The Trial, page 14
part #91 of The Executioner Series
If only he had been a praying man...
18
The courtroom began filling by ten o'clock. The press and the law-enforcement personnel had arrived early, filling their allotted seats, while the townspeople waited in an endless line outside. They jammed the outer corridor until the deputies were forced to herd them against one wall, their numbers spilling through the marbled lobby and out into the street. The people of McLary County, and from jurisdictions all around, had come to see Mack Bolan face his day in court.
Security was tight, and solemn deputies were busy checking handbags, brandishing their metal sensors, pulling this or that civilian out of line on the slightest suspicion. There had been three arrests before the gallery was filled — two teenage youths — one discovered in possession of an air gun, the other with a switchblade knife — and an intoxicated farmer from the hinterlands who loudly voiced his wish to shake Mack Bolan's hand.
The deputies had been expecting worse, already primed by locker-room discussions of the Mafia and rumored multimillion-dollar contracts on their star defendant, half expecting crowds of men in pin-striped suits and snap-brim hats, suspicious bulges prominent beneath their arms. Instead, they had to deal with housewives, students, used-car salesmen — men and women they encountered every day around McLary and surrounding hamlets. It was as if the carnival had come to town, and no one planned to miss the show.
Mack Bolan, star attraction, was among the late arrivals. Hobbled, weighted down with chains, surrounded by a flying squad of sheriff's deputies, he negotiated now familiar corridors with shuffling strides, unable to accommodate impatient officers by picking up his pace. They rode the elevator up in silence, his security detachment bristling with guns, and point men swept the narrow hallway clear before he was conducted through a side door granting access to the court. The armed detachment would remain outside, their presence deemed an imposition on the stately courtroom atmosphere, but they would be accessible in case of any unforeseen emergency.
Bolan scanned the gallery and picked out some familiar faces. Hal Brognola down in front, with David Ecclefield, the federal prosecutor, seated on his left. Al Weatherbee, from Pittsfield, was a mild surprise, and Bolan nodded to the captain who had picked up the pieces from his first campaign against the Mafia so long ago.
The dour faces flanking Weatherbee each struck distinct and separate chords of memory, recalling different hot spots on the endless hellfire trail. Miami. San Diego and Los Angeles. Detroit.
There would be others, too, before the trial ran its course, and each of them was waiting for a turn at bat, another trial with Bolan in the dock.
Except there would be no more trials. Whichever way it went there in McLary, Bolan knew that he would never see the inside of another courtroom. If he was convicted, there would be another hit man waiting for him in the lockup — and another after that, on and on until the job was done. If he should be acquitted, there would be countless warrants and detainers waiting for him, countless opportunities to pick him off in transit to another jail, another jurisdiction.
This would be his only day in court, the soldier realized, and he would have to make it count.
He spotted Susan Landry, seated with the other members of the press, her face a pallid study in determination. She was holding it together with an effort, taking notes and glancing up to meet his gaze as he approached the table set aside for the defense. A gutsy lady, sure, possessed of self-assurance, style... and something else. Another time, another place, and Bolan would have gladly searched her secrets out... but here and now were all he had.
Dan Fleming rose to greet him and saw his client settled in a wooden chair before returning to his own. The yellow legal pad in front of Bolan's lawyer was a maze of cryptic notes with nervous doodling around the margins where he'd tried to pass the time.
"We're good for a continuance," he whispered, leaning close to Bolan, radiating urgency. "If you would only change your mind..."
"I'm out of time," the soldier told him flatly. "A continuance would see me dead."
"All right, if you're determined to proceed..."
"I am."
The lady prosecutor. Amy Stone, entered with a flourish from the wings. She nodded an acknowledgment to Fleming, glanced at Bolan fleetingly and settled at the prosecution table, digging into her briefcase for some notes. She radiated confidence and poise, commitment to the task at hand, and Bolan could admire that. She had a job to do, and his position on the firing line did not diminish Bolan's gut respect for her professional approach. The circumstances of their meeting had precluded friendship, but he could appreciate a righteous soldier of the same side anytime.
