Uncertain Justice

Miles stopped and stood still for a long moment, his mind racing as he weighed his chances. His shoulders fell. There was no way he could race through the corridor to the entry to the living room, make the ninety degree turn left, down the hallway toward the kitchen, and run all the way to the back door without Brady getting a good look at him.

There was an alternative of course. He could hide in a dark doorway and knock Brady over the head with the shotgun as he came near. Brady would never know what hit him.

Cracking people's skulls was risky though. A blow in the wrong place, or one applied with just a tiny bit too much enthusiasm, and there would be a dead man lying on the floor.

The information Miles had would clear him of the original charges, but if he were seen and recognized, new ones of breaking and entering would replace the old ones. Ten seconds ... no, five. He could have been safely out of the house with just five more seconds' grace ... five seconds he didn't have.

Dejected, Miles turned to toss the rag on the credenza with the printer and fax machine. The cloth hit the side of the printer and rebounded softly to land on the carpet.

Absent-mindedly, Miles put the folder of legal papers back on Brady's desk and pulled the poncho over his head as the front door closed. Thumps and rustling noises continued out in the foyer but Miles paid no attention. He walked softly to the rear of the study and sat down behind Brady's desk, using the sounds of movement in the living room to mask his steps.

If Brady came in the study, Miles would have a discussion with him about ethical conduct. If Brady didn't come in here ... well, maybe there was still a chance Miles could make his way outside somehow. He sat down and pushed the chair back, deeper into the shadows.

§

Carl Brady was more than pleased with himself. The meeting with his old Harvard classmate had gone very well. His friend had cunningly used wealth inherited from his father's real estate empire as seed money for even greater wealth. He'd gradually parlayed indifferent influence into real political power and prominence in his home state of Massachusetts and then beyond its borders.

The President of the United States ... Brady's stomach fluttered at the memory of his proximity to a person with such unimaginable power. Best of all, the President wasn't forgetting about old friends.

"Attorney General of the United States!" Brady mouthed the words, whispering to himself as he watched Warren's aide drive off. Well, that wasn't exactly the position Brady had been offered. He'd have to spend some time as the Deputy Attorney General, but soon--perhaps no more than a year or two--the top office in the Department Of Justice would be his. If he had any talent, he would have been singing. Everything he'd hungered for was actually going to come true.

Closing the door, Brady fumbled with the security system panel beside the light switch and was reminded there were some things that weren't going quite as well as his career. Every time he touched a key, the whole thing went crazy. He could not get the damned thing to work right. Once he almost had it but the sensor on the kitchen door at the back of the house wouldn't reset no matter what he tried. He finally conceded defeat. It was probably the lightning and stuff. He wondered if they had storms like this in Washington.

Sloughing off the heavy overcoat, he put it on a hanger inside the hall closet and pitched his black umbrella into a corner out of the way. Closing the door, he checked his watch by the overhead light in the entryway. He could still get in a couple hours' work before calling it a night. Why not? He wouldn't be able to sleep anyway; he was much too excited.

The house was chilly ... but if he turned on the central heating, the upstairs would get too hot. He liked it cool in the bedroom when he went to sleep so he could huddle snugly under a pile of comforters and blankets.

Brady bent to light the fire already laid in the fireplace for him by his part-time housekeeper. A fire would warm up only the living room and his den on the other side of the wall. As he watched, the shavings flared and began to burn, as did the larger kindling seconds later. One of the logs caught and the fire began to build steadily.

Brady shook off the mesmerizing effect of the flames and turned to go to his study. He had many things to go over. With everything else going on, he needed to rethink his decision to personally manage the prosecution of that Army guy on the rape and manslaughter charges.

The pathetic low brow military type had been an easy mark--had probably deserved punishment for crimes he'd committed in Afghanistan anyway. It had been an opportunity to get some national attention, but that wasn't necessary now. Maybe he should let the case go away.

The slightly built attorney slipped in the hallway leading to his office, regaining his balance on the hardwood floor with an awkward, sliding step. He took a couple of tentative paces forward, checking his muscles' reaction to see if he'd pulled something.

