124 comments/ 68150 views/ 97 favorites Uncertain Justice By: Longhorn__07 Uncertain Justice The policemen threaded their way through the cars, their badges reflecting the sunlight as they sauntered closer. They watched Miles carefully as they passed by on the other side of the Lexus. Satisfied there was no real threat, their hands fell from the holstered nine-millimeter semi-automatics on their polished equipment belts. They dismissed the two civilians from their minds. Whatever the yelling had been about, it didn't warrant their continued attention. The younger cop began to tell the other of stopping a car full of high school cheerleaders last night. Their coarse laughter echoed through the parking lot, only to be cut off as they reached the doors and went inside. Satisfied his glasses had suffered no harm, Trenton adjusted them carefully over his eyes. "Man, don't think of it that way," the attorney remarked. "Hell, it only takes one juror who thinks you didn't do it--just one who has the tiniest bit of doubt--to keep you a free man. We've got four of them in our pocket." Trenton had been well pleased with the outcome of the trial so far and he allowed his pique show. "Screw that!" retorted Miles. "Damn it, you don't seem to understand something, Mr. P. Jonah Trenton." Miles pressed close again, speaking quietly but forcibly. His right index finger stabbed into the lawyer's chest for emphasis. "I ... didn't ... do it!" He scowled into the attorney's eyes for a moment longer, hidden though they were behind the dark glasses. Dropping his hand to his side, a fist formed before he could relax it. He paused, too angry to say more. He shrugged; there was nothing to say anyway. He wheeled and stalked toward the curb, looking around to orient himself. He had to find the five-year-old Taurus he'd put in a parking garage early this morning. He thought it was in the building across the street and a block to the west. Behind him, Trenton pressed the button that would dial the number he'd keyed into the instrument and put the phone to his ear. He watched his client walk away. The troubled expression on the attorney's face cleared as the connection was made and another discussion begun. He turned to look at his reflection in the car window and made a tiny adjustment in the way his tie hung so that it was precisely centered in the v-shaped opening of his suit coat's lapels. The flash of anger cooled before Miles reached the street corner. Hunched shoulders became level and tight muscles loosened. Removing his jacket and tie, he folded them carefully over his left arm as he walked. Slumping into a relaxed slouch, he weaved his way through a mixed group of tourists and office workers taking an early lunch. At the curb, he fixed his eyes on the pedestrian symbol on the post across the street to discourage conversation. He waited for the signal to change. Uncertain Justice He'd hung on until he could resist only by retreating inside himself. He'd closed his eyes. He wanted a lawyer, he'd mumbled slowly. He repeated it several times until they'd finally been forced to take notice. The detectives said lawyering up proved he was guilty. They'd ridiculed him, saying child killers didn't deserve attorneys. They'd shrieked at him, wanting to know how many other kids he'd killed. A pair of big uniformed cops hauled him erect every time he slumped in the chair. They screamed in his ears but he refused to say another word to the officers surrounding him. Eventually it became clear to them he never would. Twice on the way to his cell, he was shoved against a wall and fists hammered his kidneys when he couldn't respond to commands fast enough. He'd been uncooperative and combative, they'd said. They had only done what was necessary. Uncertain Justice So ... it made no sense to attract notice by being a stranger too far off the beaten path. He would drive on state roads and the occasional federal highway, but not a county road or farm to market road. On the other hand, he had to avoid interstate highways too ... too many law enforcement patrols were there and eventually, one would pick him out. Good! It was a plan. He smiled, happy to be reasoning logically again--it'd been so very long since he'd felt comfortable in his own mind. He was beginning to look forward to what he was preparing himself to do--it was almost like setting up one of those driving vacations he'd taken out west in the peaceful years. With a little common sense and a lot of care, he could be successful at evading the police as he traveled through their jurisdictions. "If it were done, 'twer well if it were done quickly," he whispered. He held up a reproving finger while mangling the line from Macbeth. He didn't remember anything else about the quote, and not much more about the play itself, but the logic in the line appealed to him. It seemed like excellent advice. He wasn't sure he could conceal his intent for very long. He had to act before he said or did something to give himself away. A chill ran down his spine at the sudden thought that the judge might arbitrarily revoke his