"All rise."
The bailiffs voice brought lawyers, newsmen and civilians to their feet. Bolan rose beside his counselor, refusing to acknowledge the manacles and chains that slowed him down.
"Superior Court is now in session, in and for the county of McLary. Judge Oliver Wendell Price presiding."
The slender black man took his seat on high, surveying the participants and hangers-on with eyes that seemed both sad and worldly-wise.
"Be seated."
Clanking chains, the theme song of a prisoner, resounded over shuffling feet as Bolan took his seat. Beside him Fleming riffled through the pages of his yellow legal pad in search of something that apparently eluded him. In front of them the bailiff struck a rough approximation of parade rest.
"State of Texas versus Mack Samuel Bolan," he intoned. "Defendant charged with murder in the first degree, kidnapping with intent, unlawful possession of automatic weapons and destructive devices."
The bailiff stepped back, standing down. It was the judge's turn.
"The defendant, through his counsel, has entered a plea of not guilty as charged. Is the defense prepared for trial?"
Dan Fleming cast a final sidelong glance at Bolan, and the soldier nodded affirmation.
"Go."
His counsel faced the bench with weary resignation. "Yes, we are. Your Honor."
Amy Stone was glaring daggers at him from the prosecution table, and for just an instant Bolan thought the judge's face had registered surprise. If so, he had covered it quickly, swiveling to face the blond assistant D. A.
"And is the state prepared for trial?"
There was a heartbeat's hesitation as the lady brought her thoughts together, shrugging off the momentary consternation.
"Frankly, we anticipated a continuance, Your Honor. We have not assembled all our witnesses in court this morning."
"Do I hear a motion for continuance?"
Dan Fleming filled the gap before his adversary could respond.
"Object, Your Honor. The defense is ready to proceed, and there is evidence that a continuance might jeopardize my client's safety." Fleming's voice was stronger now, already warming to the game. "The statutes are explicit on the right of a defendant to a speedy trial, but if the state is not prepared..."
"We are prepared, Your Honor. In the matter of our witnesses..."
The jurist raised one dark, appeasing hand. "Miss Stone, I trust your witnesses are local residents, considering the nature of the case?"
"They are, Your Honor."
"And selection of a jury panel should allow you ample time-"
"Defense will waive a jury in this case, Your Honor."
Fleming's words ignited something in the courtroom, sparking muttered comments from assembled newsmen and the gallery. Bolan glanced across one shoulder and found Brognola huddling with Ecclefield, their faces etched with carboncopy frowns.
"Is that your client's wish?"
The court-appointed lawyer swallowed hard. "It is."
The jurist turned to Bolan, circumventing counsel for the moment.
"By your motion you are giving up the right to trial by jury on the several charges filed against you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"You realize this court alone will be responsible for judging guilt or innocence if you should waive a jury trial?"
"It's been explained to me, Your Honor."
"And it is your wish to waive a jury at this time?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your Honor..."
Amy Stone was agitated now, the color rising in her cheeks, eyes flashing as she turned from Bolan's table toward the bench.
"Miss Stone?"
She hesitated, seemed prepared to offer some objection, then finally reconsidered.
"We request a recess until one o'clock, at which time all our witnesses should be available."
"If the defense has no objections..."
Fleming glanced at Bolan, and the warrior shook his head. Another couple of hours wouldn't matter.
"Providing that security is properly maintained, we won't object, Your Honor."
"Very well. This court will recess until one o'clock."
"All rise."
The bailiff was on station once again, his dark eyes scouring the courtroom, daring any mother's son to keep his seat once Justice Price had risen. No one took the bait, and Price was gone, his swirling robe already lost to sight behind the closing door to his chambers.
