Uncertain Justice

Chapter 9

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.

"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.