A Reasonable Doubt Susan Sloan (chrysanthemum read aloud TXT) 📖

a contact, a courier, and a cohort.  Most of the tribal police were in his pocket, some actually on his payroll, and as long as he lived on the reservation, the feds could do little about it.

He had made his peace with the Van Aikens, carving out an area west of Port Hancock that included his wife’s tribe, which was the biggest in the area, and the bulk of the growing Hispanic community that wouldn’t trust anyone but a brother, anyway.  As the economy in the county began to recover and the population began to grow, he had little trouble convincing the competition that there was more than enough to go around.

It was just in the last year or so, after marijuana had been legalized in the state, that the county sheriff’s office had started leaning on him -- picking up his wife on one pretext or another when she left the reservation, snatching his kids out of school on phony charges that they were selling drugs to their classmates.  He knew they were sending him a message -- a message that said his reservation cover might protect him from the feds, but it wasn’t gong to protect him from them.

“I’m a law-abiding citizen,” he told the former policeman who came to call, two gold teeth gleaming through his broad smile.

“Yeah, and I’m the tooth fairy,” Joe said.  “But not to worry, I didn’t come out here to bust your chops.  I’m just looking for a little information.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“Why, the satisfaction of knowing that you did the right thing.”

Morales laughed.  “You were a smart cop, Sergeant Gideon, I always said that.  So what information do you think I can give you?”

“I know the deal that you had with Dale Scott,” Joe said.

“The cop that got himself killed?”  Morales asked.  “And why would you think I had some kind of deal with him?”

“Because it was the same deal he had with the Van Aiken brothers, and they spelled it out for me.”

Morales shrugged.  “So, if you already know what you think you know, what do you want from me?”

“I need to know if he had a meet set up with you or any of your people the night he died,” Joe said.  “I need to know if that’s what he was doing in the alley.”

“You working for Lightfoot?”

The private investigator nodded.  “Yes -- for his lawyer.”

“Can’t believe the fool came back,” Morales said, shaking his head.

“Well, we’re all fools in our own way,” Joe suggested.

“And if I tell you what you want to know -- what do you do with this information?”

“I tell the lawyer, I don’t tell the cops,” the private investigator assured him.

“And what does the lawyer do with this information?”

“She doesn’t call you to testify unless she absolutely has to, and only after she first gets you complete immunity for your court appearance, and you know she can do that.  Besides, she already knows that you, being the law-abiding citizen that you are, will want to do your civic duty.”

Morales laughed again.  “My civic duty -- I like that,” he said.  “Yeah, I was supplyin’ Scott in exchange for certain services he was providin’, and yeah, there was a meet on for that night.  But all I’m doin’ is tellin’ you this -- I’m not gonna get up on any witness stand.  And if you push it, I’ll deny everything.”

“All right,” the investigator conceded, “suppose you just tell me what happened.”

“The meet was set up for midnight, but I was running late,” Morales said.  “By the time I got there, it was all over.”

“Over?”

“Yeah.  The cop was dead and just lyin’ there on the ground.”

“And ?”

“And nothin’ -- I didn’t hang around.  Got myself the hell outta there.  Later, when I heard what had happened, I remember thinkin’ that the Indian had done me a favor.”

“Why is that?”

“We’d only been workin’ with him for a couple months, and he was already gettin’ greedy,” the drug dealer explained.  “Greedy people tend to get sloppy.  His habit was big, but his influence not so much, if you know what I mean.”

“So, tell me, have you replaced him yet?” Joe asked lightly.

“Oh, come now, Sergeant Gideon,” Morales said, his tone softly mocking, the gold teeth gleaming.  “What kind of question is that to ask a law-abidin’ citizen?”

. . .

John Henry sat glumly in his seat at the prosecution table as the trial of Jason Lightfoot resumed at nine o’clock on Wednesday morning.  He felt at a distinct disadvantage.  The tide of public opinion was inexorably turning, in the town and around the county, as many were beginning to see the defendant as some sort of hero.

“Why would a guilty man escape, and then return on his own?” they were asking.

The Indian actually had a fan club -- a group of about thirty people who now believed him to be completely innocent of all charges, and was having no problem being as vocal as possible about it -- on the radio, in the newspaper, even standing in front of the courthouse.  And according to the reports John Henry was getting, the group was growing bigger by the minute.   A number of them had even maneuvered their way into the spectator gallery, where they jumped up, smiled, and applauded when the Indian was brought into the courtroom.

Then there was the jury.  They weren’t being sequestered for this trial, which meant they were out there, surrounded by all the chatter.  Despite the judge’s admonitions, he had no doubt they were watching, listening, taking it all in.  And in the midst of all this, the prosecutor had to prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Jason Lightfoot was nothing but a cold-blooded killer.  It wasn’t fair.  Feeling a bit desperate, perhaps, he called Kent McAllister to the witness stand.

The Chief of Police was born and raised in Seattle.  A high school and college football star, he had joined the Seattle police force when he was twenty-five years old, after an injury cut short