Uncertain Justice

Chapter 4

Whoa, now." Trenton retreated to set his back against the side windows of the Lexus. He waved reassuringly at the two officers. Taken aback by the intensity in Underwood's voice, the attorney stalled while he thought of something to say. He adjusted the custom-made Gucci sunglasses, a gift from his wife on his last birthday, just to have something for his hands to do. The forgotten cell phone clanked against the left lens. Glad for the distraction, he took off the glasses to look for a scratch. Miles backed away a step and rubbed rigid neck muscles with his right hand.

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.

"Good evening. Today District Attorney Carl Brady announced a new trial date for former Army First Sergeant Miles Underwood. The new trial will begin on March 15. Underwood is accused of the r**e and death of seventeen-year old Virginia Rodriguez last summer.

"Mr. Brady reaffirmed his intention to prosecute the case vigorously and request the maximum sentence possible for the former Army Non-Commissioned Officer. Underwood could receive a sentence of twenty years to life even if the jury finds Ms. Rodriguez's death was unintentional. Earlier this month, Judge Roy farmer declared a mistrial when a previous jury was deadlocked. Mr. Brady expressed confidence in Underwood's eventual conviction, stating he felt a verdict could be obtained easily 'if we can get the right jury' in the new trial."

KSAA Channel Nine

San Antonio Texas

"Evening News at Six"

February 15

§

The accused man in the lead story had already heard about the new trial date. That very morning, P. Jonah Trenton, Esquire and Attorney at Law, had granted Miles a few minutes to discuss the upcoming trial in his plush office. It had been an uncomfortable interview. Miles knew he should be grateful that Mr. Trenton was representing him pro bono, but sometimes Miles felt like a peasant, come with ragged cap in hand to speak to a peer of the realm. This morning's meeting hadn't been a very good one for Miles. It left him with a bad taste in his mouth.

The fact was, Trenton could not have cared less about Miles' guilt or innocence. Trenton had let drop a few weeks ago the fact that Brady had infuriated him many years ago and Trenton still wasn't over it. Miles couldn't fault Trenton for failing to provide an energetic defense in Miles' behalf, but Miles knew he was only a tool for Jonah to use in repaying the District Attorney for the grievance existing between the two. It left him flat and pessimistic.

§

The approaching storm was already visible through the wide glass patio doors. The black, low hanging clouds made for an early sunset; it was already dark in their shadow. Heavy lightning was almost continuous behind the roiling clouds, promising a dangerous electrical storm along with the forecasted heavy rain. He'd already made sure all the windows in the house were closed. The patio door was the only outlet still open to the cool evening breezes blowing down from the hill country.

He decided eating an early dinner would be a smart thing to do. In fact, a quick meal and preparing for a power outage would be two smart things. There was no telling if the electricity would be knocked out tonight, but it had happened before, and in lesser storms. Whatever ... it didn't hurt to be ready. He padded through the living room, barefoot in the deep pile carpeting. He straightened the painting over the couch as he passed.

In the kitchen, he pulled a couple of flashlights from the cabinet drawer where everything was stored that didn't have a special place of its own. He put one on the counter and the other on the top of the entertainment center. He lowered the volume on the TV to a whisper and adjusted the screen colors. Finished, he stood unmoving for a long while, watching a television screen he didn't see.

The popping noises of the two hamburger patties in the frying pan finally intruded enough for him to notice and he raced back to the kitchen, just managing to flip them over before the bottoms turned too crusty to eat.

He made himself keep busy as a means to avoid gloomy thoughts. A potato went into the microwave to bake. Done, it was replaced by a small bowl of mixed vegetables.

Examining the overdone meat, he poured a spicy barbeque sauce on the burgers to disguise the taste, or perhaps the purpose was to add some taste. He wasn't quite sure. He shrugged to himself; it didn't really matter.

Grabbing a diet Coke from the fridge and a loaf of bread from the cupboard, he slid them across the breakfast bar where they would be within convenient reach. Carrying the plate loaded with meat and vegetables into the dining room, he sat where he could watch the TV in the living room. His simple bachelor's meal was ready. Sighing, he began to shovel the almost burnt offerings into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed without enthusiasm. There was no problem with the quality of the food, or even the charcoaling of one side of the meat. It was just that nothing tasted good anymore.

With the dishes stowed safely in the dishwasher, he moved into the living room and got comfortable in the recliner to wait for the storm's arrival. The television was tuned to a station showing a documentary about a project to unearth and study the ancient mammoths. He turned up the sound to listen.

