The Trial, page 18
part #91 of The Executioner Series
The cake turned into gall and stuck in Musgrove's throat. "I beg your pardon?"
"Did you work for any other law-enforcement agency before you joined the county force?"
"Objection. That's irrelevant."
Hank Musgrove could have kissed the lady prosecutor, even if she was a libber-type who didn't know her place.
"Sustained."
And he was not about to kiss that nigger on the bench, but with a little bit of luck...
Dan Fleming tried again.
"Were you employed in Houston, with the metropolitan police, before you joined the local force?"
"Objection, Your Honor. Still irrelevant."
"Sustained."
Musgrove had begun to sweat despite the air-conditioning that kept the temperature down to seventy inside the court. Dan Fleming knew, goddammit! What else could it be?
"Were you in fact dismissed, in Houston, for irregularities and violations of department policy?"
"Objection!"
Amy Stone was bristling, but there was something else behind her flashing eyes...
"Sustained. Let's move along."
Dan Fleming nodded and glanced down at the sheaf of yellow legal pages in his hand. "I ask you if you recognize the name Martinez, Deputy?"
He glanced at Amy Stone, almost in desperation, but she didn't — couldn't — know what must be coming next.
"I'd say a lotta people got that name."
The counselor smiled, and he was not at all intimidated now.
"I'd say you're right. Specifically, I am referring to one Julio Martinez."
"Julio Martinez?" It came out as Jew-lio and raised another snicker in the rear. "It doesn't ring a bell."
Not much except for all the clamoring alarms inside his head that brought a sheen of sweat to Musgrove's face. Where had the bastard gotten this?
"Would it refresh your memory if I informed you that you once arrested Julio Martinez while you were in service with the Houston metropolitan police?"
The assistant D.A. had it now.
"Your Honor..."
"And that you were subsequently charged with beating Julio Martinez while the man was handcuffed in your custody?"
"...I must object..."
"That you were charged, in a department reprimand, with planting drugs on Julio Martinez to defeat a lawsuit for brutality?"
"...as previously stated..."
"Is your memory refreshed?"
"Sustained!" Judge Price leaned out across the bench and glowered down at Fleming. "Counselor, before you try the patience of the court and find yourself confronting charges of contempt, it might be wise to find another line of questioning. Right now."
The lawyer's face radiated injured innocence with just a dash of triumph behind the eyes.
"I earnestly apologize, Your Honor. And I have no further questions at this time."
As Musgrove stepped down from the stand, he wished the floor would open up and swallow him, allow him some relief from all the pairs of staring eyes.
But he recovered quickly on the short walk back to where the witnesses were seated just behind the rail. His mind was racing on beyond the courtroom, searching for an answer to the riddle that had risen out of nowhere like a phantom to imperil everything that he had worked for in the past four years.
There was a leak in Houston, in McLary, somewhere. Ethan Peck had promised him that all of it was dead and buried, swept away beneath some bureaucratic rug, and Musgrove had been so eager to believe. Except that Peck was obviously, hideously wrong. And if the rancher had been wrong about this much, what other portions of his empire, his elaborate plans, were dangling by a thread? How much did Fleming really know?
Goddamn it, Peck had promised! He had pledged that Musgrove was secure, would be secure, so long as he obeyed and kept his end of their agreement. Now the goddamned Bolan trial had blown up in his face, and Jesus only knew what kind of flak he'd have to take once word got back to Sheriff Kendricks.
He could lose his job.
If Kendricks chose to push it, dig for information that would make him out a liar on his application forms, he stood a chance of doing time. And all because of Fleming. Because of Bolan.
And because of Ethan Peck.
The lawman felt an urge to bolt, but there was nothing to be gained by calling more attention to himself. He might be able to survive the storm, to pass it off as just another lawyer's courtroom lies, providing that the evidence in Houston had been taken care of properly.
At least that jig, Price, had come down on a lawman's side for once. It didn't figure when he could have seized the opportunity to crucify a badge, but Musgrove wasn't up to looking any gift horse in the mouth.
Sustained objections meant that Fleming's charges wouldn't be reflected in the transcripts. Musgrove knew that much. No evidence of any crime was introduced against him, and it wasn't Musgrove standing trial. Hell, no. Things might still work out. He would just have to play it cool... and have some earnest words with Ethan Peck as soon as court adjourned.
Together they would have to double-check the Houston end and make certain that his tracks were covered permanently. That accomplished, Musgrove thought he might be able to relax.
But not while his stomach was on fire and churning, feeding on itself. He would be lucky if he didn't have an instant ulcer after this, goddammit.
It was Fleming's fault, when everything was stripped away. The counselor had set a trap for Musgrove and had risked contempt citations just to see him squirm. And for Bolan's sake, for cryin' out loud. To help a man with countless murder charges lodged against him, if you had a mind to figure that.