bail. He shivered. If he tried, he could find any number of things, most of them bad, that might happen if he didn't act soon enough. He walked to his bedroom and looked through the window at the street outside. Television reporters had camped out in front of his house for a while this morning after the announcement of the new trial date, but they had other things on their minds this evening. Presumably, the heavy rain and inevitable flooding would claim their attention for the remainder of the night and probably for several days to come. It was what had happened in previous storms, and this one was predicted to be one that would last for days. The same applied to city officialdom, he decided. Police would be working extra shifts with the inevitable emergencies caused by the weather. It was unlikely any manpower could be spared to specifically watch him for the next few days. There was a high possibility he had a window of opportunity, lasting as long as the storm did, to make a nice ... clean ... break. He nodded in agreement with his own analysis. "Quickly," he counseled himself aloud, "but not hastily." He began to smile more broadly as he paced around the house, peering out at the rain-washed darkness whenever he came to a window. Making his way to the garage, he scrambled up a ladder to grab the biggest backpack he owned from attic. He began loading it with everything he would need to survive in the wilderness. It was soon overflowing with nearly every gadget made for camping or hiking he'd ever purchased. He hefted the pack, and promptly dropped it to the concrete floor. It weighed at least eighty pounds. A vision of himself staggering under the weight of the mammoth pack up a mountainside came to him and he laughed. He sighed ruefully and dragged the pack into the living room to dump it out on the floor. Sitting cross-legged, he began the process of sorting out what he would need to live for a long time in the woods and setting aside things that would be a luxury. He stopped when he realized he was holding a hiker's fuel stove in each hand, unable to choose between them. The would-be fugitive grinned through his fatigue. He was too tired to make the necessary choices right now and, for the first time in months, he didn't dread the dreams that might come in the night. He showered and slid in bed between a set of fresh, crisp sheets. He was asleep before he could pull them up to his chin. 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. Uncertain Justice "God damn it!" Miles winced at the curse from Brady. The cold lump in Miles' stomach froze solid. His pulse was so loud in his ears he was amazed Brady didn't look toward Miles to find the source of the noise. The lights flickered and came back on. Miles waited, his muscles tensed to struggle to his feet and run, but there was no outcry. No one pointed an accusing finger at him. Actually--Miles checked everyone he could see to make sure--no one was even looking his way. He even threw a glance behind him at the neighbor's house. There was no one there, no one raising a pointing forefinger at the intruder on Brady's property. It helped to know he was still unseen, but his heart still threatened to lodge permanently in his throat. He squirmed as far under the bushes as he could. He had a good view of the porch area even through the branches, and could see the attorney using a finger to prod a keyboard on the wall just inside the front door. It was apparently the control panel for a security system ... an uncooperative one, judging by Brady's reactions. The lawyer entered another code on the number pad, and this time the unit squealed shrilly at him. He hit what must have been a canceling key and cursed again. The lights all over the neighborhood died again. "God damn this sorry son of a bitching system! Fucking thing only works half the damned time anyway, and now...." Miles' eyes widened in shock. The slight, almost diminutive lead attorney for the prosecution cursed like a drunken sailor. Who knew? It helped steady Miles' nerves; he was a little less inclined to scramble up and run for the pickup. "Carl, leave it, dammit. Lock it up and forget it. No one's going to get in!" The deep male voice from the limo's open window was easily heard over the storm. "Hell, we'll only be gone a couple of hours." Miles liked the mocking note in the man's voice. Apparently, Miles wasn't the only one who didn't like the district attorney all that much. "Besides," the voice continued, "no self-respecting burglar would be out on a night like this." The man chuckled at his own joke. Soaked by a wind-driven rain that was finding its way past the folds of the poncho, Miles couldn't argue with those words. He'd been wishing for a while now that he wasn't out in the open tonight. "Come on, Carl," the unknown man demanded, "the President has a tight schedule and he wants to get out of town before the airport gets closed down. He wants to talk to you right after dinner and he's not a man who likes to wait." The rebuke motivated Brady to pull the front door closed, slamming it viciously to