Apparently, DNA had been retrieved from another set of frozen remains in Siberia and scientists were planning to use it to reintroduce the particular species to the face of the earth. If there was an explanation of the expected benefit to mankind, Miles had already missed it.

The program didn't hold his attention and faded quickly into the background. The first breath of cold, damp air from the storm blew in through the patio door and he got up to close it before the rain could soak the carpet. He pulled the sliding glass door partially shut. He stopped and leaned against the doorframe to watch the first drops fall.

§

He almost hadn't gone to the party. He wasn't a party person and was uncomfortable at scheduled, organized parties. Unplanned, informal get-togethers were more his style. On the other hand, he'd been spending entirely too much time by himself. He'd told himself that wasn't healthy. He'd been the next thing to a hermit since he retired from the Army. Maybe the party would be fun. Anyway, his best friends left over from his military career were the hosts, so what the heck? He decided to go--to see if anything was happening. If there wasn't, he could make his excuses and leave.

When he got there, apprehensive but hopeful, he'd found attendance by the female portion of the race disappointingly slight. Many of the invited guests had canceled. That included, Lydia said, a woman she'd wanted him to meet. Relieved and disappointed at the same time, Miles accepted a beer from Lydia. Then she bustled off to greet a couple Miles didn't know.

Miles had known Lydia's husband, Phil, for more years than he could remember. By chance, their path had crossed at several duty stations in their military careers and they'd formed a deep friendship. A senior specialist in the personnel office on Fort Sam Houston, Phil was one of the most popular men on the post. His and Lydia's home was usually full of people who just dropped by for a visit. With both children already in college, Lydia mothered untold numbers of young soldiers who needed it and some who didn't.

Respecting only a barely decent interval after Miles' divorce four years before, Lydia had begun a campaign to set him up with women of her acquaintance that she evaluated as suitable for Miles. Lydia couldn't bring herself to accept the fact that he was quite happily divorced and very satisfied with his unattached status. However badly Lydia wanted to improve his condition, Miles found the concept of a deep relationship with another woman more than a little uncomfortable. Based on his experience, the predictable breakups were just too damn painful.

At thirty-nine years old, with twenty-two years of Army life behind him, he anticipated a lot of fun and relaxation in the coming years--two things that had been sadly lacking in his military career. After an extended middle age, and perhaps a mid-life crisis or two, he intended to find a rocking chair on a white painted porch somewhere and gently fade away as General MacArthur had promised Congress old soldiers do.

Miles didn't see a new wife and family fitting into that picture. On the other hand, that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the temporary company of an attractive woman whenever the opportunity presented itself.

He'd found a wall near the front door where he could be out of the way. He leaned comfortably against it to watch the flow of humanity across the ersatz stage in front of him. It was as good a floorshow as he was going to find tonight.

After several hours and a couple more beers, it was clear the party not going to get be his kind of social occasion. He made the decision to leave and stood to take the final empty bottle to the kitchen and wish Lydia and Phil a good evening. On the way, he was distracted enough to stop and watch a young woman behaving oddly.

The pretty girl had come to the party with an older woman but their relationship wasn't clear. They'd both made themselves at home to Lydia's ill concealed annoyance. He hadn't known anything about why Lydia didn't like them.

The girl had seemed impossibly young to Miles. As he neared the big "Four-Oh," all women younger than his own group looked underage to him. He'd quit trying to guess ages. This one, though, appeared to be well under the legal drinking age, though she'd been tossing back strong drinks with little visible effect. The baby-faced youngster had tried to take off her crop top blouse twice to 'prove they were real' to an admiring crowd of unattached males. Lydia scolded her on both occasions. The second time, Lydia had to be talked out of asking the girl to leave.

The young woman was quieter now and sitting alone on the couch. More sober than she had seemed earlier, there was a curious look of concentration on her face. For the past few minutes, she'd held a hand pressed tightly against her lower belly. What had attracted his attention was a distinct wince that distorted her features every once in a while.

She'd stood up and begun to make her way by Miles to the hall bathroom. As she passed, she clapped a hand to her belly and staggered, almost losing her balance. Miles had reached out to steady her as she slumped against him.

"You all right?" Miles had asked. The young girl had leaned hard against him for support and looked up at him, her face now lined and haggard from pain.

"He hurt me," she'd complained. "He hurt me."

"What? Who hurt you?" Confused, Miles had glanced at the other people standing nearby. "Y'all know what she's talking about?"