And Musgrove knew that he would find a way, somehow, to pay the lawyer back. It might require some time, to let things cool... but he would find a way. A month, a year from now, when Fleming least expected it, there just might come a knock some night. An unexpected visitor. And the lawyer would have a chance to learn about the goddamned Jew-lio Martinez, right up close and personal. You bet your ass. There were some other tricks, which Fleming might enjoy, that Hank had learned since Houston.
Musgrove smiled, already feeling better at the prospect of revenge.
But first he had to guard his flanks, touch base with Ethan Peck before the day got any older.
Survival was the first priority.
The sport would have to wait.
For now.
23
"State your full name and address, for the record."
"Mack Samuel Bolan. No address."
He took the oath and settled back to scan the courtroom from his seat at center stage. A different kind of hush had fallen on the crowd, expectant, tense. From journalists and bailiffs to the gallery of visitors, all eyes were on the Executioner.
He had survived another uneventful night in jail, another march to court along deserted corridors, surrounded by a flying squad of deputies. Judge Price had banged his gavel for adjournment following the Musgrove testimony the day before, and the delay had given Bolan time to think. About his life, his past, the doubtful prospects of a future.
And about his duty.
The Executioner would testify because he had to, not because he thought that it would help, by any means. The case was closed before it had opened, but Bolan owed it to his struggle, to the allies who had shared his burdens, who had been cut down in his cause along the way.
He owed it to himself, damn right.
Dan Fleming cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the apocalyptic stillness. Bolan swiveled slightly in his chair to face the counselor across an empty no-man's-land of yellowing linoleum.
"What brings you to McLary County, Mr. Bolan?"
"Drugs."
A rippling murmur in the audience was suppressed at once.
"Narcotics?"
"Yes."
"I wonder if you might elaborate?"
The lady prosecutor rose to interrupt. "Objection, Your Honor. There is nothing in the evidence to indicate a drug connection in this case."
"Your Honor, if it please the court..." But Fleming never had a chance to get it out. Judge Price was staring hard at Bolan, frowning behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.
"I am inclined to find some relevance in any testimony bearing on the defendant's state of mind and motivation. Overruled."
"We thank the court." And Fleming turned to face Bolan once again. "Shall I repeat the question?"
"No, that won't be necessary." Bolan took a breath and held it briefly as he scanned the gallery, his eyes returning to the lawyer's face. "I had received a confidential tip that drugs — cocaine and heroin — were being smuggled through McLary County, out of Mexico, and routed north. I came to check it out."
Dan Fleming raised an eyebrow. "Ah. Are you employed in some capacity by a law-enforcement agency?"
It required a gavel to suppress the laughter this time, and the Executioner allowed himself a smile.
"I wouldn't say that, no."
"What was your interest then?"
"I came to close the pipeline down."
"When you say 'close the pipeline down'..."
"I planned to execute the men in charge, as many of their paid employees as I could, destroy the latest shipment prior to distribution on the street."
The silence was almost palpable inside the courtroom now.
"And when you mention execution in this context, you refer to..."
"Killing."
"Murder?"
"If you like."
There was a muffled gasp from somewhere in the gallery, then silence settled like a shroud.
"Have you engaged in such activities before?"
"Yes, sir."
"On more than one occasion?"
"Several times."
At the rear of the gallery a rugged-looking cowboy type got to his feet, brandishing a fist.
"Give 'em hell!" he shouted, ripping out a rebel yell before the bailiffs seized and dragged him whooping from the court.
Judge Price sat rigid in his high-backed chair and glowered at the gallery.
"If there are any further outbursts of that nature," he declared, "I may be forced to clear the courtroom. Mr. Fleming, please proceed."
"You were, in fact, a fugitive from justice at the time of your arrest. Is that correct?"
"It is."
"With warrants out for you in several states?"
"That's right."
"And foreign countries?"
"Yes."
They had agreed — with trepidation on the counselor's panto meet the facts head-on and co-opt the prosecution's case before the assistant D.A. had a chance to dig it up on cross-examination. Bolan recognized the risk, the sheer audacity involved, but there was simply no other way to go.
Fleming paused for a moment, shuffling through his notes, although he knew exactly what was coming next. He had to let the rest of it sink in before he moved along.
"Before the time of your arrest, had you committed any violent acts within the jurisdiction of McLary County?"
"No."
"Were you successful in discovering a distribution point for drugs?"
"No, sir."
"You hadn't found the pipeline, then, before you were arrested?"
"No."
"You had not executed anyone that day?"
"No, sir."
"The day before?"
"No, sir."
"The week before?"
"No one in Texas, no."
"All right." There was another pause as Fleming made a show of glancing through his notes. "Were you acquainted with the victim in this case, one Alma Jennings?"
"Very briefly... a few minutes," the soldier answered.
"Would you explain this... meeting to the court?"
"I stopped at a roadside diner for a coffee. She approached and propositioned me."
"What do you mean, precisely, by 'propositioned'?"
"I realized she was in the life... a hooker. I declined her offer, and she moved on."
"And that was all?"
"Yes."
"You didn't take her with you to the Blue Oasis Monday night or Tuesday morning?"