punish the alarm system for being so stubborn. He bent forward to find the lock by the flashes of several nearly simultaneous streaks of lightning and finally succeeded in getting a key inserted. He turned the key and energetically jerked on the doorknob, checking to see that the lock was, in fact, locked. Petulantly, he kicked the bottom of the door one final time. Keys still clutched tightly in his hand, the slightly built attorney opened an umbrella over his head and scampered down the flooded sidewalk to the waiting car. He slid in the back seat beside the man who'd called out to him, hastily yanking the skirt of his overcoat inside before the chauffer could close the rear door on it. The driver stepped back to his own door and jumped into the front seat. A barely perceptible pause and the vehicle was in motion, reversing out of the driveway, turning, and then accelerating around the corner and out of sight. In a moment, the sound of the car's engine could no longer be heard. Tranquility, broken only by the sounds of the storm, settled over the neighborhood once more. Miles shook his head to clear his thoughts. The suddenness of the interruption just before going up to Brady's door had thrown him badly off balance. The noise, the lights, and the harsh voices had broken his concentration on what he had been about to do. The quick departure was almost as disconcerting as the unannounced intrusion had been. It was a long time before the sensation of being completely exposed faded and he again felt comfortably cloaked by the darkness. He twisted around to look at the few houses he could see along the street, wondering if all the noise had excited any interest. While he watched, he thought about what he should do. The voice had said Brady wouldn't be back for a couple of hours, which was discouraging. Miles had thought he could walk in the front door, confront Brady, and then get back on the road out of town. That wasn't going to happen now. There were two options. He could get back in his pickup and put as many miles behind him as he could under the cover of darkness and weather, or he could wait for the district attorney's return and have that little talk with Brady he'd planned. Waiting would delay him badly; he'd be lucky to get back on the road by midnight. Torn between the two options, Miles lay quietly and watched the drenched world from beneath the shrubs and tried to decide what to do. Finally convinced no one was going to raise an alarm, he rolled away from the bushes and got his feet under him. Staying low, he made his way back through the fence gate and along the side of the house. Tired of skulking around, he wished he wasn't in the position of having to sneak around all the time. He stumbled over an unseen obstruction--something hard and heavy--stubbing the big toe on his right foot. Even inside his heavy hiking boots, it hurt. The anger came flooding back. He wouldn't be in this position if it wasn't for the prosecutor. The decision crystallized; he was staying. He walked directly to the back door and tried the doorknob again. The door didn't open. He'd have been surprised if it had, but he had to try. Pulling the shotgun from under the poncho, he waited for the next streak of lightning. When the thunderclap rolled over the neighborhood, he used the muzzle of the weapon to punch a hole in the small pane of glass nearest the door handle. The sound of breaking glass was lost in the background noise. Before the booming thunder ended, he held the shotgun's barrel against the frame and moved it around all four sides to knock out the remaining glass. He reached in to unlock the door. It swung open easily on well-oiled hinges. He stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him in the same motion. As the sustained crash of sustained thunder subsided, he stood quietly just inside the door and waited for his senses to adjust to the sounds and dim light of the house. Water streamed from the poncho onto the polished floor. Debris from the shattered window crunched under his feet when he shifted his weight and he used his boots to sweep it away from the entryway. There was a chance he would be moving fast if he had to use this door for an escape and he didn't want a wet, slippery floor made worse with broken glass. Pushing the poncho hood back off his head, he made his way deeper into the house. He held the shotgun at the ready. The safety was off and his forefinger pointed down the length of the receiver. Walking gingerly through the kitchen, he stopped to the side of a doorway. Beyond, there was a long, dark hallway that seemed to lead toward the front of the house. He reminded himself that Brady had locked the front door after struggling and failing to arm the security system. Brady probably wouldn't have tried so hard to make the system work if there was anyone else home. On the other hand, there was no sense in taking unnecessary chances and he had lots of time before Brady got back. He would check the entire house to make sure he was alone. Taking out the miniature flashlight he'd brought from the pickup, he