He saw no sign of any water dripping from the ceiling when he looked up. He'd better not. He would, by God, see the contractor's license pulled in a heartbeat if there was even a small leak up there. There was no need to accept shoddy workmanship--not after paying top dollar for this place, there wasn't.

Deciding to blame the slip on his wet shoes, he minced carefully along the rest of the corridor. Once on the deep carpet inside the study, he relaxed. He flicked the light switch, but there was no answering radiance. The power was off again.

He was halfway to his desk when something moved in the far corner. He stopped and squinted through still fogged glasses at a half-seen figure. All he could make out was the sheen of some slick, dark material reflecting light from the fire. He froze, wanting to flee but unable to move.

"Good evening, counselor."

At the sound of the cold voice, Brady felt the hair on the nap of his neck rise. His heart threatened to stop beating, then pounded more forcibly than ever. He willed his unresponsive body to run from the dark menace. Sliding his left foot back toward the door, he began a slow motion pivot on the ball of his right foot.

"No ... I don't think so, Mister Brady!"

The implied command stopped Brady in place. He saw the huge, long-barreled gun aimed at his chest.

§

Miles watched Brady's face as it grew deathly pale. Brady appeared ready to pass out.

If he did, Miles would step over him and run to his pickup for a quick trip home. He didn't think Brady had yet seen his face in the dim light. After a moment, though, Brady was still on his feet ... swaying, but upright.

Miles shrugged. It had been a long shot anyway.

"Sit down--before you fall." Miles gestured with the shotgun toward the chair facing the desk.

Brady trembled, unable to control his body with any degree of certainty. He unsteadily made his way forward enough to slide into the overstuffed chair. He shrank from the shotgun pointed at his chest.

"Who are you? What do you want? Here, I'll give you all the money I have, okay?" Brady made a move to pull his billfold from his pant's right rear pocket but stopped when the gun muzzle raised slightly.

He moaned. "No, no, I was getting my money out. See?" He leaned forward and twisted his body to show the intruder he was only retrieving his wallet. He placed the offending piece of leather on the edge of the desk and then retreated quickly to the safety of the overstuffed chair. "There, take it! I won't tell anyone about this, not anyone!"

"You don't know who I am, Mr. District Attorney?" Miles asked the question slowly, allowing a tiny portion of the suppressed anger to color the words. "You really should get to know folks you set out to railroad into prison." Miles leaned forward and pushed back the hood.

"Underwood!" Brady's cry was strangled. He pressed his feet against the floor and pushed as hard as he could, straining to move the heavy chair away from the desk and the man behind it. Underwood had been a minor irritant as a heavily guarded defendant in the courtroom. Now, he was a deadly threat.

"Uh-huh. How ya doin' Mr. Brady?" Miles stood and stepped to the side of the desk. Half sitting on the front corner, he let the shotgun barrel rest on his left thigh. It was still pointed vaguely at the attorney. Miles studied the well-dressed lawyer.

Brady's face had been ashen before but now it appeared every drop of blood had drained from his upper body. His complexion was a dead, unhealthy white.

"Why'd you do it, Brady?" Miles asked conversationally. Brady heard harsh accusation in Miles' voice. He could not answer. His throat had locked tight.

"Would you mind telling me why you decided to pick on me?" Miles continued. He was leaning forward, straining to hold himself back. He'd have to be careful. Once loosed, he wasn't sure he could rein the rage back in.

Miles fumbled behind him with his left hand to pick up the folder with his name on it and tossed it into Brady's lap. Some of the papers fell across Brady's knees and he lurched forward to catch them before they fell to the floor. He arranged them into a tidy little stack before tucking them back inside, hardly noticing what his hands were doing. Shock overwhelmed him. The brute had found the records he hadn't had time to lock away when the President's car arrived. His mind scurried around, fretting and gibbering wildly as he searched for a way out of this mess. The contents of this folder could ruin everything.

"I ... it was nothing personal. She was dead; it looked like you'd raped her to the cops," Brady offered. His voice could barely be heard over the storm outside.

"BULLSHIT!" retorted Miles. "I've read everything in that file. A week into the investigation you had indisputable proof that I hadn't done anything wrong. Damn you to hell!"