"Well, we're in it now," Dan Fleming tersely told his client in the moment left before a pair of deputies could shepherd him away. "We've burned our bridges, Mr. Bolan, and there's no place left to turn."
The soldier's smile was narrow and wan. "This bridge was burning when you came on board," he told the court-appointed counselor. "We've cut our losses. It's the best I could have hoped for."
Fleming shook his head. "But, dammit man..."
The deputies were flanking Bolan now, their presence ominous, inhibiting, and Fleming let the statement die unfinished, shrugging in his helplessness.
"I'll see you after lunch," Bolan said.
The lawyer forced a smile he clearly didn't feel.
"Damn right."
He was a fighter, that one, but his hands were tied, and it was eating at him. Naturally. The Executioner could sympathize, but there was no alternative. The game was making up its own damn rules as it proceeded now, and he would have to play along if he intended to survive.
Of course, survival would be the problem. His very presence in the county jail was tantamount to a sentence of death. If he survived to face his day in court, the soldier might retain the thinnest chance of pulling out intact. It was the gamble of a lifetime, and once again the solitary gambler had no choice.
Bolan had no courtroom strategy per se. He intended to let the prosecution state its case, contesting any shaky points along the way, and counter with a statement of his own. If nothing else the courtroom would become his forum, Bolan's only chance to speak his mind in public.
A jury might listen to his case with greater sympathy, but Bolan recognized that chances for a full acquittal were remote. If there was any chance of proving that he had been framed, the Executioner would trust a judge's learned legal mind above the vague collective reasoning of twelve men and women. A judge would be more likely to accept the notion of police corruption and complicity, providing that the evidence was firm, and Justice Price would be acquainted with the local law enforcement personnel. If there was prejudice or negligence among the sheriff's ranks, Price would have heard about it, seen some evidence along the way. If there was anything for Bolan to secure his hopes on, it would be the judge's keen, discerning eye.
Unless, of course, the judge was part of it.
The soldier had already weighed that possibility and had chosen to disregard it in the end. If Price was bought and paid for, there was nothing to be done, but Bolan's gut reaction to the man on the occasion of their brief encounters weighed against the doubt. He had no reason for believing Price was clean, but he believed it all the same, and would believe it until circumstances proved him wrong.
The Executioner had lived this long primarily by trusting in his wits, his combat intuition and his experience. And he was betting now that Justice Price would listen fairly to his case and that a decision from the bench would be determined on the evidence instead of by some contract made in chambers.
With everything at stake, the Executioner was wagering his life on Price, on justice, and on his own ability, for what it was worth, to sell the truth. When he was on the stand...
A momentary chill raced down Bolan's spine and then was gone.
If he survived to take the stand.
If prosecution witnesses did not consume another day or two, providing outside enemies with other opportunities to keep Bolan off the stand.
With everything to gain and nothing left to lose, the animals would be afraid of what the Executioner might say in court before an audience of law-enforcement officers and journalists. He might begin to throw out names, disclose the details of a hundred operations still in place, still churning out a daily profit for the Brotherhood. In court the soldier's mouth might prove to be more lethal than his AutoMag. God only knows where it would lead, where it would end.
But it would have to end with Bolan, no matter how the game fell out.
And it would have to end before he took the stand.
The Executioner had come to terms with death in Vietnam, and he had taken up his lonely home-front war in full acceptance of the fact that he would not, could not, come out of it alive. The enemy had always been too numerous, their cash and arms reserves too vast, for him to cherish any hope of lasting victory.
But he had stung them long and hard, damn right.
And he was far from finished.
The soldier meant to extract every ounce of life from every solitary moment left on earth. Unbidden, a snatch of high school Shakespeare came to mind — "Let the end try the man."
And let the man determine how that trial would end.
Having come to grips with darkness, with the ending, Bolan knew he would not approach it gently; he would not offer up his life in trembling hands as a wasted sacrifice.
