Uncertain Justice

Chapter 13

Uh-huh. How ya doin' Mr. Brady?" Miles stood and stepped to the side of the desk. Half sitting on the front corner, he let the shotgun barrel rest on his left thigh. It was still pointed vaguely at the attorney. Miles studied the well-dressed lawyer.

Brady's face had been ashen before but now it appeared every drop of blood had drained from his upper body. His complexion was a dead, unhealthy white.

"Why'd you do it, Brady?" Miles asked conversationally. Brady heard harsh accusation in Miles' voice. He could not answer. His throat had locked tight.

"Would you mind telling me why you decided to pick on me?" Miles continued. He was leaning forward, straining to hold himself back. He'd have to be careful. Once loosed, he wasn't sure he could rein the rage back in.

Miles fumbled behind him with his left hand to pick up the folder with his name on it and tossed it into Brady's lap. Some of the papers fell across Brady's knees and he lurched forward to catch them before they fell to the floor. He arranged them into a tidy little stack before tucking them back inside, hardly noticing what his hands were doing. Shock overwhelmed him. The brute had found the records he hadn't had time to lock away when the President's car arrived. His mind scurried around, fretting and gibbering wildly as he searched for a way out of this mess. The contents of this folder could ruin everything.

"I ... it was nothing personal. She was dead; it looked like you'd r***d her to the cops," Brady offered. His voice could barely be heard over the storm outside.

"BULLSHIT!" retorted Miles. "I've read everything in that file. A week into the investigation you had indisputable proof that I hadn't done anything wrong. Damn you to hell!"

Miles stopped, his mouth dry. Deliberately he took a couple of deep breaths. He'd have to watch it ... the fury had almost broken free again.

"Why?" Miles asked again, his voice marginally calmer. He gestured to the folder Brady clutched in his nervous hands. "You've intimidated witnesses, threatened my friends, hidden an autopsy report that would have exonerated me and I want to know why you did it." It was hard for Miles to breathe. The overpowering anger was threatening to get the best of him again and the effort to control it took everything he had.

Brady stared at his tormentor until he couldn't bear the impact of the man's eyes any longer. His eyes skittered around the room, though nothing registered at first. Then he focused on the hearth and the fire blazing within. He didn't wait to think. He bolted to his feet, scrambled to the fireplace, and threw open the grating. A quick toss scattered the contents of the file across the burning logs where the papers burst into flames. He triumphantly slammed the grating shut but it didn't catch. It clanged harshly against its iron supports and swung back open a few inches.

Miles was caught off guard by Brady's sudden dash to the fireplace and couldn't intercept Brady before he threw the documents inside. The little man was quick, and the poncho hampered Miles' movements. The lawyer's rush to destroy the folder was almost fatal for him though. Brady survived by only the thinnest of margins. Miles had thought Brady was attacking.

Still in the grip of a towering rage, Miles had the safety off and his forefinger was taking up slack in the trigger long before Brady got the grate open. Brady lived only because he didn't move directly toward Miles.

Brady stood up and dusted his hands off before turning around jubilantly. If the evidence was gone, there was no wrongdoing. He'd won! He froze when he saw the gaping maw of the shotgun's muzzle less than a foot from his head.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" Miles roared. "Are you trying to get killed?" The weapon was steady in his hands, aimed at a point midway between Brady's eyes. Miles glared at the attorney over the front sight.

Brady's face disappeared. Surprised, Miles dropped the shotgun to his waist. He found Brady slumped before the fireplace where failing knees had deposited him.

"No, please ... don't!" Brady whimpered. "We can ... I was going to drop the case anyway. Listen ... listen to me. I'll have the charges dropped tomorrow ... I can do that. I had to burn those things ... I had to--but I'll make it up to you!"

Brady was babbling again. It was abruptly clear Brady's knees weren't the only things failing him tonight. Mile's nose wrinkled in disgust as the sour odor of warm urine invaded the room. Brady hadn't yet noticed his bladder had given way. Not knowing the reason for the expression on Miles' face, it filled Brady with dread.

"Wait ... wait." Running out of breath, Brady panted for a minute while he sought a way to placate Underwood. "We'll admit we made a mistake. We'll hold a press conference!" Miles stared at the cowering man, the wrath mounting again. His face flushed dark red as he sought to control the surge of emotion.

"You've put me through hell the past six months, you son of a b***h," he said, speaking very precisely. "My brother and sister won't allow their children in the same room with me; I can't go anywhere in this town without getting spit at; I've spent damn near every dime I had in the bank ... and you're going to hold a god damned press conference?" The fury swelled to enfold him in fiery arms.

Brady shrank away from the enraged man. His eyes darted around the room, searching for a way out. He fixed on one thing Underwood had said.

"Wait!" He fought to get words out of a parched throat. "Wait, I can make it up to you. I'll show you." Without waiting to see if Miles agreed, Brady walked on his knees across the carpet, rising to his feet only when he neared the far wall. He pulled on the left side of the big oil painting's frame and swung it aside on concealed hinges to reveal a wall safe. With hands that shook badly, he tried to work the dial but could not get his fingers to cooperate.

He leaned his forehead against the cold steel of the safe. "Wait ... please," he whispered.