Miles stopped, his mouth dry. Deliberately he took a couple of deep breaths. He'd have to watch it ... the fury had almost broken free again.

"Why?" Miles asked again, his voice marginally calmer. He gestured to the folder Brady clutched in his nervous hands. "You've intimidated witnesses, threatened my friends, hidden an autopsy report that would have exonerated me and I want to know why you did it." It was hard for Miles to breathe. The overpowering anger was threatening to get the best of him again and the effort to control it took everything he had.

Brady stared at his tormentor until he couldn't bear the impact of the man's eyes any longer. His eyes skittered around the room, though nothing registered at first. Then he focused on the hearth and the fire blazing within. He didn't wait to think. He bolted to his feet, scrambled to the fireplace, and threw open the grating. A quick toss scattered the contents of the file across the burning logs where the papers burst into flames. He triumphantly slammed the grating shut but it didn't catch. It clanged harshly against its iron supports and swung back open a few inches.

Miles was caught off guard by Brady's sudden dash to the fireplace and couldn't intercept Brady before he threw the documents inside. The little man was quick, and the poncho hampered Miles' movements. The lawyer's rush to destroy the folder was almost fatal for him though. Brady survived by only the thinnest of margins. Miles had thought Brady was attacking.

Still in the grip of a towering rage, Miles had the safety off and his forefinger was taking up slack in the trigger long before Brady got the grate open. Brady lived only because he didn't move directly toward Miles.

Brady stood up and dusted his hands off before turning around jubilantly. If the evidence was gone, there was no wrongdoing. He'd won! He froze when he saw the gaping maw of the shotgun's muzzle less than a foot from his head.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" Miles roared. "Are you trying to get killed?" The weapon was steady in his hands, aimed at a point midway between Brady's eyes. Miles glared at the attorney over the front sight.

Brady's face disappeared. Surprised, Miles dropped the shotgun to his waist. He found Brady slumped before the fireplace where failing knees had deposited him.

"No, please ... don't!" Brady whimpered. "We can ... I was going to drop the case anyway. Listen ... listen to me. I'll have the charges dropped tomorrow ... I can do that. I had to burn those things ... I had to--but I'll make it up to you!"

Brady was babbling again. It was abruptly clear Brady's knees weren't the only things failing him tonight. Mile's nose wrinkled in disgust as the sour odor of warm urine invaded the room. Brady hadn't yet noticed his bladder had given way. Not knowing the reason for the expression on Miles' face, it filled Brady with dread.

"Wait ... wait." Running out of breath, Brady panted for a minute while he sought a way to placate Underwood. "We'll admit we made a mistake. We'll hold a press conference!" Miles stared at the cowering man, the wrath mounting again. His face flushed dark red as he sought to control the surge of emotion.

"You've put me through hell the past six months, you son of a bitch," he said, speaking very precisely. "My brother and sister won't allow their children in the same room with me; I can't go anywhere in this town without getting spit at; I've spent damn near every dime I had in the bank ... and you're going to hold a god damned press conference?" The fury swelled to enfold him in fiery arms.

Brady shrank away from the enraged man. His eyes darted around the room, searching for a way out. He fixed on one thing Underwood had said.

"Wait!" He fought to get words out of a parched throat. "Wait, I can make it up to you. I'll show you." Without waiting to see if Miles agreed, Brady walked on his knees across the carpet, rising to his feet only when he neared the far wall. He pulled on the left side of the big oil painting's frame and swung it aside on concealed hinges to reveal a wall safe. With hands that shook badly, he tried to work the dial but could not get his fingers to cooperate.

He leaned his forehead against the cold steel of the safe. "Wait ... please," he whispered.

Miles watched warily, his anger at having lost the precious documents temporarily deflected by the normally dignified attorney's strange antics. The spectacle of the attorney scurrying across the floor was so odd Miles didn't react except to watch. He waited, curious to see what would happen next.

Brady raised his head and took a deep breath. Holding it, he concentrated on the combination. He looked back at Miles triumphantly and yanked the handle down. Swinging the reinforced steel door to the right, he reached inside with both hands to grab a double handful of bundled hundred dollar bills.