"No."
The lawyer's voice was gaining in intensity and rising in volume now. "You did not cut her throat and mutilate her body?"
"No."
"Can you explain the presence of her mutilated body in your room? Your bed?"
"lean."
The silence sat between them for a seemingly eternal instant, then was finally interrupted by the lawyer's ringing voice.
"You can?"
"I think so, yes."
"Then, by all means, enlighten us!"
The soldier took his time and scanned the anxious faces, moving over Hal's, eyes locking with his brother's briefly, who was seated in the room reserved for newsmen... and he settled, finally, on Susan Landry's face.
"The body was deliberately planted in my room," he told the silent audience, "to frame me for a crime that I did not commit."
"To frame you?" Fleming feigned confusion. "But you've just confessed to homicides across the country. Why should it be necessary to create a fabricated case?"
"I don't believe the men responsible expected me to be identified in time."
"In time for what?"
"In time to save my life."
"And so, the purpose of a frame would be.?.."
"To place me in a cell where I could be assassinated prior to trial."
"Can you substantiate this claim with any sort of solid evidence?"
"I was assaulted in my jail cell Tuesday night."
"In jail?"
"Thai's right."
"In the McLary County jail?"
"Yes, sir."
"And your assailant..."
"Has not been identified."
"Is he in custody today?"
"His body is. I killed him."
As a single entity the gallery expelled its pent-up breath.
"In self-defense?"
"That's right."
"But you did not kill Alma Jennings at the Blue Oasis?"
"No."
"And have you ever killed a woman, Mr. Bolan?"
"I have," he said. "But not... like that."
Fleetingly, the soldier thought of Martha Canada, in Acapulco, so long ago, and of the others. Sweet Georgette Chebleu. Tormented Ella Hagen. And his eyes locked one more time with Susan Landry's on the far side of the room.
* * *
Susan Landry had worked on the story for more than a month, investigating underworld connections with the Cleveland establishment, and with a certain federal justice in particular.
It was a headline grabber, or would be, if she could secure enough corroborating evidence. With documents in hand, her editor would have no choice but to accept the story; he would have to take it all the way.
Her cover at the country club was inspired — or so she thought. It gave her access to the paperwork that she would need to document her story. The nationals would want a piece of everything she had, if only she could sew it up.
But she had known there was an element of risk involved.
A kinky federal judge would not be fool enough to leave his flank exposed without employing some security. But if she played it cool, the story and the future were within her grasp.
Except that it blew up in her face, and when the two gorillas surprised her at the country club the lady newshawk knew she had no future left.
Until Mack Bolan found her.
The man in black rescued Susan Landry from a not-so-accidental death by drowning at the Cleveland country club, and he sent the two gorillas on ahead of her, to look for absolution or reprisal on another plane. She didn't recognize him, but she could not forget his eyes, the caring in them as her own regained their focus and a measure of her consciousness returned.
"You're looking better," he said. And smiled.
They survived the Cleveland wars, albeit in their separate ways, but she learned a thing or two about the facts of jungle life along the way. The Executioner bagged one close to home — her own maternal grandfather — but in the end she forgave him, recognized the grim necessity for the presence of someone like Bolan. Her column on the unlamented death of one who used to bounce her on his knee flirted with a Pulitzer and came in second best, but she was moving onward, upward. She was on her way.
And there was a sort of sadness in the certainty that she would never see the man in black again.
But she was wrong.
There was Washington, Al Miller, mortal danger and another Pulitzer contender in the works. How many lifetimes later? Susan Landry didn't know, did not particularly care. Mack Bolan was there a second time when she needed him. And once again they survived... but at a cost.
Then he became John Phoenix, reborn to serve the government in ways that she could never fully hope to understand. There were rumors of a pardon, a secret strike force aimed at terrorism with Bolan in the vanguard.
But the fire passed her by again in Washington. The man risked his life, everything, to whisk her out of danger when he should have been attending to his own campaign. She knew the battle was costly for him, knew — or thought she knew — that it somehow changed his life, destroyed his tenuous liaison with the government.
And now he was still alive, still fighting on against the odds. Still carrying the fire against his enemies wherever they were found until those enemies had contrived to run him down and pen him in a cage, a sacrificial goat awaiting the selection of an altar, of a time.
The man had saved her life — not once, but twice — and there was nothing she could do to help him now but tell his story to the world, devoid of frills and fanciful mythology. She owed him truth, at least, and he would get it from her. The world would hear it from her, and the world — a part of it, at any rate — would come to recognize its debt.
The gentle side of humankind was heavily in debt to Bolan, certainly. However much they might abhor his methods, the meek survived today because of Bolan and a slim elite of others in his mold. A warrior class who saw their duty, shouldered it unfailingly and went the distance on behalf of other humans they would never know by name.
Mack Bolan knew them in his heart. He had been dying for them, mortgaging his future for them, since his teens. The soldier's war was everlasting, to the death... but he would not go into that inevitable death unrecognized.