adjusted its beam of light until it was as diffuse as possible. It was still too bright. He changed his hold on the flashlight, covering most of the lens so that only a weak glow could be seen between the gaps between his fingers. He pointed it behind him to look into the corners of the kitchen but saw nothing of interest--nothing threatening. He walked on as quietly as he could in wet boots and dripping poncho, exploring the house of the man who was determined to put him in prison. The shotgun hung muzzle down from his right hand with his fingers wrapped around the grip. He could drop the light and have the barrel up and on target in a split second. Just before the hall emptied into the living room at the front of the house, he found a short corridor leading off to the right. Walking to the end of the passage, he found a large room set up as a home office. Pausing at the doorway, he saw a small half bath through an open door on his immediate right. He could see by the glow of a nightlight plugged into a wall socket there was no one inside the restroom. Beyond the door to the bathroom, a big painting--some kind of modern art--hung in the precise middle of the wall. On the far side of the artwork, there was a door standing slightly ajar. Miles advanced with the shotgun held ready and carefully looked inside to find a storeroom full of office supplies. He closed the door firmly and set his back to it while he surveyed the rest of the room. A massive wooden desk stood at the far end of the room facing into the interior. A large bay window at the front of the house would be behind anyone seated at the desk. A printer and what appeared to be a fax machine were on a credenza against the wall to the left of one seated at the desk. A flat screen computer monitor was ensconced on the right side of the desk. A long bank of file cabinets were set against a long wall to the left of the user of the desk. Retracing his steps down the corridor, Miles went into the living room and located a stairway leading to the second floor. He went up, but found only bedrooms and baths, none of them occupied. Back on the first floor, he glanced through an archway into a formal dining room but didn't go inside. His tour returned him to the hall leading to Brady's office. It was official; there was no one at home. The shotgun parked comfortably on his shoulder, he walked back into the study. It was as good a place as any to wait for the attorney's return. Miles sauntered over to the desk and sat in the well-padded executive chair behind it. The chair rolled smoothly on a thick plastic sheet laying over the thick carpet. To his right, between two sections of tall bookshelves, he was surprised to see a fireplace built flush into the wall that divided the living room and study. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases on either side hid it from view until an observer was nearly in front of it. He bent low and peered through the grating. The fireplace was shared by the living room and study; in the light of lightning flashes, he could see furniture on the other side of the wall. Propping the shotgun against the desk, he turned to survey the rest of the room. To his left was the row of tall, heavy-duty file cabinets set against the outside wall. To his right, the dual-use fireplace was flanked by bookshelves filled with expensively bound volumes. At the far end of the room, between the bathroom and supply closet, was the painting. He went around the study, checking to see that the blinds were closed and the drapes pulled tight. The streetlights flickered outside, stayed off for a time, and then came on again. Miles could hear the sounds of appliances throughout the house coming back on. Machines on a credenza to his right rear began startup routines. Red, amber, and green buttons lit up briefly and mechanical noises continued until the printer and fax machine were ready. No lamps or ceiling lights came on in the house that Miles could see; certainly none in the study or living room were on. He pulled off the wet poncho and draped it over the overstuffed chair in front of Brady's desk. The drawers in the first file cabinet didn't have their combination locks engaged. The second drawer from the top was even open a few inches. Curious and needing something to fill in the time, he pulled the partially open drawer out to find a number of folders with unfamiliar names on them. He slid the drawer shut. In the glare of the flashlight, he saw the top drawer was labeled "Active Cases," and his interest was rekindled. He found a divider with his name on the label but there were no folders or loose documents in that section at all. Closing the drawer, Miles moved the circle of light from his flash around the room, searching for the missing file. A neat stack of documents at the precise center of Brady's desk looked promising. Sorting through them, he found a folder with his name on it and pulled it from the pile. Moving back behind the desk to the comfortable executive chair, he sat and began to read. 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.