"Here ... you can have all of it." He shoveled them over his shoulder in Miles' general direction. He was certain the big man who had invaded his home wanted to kill him and Brady was equally this would change his mind. In Brady's world, any difficulty could be made good with a smile, a promise, and enough money exchanging hands.

Miles made no effort to catch the packets of money; they dropped to the floor while Brady reached back into the safe to grab more. One of the paper wrappers was ripped open and hundred-dollar bills fluttered briefly in the air until they too fell to the carpet.

"I don't want your money, Mister Brady," Miles hissed contemptuously. "That isn't what I came for."

The attorney threw no more money though a dozen neatly wrapped stacks of large bills remained. He stood motionless, staring blindly into the safe while he listened to the words he was sure meant his imminent death. His shoulders slumped. There was nothing to do except....

Dragging in a shuddering breath, he grabbed for the small caliber semi-automatic pistol he kept on the safe's top shelf. His right hand closed on the butt of the weapon but a sweaty palm made it slippery. Tightening his grip, he tried to pull the gun out and point it at Miles in the same movement.

He had to shoot Underwood before Underwood shot him.

Trying to pivot to the right as quickly as possible, the back of his hand slammed painfully against the partially open safe door. His finger closed involuntarily on the trigger and a round was fired into the safe's interior. The hardened steel of the safe's back wall slapped the slug right back at him and Brady felt a fiery line drawn the length of his right forearm as the bullet plowed a shallow furrow in the flesh.

Unaccustomed to physical pain, Brady flinched spasmodically and pulled the trigger again. The .25 caliber weapon discharged a second time. Still turning, his gun hand had moved enough so the muzzle wasn't pointed directly into the safe. The bullet ricocheted off the door and into the grooving at the top of the safe where the door fit. From there it was deflected downward and out into the room where it would have been almost impossible for the projectile to miss someone standing in front of the safe.

It didn't. Deformed by the contact with two steel surfaces and tumbling badly, the small piece of lead gouged a hole through the left side of Brady's neck, narrowly missing the carotid artery. His whole body jerked as the slug tore through flesh and muscle.

He yanked the trigger a final time. This last bullet punched through the walnut paneling next to the safe without hitting anything solid and continued at an angle across the adjacent bathroom, through the kitchen, and out the back wall. Its power spent, it fell under a pecan tree near the back fence. From the first shot to the last, the whole thing lasted less than a second and a half.

Brady dropped the gun to his side and let it fall soundlessly to the carpeted floor. The blood-filled wound in his neck was already hurting badly. He clapped his left hand across the bloody mess and whirled to face Miles.

Retreating to put his back against the wall, he stared at the man he was certain would kill him now.

Miles had dropped his eyes to the packets of money scattered on the floor and didn't see Brady reach back into the safe for the gun. The three quick reports from the small caliber gun were no louder than firecrackers, but they pulled his attention back to the attorney immediately. He pulled the shotgun up but held his fire. He was ready to shoot at the first threat, but Brady had done nothing since stumbling against the wall next to the safe.

Brady looked more pitiful than menacing as he held his left hand against his neck. Blood ran between his fingers, and dripped on his shirt and urine-soaked slacks. The luxurious carpet was quickly spotted with bright red drops that mixed with more blood from his arm and began to form small puddles.

Miles let the stock of the shotgun slide down from his shoulder until he had it braced securely between his elbow and waist. Seeing the pistol lying on the floor in front of Brady, he stepped forward to squat and pick it up. He backed away to drop the small handgun on the desk behind him.

He tried to make sense of the scene. He hadn't been watching Brady closely and Brady had taken advantage of his inattention again. In a remote corner of his mind, Miles chastised himself for his lack of care and resolved to correct that deficiency. He frowned at Brady for a long moment, trying to figure out what had just happened. The expression on his face lightened as it came to him.

"You jackass ... you shot yourself didn't you?" Miles didn't laugh, but there was amusement in his voice. Miles looked at the lead splash on the door of the safe where the second round had initially impacted. "Just how the hell did you manage that?" Humor had been edged out by curiosity.