Uncertain Justice

Chapter 12

It was clear the entire prosecution was a sham. Every scrap of evidence that might support Miles' claim of innocence had been suppressed and favorable witnesses ignored ... even threatened to keep them from testifying. He knew what was happening now, though, and there had to be ways to get all this out in the open.

Moving quickly, Miles got ready to leave. This changed everything. With all the information in the folder--though some probably couldn't be used in court--there was enough to make an acquittal all but certain.

It meant he could resume the quiet life of a retired Army veteran. He was nearly broke, but a few years of employment in the civilian market place would restore his savings to a reasonable figure. He'd had offers from contractors doing work for the Army before the trouble started, for instance. He could, for all practical purposes, go back to the same job he'd held while wearing a uniform, but at three times the salary of an Army Senior NCO. He thrust the issue aside to deal with later.

His anger was quickly transforming itself into something more lighthearted. The bad times would soon be over. He couldn't wait to get out of the prosecutor's house and go home. He stopped suddenly, appalled by a sudden memory. His front door was unlocked, for Pete's sake! What in the world had he been thinking?

He got busy rubbing down all the furniture where he might have left fingerprints with a rag he found inside a desk drawer. The back door's broken windowpane and the missing documents would show someone had been in the house, but it wouldn't matter if they couldn't prove it had been him. He didn't think Brady was going to make an official complaint about the theft of the folder anyway. Miles' own conscience didn't hurt any longer than it took to recall what Brady was trying to do to him.

He wiped off the file cabinet he knew he'd touched and the one next to it to be sure he hadn't inadvertently put a hand on that one too. That reminded him to clean all the folders on the desk. Finishing the executive chair and desk, he started to go up the staircase to the second floor.

He couldn't recall if he'd ever touched the banister or not, so he had to wipe it off. While he was upstairs, he cleaned all the doorknobs up there too. The back door was the last thing on his list. He knew he hadn't touched anything in the rest of the house. His hands had been full with the flashlight and shotgun. He hurried down the stairs, anxious to get the cleanup finished.

He was startled when a set of car lights showed through the open window shades in the living room, making fleeting patterns on the walls as a vehicle came closer. It pulled into the driveway, and stopped. A door opened; he could hear several muffled voices but couldn't distinguish the words. Seconds later, the car door closed and the driver backed out to the street. Miles hadn't realized so much time had passed. Brady, it seemed, had returned.

Miles was caught in limbo--halfway down the hall to the kitchen without the folder and the gear he'd brought with him into the house. Running back to the study, Miles grabbed his shotgun and his poncho and headed for the rear of the house. Remembering, he reversed course at the door and dashed back into the study to grab the folder full of documents from the desktop.

Gathering the documents, poncho and weapon in his arms, he was jogging toward the study's doorway when a key was inserted into the front door lock and the tumblers quickly turned. Soaked hinges squeaked a small protest as the door swung open.

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 r**e 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 g*n 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 g*n 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.