The Executioner had come in fighting, and he would be going out the same damned way.
19
The Blue Oasis, viewed in glaring Texas daylight, didn't live up to its name. It had once been blue, but desert sun and wind had peeled the paint down to a dingy primer gray, and bald, unfinished two-by-fours were showing through in spots. Out front the neon palm trees were extinguished, standing pale and lifeless by the roadside.
The place appeared to be precisely what it was — a dump. Its bargain rates lured randy high school couples, and fuzzy drunks who stumbled hot and wanting from the handful of McLary County bars downtown on weekends, but by daylight, in the middle of the week, the Blue Oasis was a tomb.
The parking lot was empty save for tumbleweeds that danced and skittered on the old, eroding blacktop, and the only car in evidence — a battered, aging Cadillac — was tucked away against the far end of the rambling structure, close beside the door marked Manager.
Johnny Bolan nosed the Jimmy into the parking area outside room one and spent another moment checking out the dusty motel. His brother had been captured here, he knew, just yards away from where he sat, and still the young man could not bring himself to face the grim reality of all that that fact implied. There had to be an out, a way to beat the awesome odds, and with a bit of luck he just might find it here behind the screen door that responded flaccidly to any hint of desert wind.
He locked the Jimmy out of habit — no point in taking any chances here, where everything had gone so hideously wrong — and stalked across the sunbaked asphalt toward the office of the motel's live-in manager. It was a place to start, a handle on the grim charade that had ensnared his brother's life, that now threatened to end it right here in godforsaken nowhere.
The screen door banged behind him, cutting off a measure of the glare, and yet the room was neither darker nor appreciably cooler than the street outside. A battered old electric fan sat on the counter, doing little more than stirring up the oven draft of outside air and circulating dust from place to place around the dingy room. As it made the rounds it oscillated weakly, stirring pages of a day-old newspaper and disturbing sluggish flies that hovered darkly over what appeared to be a pile of doughnuts under cellophane.
A sign behind the counter offered Continental Breakfast for a mere $2.95, and Johnny grimaced as a fat bluebottle settled on the nearest doughnut, claiming breakfast free of charge.
He stepped up to the counter, found the stainless-steel bell complete with caption — Ring for Service — and complied with that request. The tinny chimes were answered by a grumbling that issued from behind a curtained doorway, which clearly marked off the living quarters of the manager.
There was a shuffling of footsteps, and the curtain rattled back along its rod, revealing an emaciated figure dressed in faded jeans and sleeveless T-shirt. Red-faced and balding, the man regarded Johnny from beneath a pair of caterpillar brows that merged above his nose. His mouth was full of something, working on it gingerly, apparently incapable of finishing the job and swallowing.
"Are you the manager?"
There was a shrug, accompanied by more chomping on the shapeless cud. "The manager, the owner... I'm the whole damn shootin' match. You lookin' for a room? I got myself a houseful of vacancies."
Johnny shook his head. "I'm looking for some information," he replied.
The Blue Oasis manager regarded him with new suspicion, but there was a crafty gleam behind those bloodshot ferret eyes.
"You ain't the sheriff's office. I know all them boys." The sudden smile was full of masticated food and rotten teeth. "I reckon you must be the mee-dya."
"Right."
"You network?"
"Free-lance."
"Mmmm."
If there was any sort of understanding behind the eyes, it struggled to remain invisible, but he seemed to be satisfied. With one elbow on the counter, Johnny Bolan's host reached out to snare a fly-infested doughnut, scattering the airborne troops as grimy fingers rummaged down inside the cellophane.
"You must be..."
"Schofield," he replied, before a Herculean bite of doughnut joined the rest of it. "But you kin call me Gem. Just see you spell my name right, hear? Tha's S-C-H-O-F-I-E-L-D. An' don't be gettin' me confused with any of them no-count Schofelds livin' down to Elmerville. I swear, you never seen such trash..."
