fixtures, lumber, and everything else for yards around. That included the big pickup and its driver. He yanked the door back shut.

The glow from his mini-flashlight showed him there was no quick release for the lens cover on the light's mounting frame. The screws holding it tight would have to be removed before he could get to the bulb. It wasn't impossible to do; he had a toolbox in the truck bed with several screwdrivers inside, but it was hidden back there somewhere under the tarp. It was too much trouble and he was in a hurry.

Turning away and pulling the hood of the poncho over his eyes for protection, he gave the fixture a quick, hard tap with the shotgun muzzle. The fragile plastic lens and light bulb shattered instantly, sending shards flying across the seat and floorboard. He snapped off the flash and dropped it in a jacket pocket. When he opened the pickup's door this time, the darkness was unbroken.

While his eyes adjusted to the night, he stumbled forward to the heap of shingles. Working mainly by touch, he tucked the loose end of the canvas under a corner of the bottom bundle. The aggravating noise stopped.

He slogged through discarded building materials and deep grass to the back corner of the house and tried to orient himself. As best he could determine, he needed to bear off to his right at about a forty-five degree angle. He set off through a back yard that was as much an obstacle course as the front, threading his way through demolished flower gardens, piles of building materials, dumpsters, and overgrown landscaping. The forbidding pit off to his left had probably been a swimming pool in better days.

Many of the boards in the back fence were marked for replacement and several were already missing. He stopped and bent low to peer through one of the gaps, wondering if his navigation had been correct. A prolonged flash of lightning spread spider webs of raw electrical energy from one cloud to another. There was enough light to see a big house with an isolated garage to his left and a trio of close-set pines off to the right. Brady's had been the only house on that street with a detached garage ... and those trees growing so close together cinched it. This was it.

He turned sideways to slide through a space where two boards had been and moved forward onto the wet grass of Brady's lawn. He jogged up a slight incline toward the house before stopping. He knelt in the shadow of an elaborate fountain. Water spouted from the mouth of a concrete elf in spite of the heavy rain.

The back of Brady's home was directly in front of him and the garage off to his left. He couldn't detect any movement around either of the structures. High fences on both sides of the attorney's property blocked the view into Brady's backyard. He felt better, less vulnerable. Holding the shotgun under the poncho, he rose to prowl around the back of the residence, trying to find a way inside.

The electric power failed every few minutes, only to come back on a moment later as relays reset themselves in the city's power grid. He flinched every time the neighborhood's outdoor lighting glared brightly again but the lights were never accompanied by raised voices. He was reasonably sure he hadn't been seen.

Every door and window on the back of the house was tightly locked. He couldn't see any way to get inside short of breaking a window. The best choice for that looked like one of the decorative panes in the back door. One of them had felt encouragingly loose in its mounting when he poked at it. The sound of breaking glass was distinctive though, easily heard, and it would instantly alarm anyone inside the residence. Realistically, he couldn't expect to break a window, scramble inside, and overpower an occupant quickly enough to stop a 911 call.

At the back of his mind, he had a plan in reserve that he didn't really like. It had the advantage of simplicity but it was more dangerous than slipping in through an unguarded back door.

It would work though. He knew it would. When he was sure there was nothing else, he admitted to himself he was going around the house and knock on the front door. Whoever answered the door, either Brady or a housekeeper, would surely be docile with a shotgun muzzle staring them in the face. Sighing softly to himself in resignation, he trudged along the south side of the house--the side away from the garage and expanse of driveway where he would be out in the open for anyone to see.

He slowly opened a massive wooden gate leading to the front yard, afraid the soaked metal hinges would scream a protest. Perhaps his care was successful; perhaps the gate never made any noise. In any event, the gate opened ponderously and silently.

Leaving it slightly ajar, he moved forward cautiously, pausing behind a waist-high shrub at the front corner of the house to watch for a while. The concealing backyard fences had ended at the gate and he was exposed for anyone watching from across the street or next door. Kneeling to reduce his silhouette, he looked at the two houses across the street. There was no one visible over there. He turned to inspect this side of the road and the house behind him. There was no one there either.

Satisfied he hadn't yet been seen, he stood to walk to the elaborate double doors that provided entrance into District Attorney Carl Brady's home. He hadn't fully risen from a crouch when a set of brilliant headlights of a car lit the scene with frightening intensity. The lights were from a vehicle turning the corner from a street to his right rear. The headlights painted his shadow on the light-colored bricks of Brady's house, exposing him for everyone to see.

Stunned, Miles couldn't react at first. Forcing himself into action, he dove back behind the shrubbery and sank to one knee while he waited for the car to pass. It didn't. Instead, the vehicle slowed and turned into Brady's driveway.

Once stopped, the driver must have leaned on the horn because it sent a deep, braying clamor reverberating through the neighborhood. Miles' heart pounded. In spite of the rain, his mouth was dry and he couldn't swallow. He did not need this.

The porch light over Brady's door came on, spilling a bright swath of light across the lawn. Miles pulled the poncho's hood low over his eyes. The front door opened and the prosecutor stepped out to wave at what a flash of lightning revealed to be a long, dark-colored limousine.

The electricity went off again and Miles used the opportunity created by the sudden darkness to drop flat behind a bush. He was out of sight from anyone on the street but not nearly as well concealed from a viewpoint near the open door. The porch light would destroy Brady's night vision while it was on though, and the blinding effect would last for quite a while after the light went off.

The district attorney shouldn't be able to see Miles as he lay half under the shrub then, but Miles was completely exposed to anyone on the neighbor's porch behind him. If anyone next door stepped outside to see what the commotion was ... he started to sweat inside the confining poncho.