Miles watched warily, his anger at having lost the precious documents temporarily deflected by the normally dignified attorney's strange antics. The spectacle of the attorney scurrying across the floor was so odd Miles didn't react except to watch. He waited, curious to see what would happen next.

Brady raised his head and took a deep breath. Holding it, he concentrated on the combination. He looked back at Miles triumphantly and yanked the handle down. Swinging the reinforced steel door to the right, he reached inside with both hands to grab a double handful of bundled hundred dollar bills.

"Here ... you can have all of it." He shoveled them over his shoulder in Miles' general direction. He was certain the big man who had invaded his home wanted to kill him and Brady was equally this would change his mind. In Brady's world, any difficulty could be made good with a smile, a promise, and enough money exchanging hands.

Miles made no effort to catch the packets of money; they dropped to the floor while Brady reached back into the safe to grab more. One of the paper wrappers was ripped open and hundred-dollar bills fluttered briefly in the air until they too fell to the carpet.

"I don't want your money, Mister Brady," Miles hissed contemptuously. "That isn't what I came for."

The attorney threw no more money though a dozen neatly wrapped stacks of large bills remained. He stood motionless, staring blindly into the safe while he listened to the words he was sure meant his imminent death. His shoulders slumped. There was nothing to do except....

Dragging in a shuddering breath, he grabbed for the small caliber semi-automatic pistol he kept on the safe's top shelf. His right hand closed on the butt of the weapon but a sweaty palm made it slippery. Tightening his grip, he tried to pull the g*n out and point it at Miles in the same movement.

He had to shoot Underwood before Underwood shot him.

Trying to pivot to the right as quickly as possible, the back of his hand slammed painfully against the partially open safe door. His finger closed involuntarily on the trigger and a round was fired into the safe's interior. The hardened steel of the safe's back wall slapped the slug right back at him and Brady felt a fiery line drawn the length of his right forearm as the bullet plowed a shallow furrow in the flesh.

Unaccustomed to physical pain, Brady flinched spasmodically and pulled the trigger again. The .25 caliber weapon discharged a second time. Still turning, his g*n hand had moved enough so the muzzle wasn't pointed directly into the safe. The bullet ricocheted off the door and into the grooving at the top of the safe where the door fit. From there it was deflected downward and out into the room where it would have been almost impossible for the projectile to miss someone standing in front of the safe.

It didn't. Deformed by the contact with two steel surfaces and tumbling badly, the small piece of lead gouged a hole through the left side of Brady's neck, narrowly missing the carotid artery. His whole body jerked as the slug tore through flesh and muscle.

He yanked the trigger a final time. This last bullet punched through the walnut paneling next to the safe without hitting anything solid and continued at an angle across the adjacent bathroom, through the kitchen, and out the back wall. Its power spent, it fell under a pecan tree near the back fence. From the first shot to the last, the whole thing lasted less than a second and a half.

Brady dropped the g*n to his side and let it fall soundlessly to the carpeted floor. The blood-filled wound in his neck was already hurting badly. He clapped his left hand across the b****y mess and whirled to face Miles.

Retreating to put his back against the wall, he stared at the man he was certain would kill him now.

Miles had dropped his eyes to the packets of money scattered on the floor and didn't see Brady reach back into the safe for the g*n. The three quick reports from the small caliber g*n were no louder than firecrackers, but they pulled his attention back to the attorney immediately. He pulled the shotgun up but held his fire. He was ready to shoot at the first threat, but Brady had done nothing since stumbling against the wall next to the safe.

Brady looked more pitiful than menacing as he held his left hand against his neck. Blood ran between his fingers, and dripped on his shirt and urine-soaked slacks. The luxurious carpet was quickly spotted with bright red drops that mixed with more blood from his arm and began to form small puddles.

Miles let the stock of the shotgun slide down from his shoulder until he had it braced securely between his elbow and waist. Seeing the pistol lying on the floor in front of Brady, he stepped forward to squat and pick it up. He backed away to drop the small handgun on the desk behind him.

He tried to make sense of the scene. He hadn't been watching Brady closely and Brady had taken advantage of his inattention again. In a remote corner of his mind, Miles chastised himself for his lack of care and resolved to correct that deficiency. He frowned at Brady for a long moment, trying to figure out what had just happened. The expression on his face lightened as it came to him.

"You jackass ... you shot yourself didn't you?" Miles didn't laugh, but there was amusement in his voice. Miles looked at the lead splash on the door of the safe where the second round had initially impacted. "Just how the hell did you manage that?" Humor had been edged out by curiosity.

Tortured beyond his capacity to resist by unaccustomed pain and abject terror, the additional humiliation heaped on him by the intruder was too much. Brady could not bear it. Staring Miles in the eyes, Brady began to scream. Impossibly high pitched, it went on and on.

The wildness in Brady's eyes made Miles uneasy. His finger curled cautiously around the shotgun's trigger again as he watched the deranged man.

Alternately sobbing wildly and shrieking at the top of his lungs, Brady huddled face-first against the paneling and tucked his head under his right arm for protection against the demons attacking him. Blood from the wound on his forearm smeared his face, making it a crimson mask from which his eyes stared insanely.