The Trial, page 21
part #91 of The Executioner Series
It could have been a pass or a deliberate affront to Julio's machismo; Price could not be certain.
But it had worked.
When Julio Martinez had pushed his hand away, the officer had exploded, whipping out his nightstick and raining blows upon the "suspect's" head and shoulders. After Julio was handcuffed in the back of Musgrove's cruiser, he had allegedly suffered further injuries, including lacerations to the face and loss of several teeth. Upon arrival at the station, he was searched a second time for weapons... and a quantity of marijuana was recovered from the pocket of his jeans.
It was the marijuana, finally — and Musgrove's failure to discover it when he had searched Martinez at the scene of the arrest — that had led to nagging doubts and open questions of a frame.
The case had never come to trial. As Price's contact understood it, charges had been dropped when Julio Martinez had grudgingly abandoned an impressive civil suit against the city. There were rumors of a settlement beneath the table, and from all reports Martinez had immediately moved away to parts unknown. Hank Musgrove had ridden a desk for several weeks until he had tired of waiting for a reassignment to the streets and had finally resigned. From all appearances the Houston brass was glad to see him go.
And then he had surfaced in McLary County, as if the rural district didn't have enough of its own problems.
His record had been sanitized in transit, various complaints evaporating from the slender file. To Price — who realized that governments misplace their information frequently but rarely lose it altogether — Musgrove's retroactive sainthood had smacked of something sinister.
The bastard was a redneck and a racist who enjoyed intimidating people with his badge. His killings "in the line of duty" had been dubious, at best, and he had been pressured out of uniform in Houston when he had tried to frame a youth as cover for his own misdeeds. He was a rotten apple, any way you kept the score... but how did that affect the Bolan case?
Had Musgrove taken part in some outlandish plot to frame the century's most-wanted fugitive? If so, it meant that Musgrove — or some puppeteer behind the scenes — had known of Bolan's presence in McLary County, had known that he could be arrested at the Blue Oasis that Tuesday morning, if the deputies were swift and sure enough about their job. And knowing that, would Musgrove bother forging any evidence when he could be an instant hero just by pulling off the raid?
It didn't work for Price, unless...
What was it that Bolan had said? Price riffled through the pages of the transcript and finally found what he was looking for.
A: I don't believe the men responsible expected me to be identified in time.
Q: In time for what?
A: In time to save my life.
Q: And so, the purpose of a frame would be...
A: To place me in a cell where I would be assassinated prior to trial.
Goddamn it!
Shuffling through the other papers on his desk, Price found a copy of the sheriff's booking sheet, together with the final draft of an arrest report. His eyes were riveted by what had been inserted in the blank marked Name.
Mike Blanski.
Jesus Jumping Christ, they hadn't known.
And if Hank Musgrove hadn't known the suspect's true identity, why had he raised an army for his drive out to the Blue Oasis?
Fleming had been harping on it yesterday, and Price had cut him off, complying with the laws of evidence and testimony. Now, alone in chambers, he could not escape the nagging doubts himself.
The sheriff's office — most of it, at any rate — had been ignorant of Bolan's presence in McLary County till their suspect had dropped the bombshell on his own from jail. And yet, when Musgrove had rolled on a routine disturbance call that Tuesday morning, he had gone accompanied by what amounted to a full-scale riot squad.
It didn't play.
But what of Alma Jennings? She was dead — not merely slain, but mutilated — and if Bolan had been framed, then who was guilty of that butchery? Was Musgrove capable of such a crime, or was there someone else behind the scenes?
Price knew, instinctively, that Musgrove had not engineered the Bolan capture on his own. He could provoke a confrontation in the street, devise a clumsy frame that blew up in his face on close examination, but he lacked the brains, the ingenuity to play in Bolan's league.
It would have taken money, information, an extensive reach to track the fugitive and place him in McLary County on a given day. If he was lured there deliberately, that only served as further evidence of savvy minds at work behind the scenes.
And that left Musgrove in the role of errand boy, a pawn who might be deemed expendable if it began to fall apart. There might be something there to keep in mind, providing Price could find himself a handle on the case.
He was compelled to base his verdict on the evidence, of course, and there was evidence enough to go around — the murdered victim, found in Bolan's rented room, her life's blood soaking through his sheets and bedding, decorating walls and ceiling, saturating carpets on the floor. The man had carried knives — the killing kind — but they were clean, according to the lab reports. If he had butchered Alma Jennings, he had done it with a different weapon, which was not recovered at the scene.
But if the woman had been murdered somewhere else, by someone else, the problem of the missing weapon disappeared. The butcher would have taken it along, secure in the belief that Bolan would be dead before the evidence could face a test in court.
As for the automatic weapons, the explosives and the rest of it, Mack Bolan had admitted ownership while on the witness stand. Possession of illegal weapons was a felony, of course... but if they lost the murder and abduction charges, it would be a first offense in Texas, carrying an average sentence of a year or two.
Except that Bolan didn't have a year or two. In prison he would not survive a week outside of solitary, Price was certain. A prison term for Bolan would be tantamount to death... and if he wasn't guilty of the Jennings homicide, could Price impose a sentence that would snatch away his life?
There would be countless other jurisdictions waiting for a crack at Bolan down the road. Their warrants and detainers filled a giant carton at the sheriff's office now, and they would need a moving van for all the paperwork before the extradition process was completed. Either way it went, the man was bound to stay in jail — and while he stayed in jail, he was as good as dead.
Assuming, then, that the verdict held no relevance for Bolan, it still had deep significance for Price. The judge had a duty to perform, and he could not forsake that duty, anymore than he could cast away his hard-won self-respect or cease to breathe. He owed an honest verdict to the man on trial and to the people of McLary County.
He owed it to himself.
Convinced that he had made the right decision, he retrieved his robe from where it hung behind the door and slipped it on.
Another quarter hour and he would have the Bolan case behind him, finally. But something nagged at Price. Something that informed him he would never put the case behind him. Never in his life.
He shrugged the feeling off and killed the lights. Closing the door behind him firmly, he shut out his doubts as he returned to court.
* * *
"Goddammit, Musgrove, I don't know where Fleming got the information, and I honestly don't give a shit."
The rancher leaned in closer to his uninvited guest and smiled as Musgrove flinched away from any closer contact.
"Mebbe I should get out for a while," the lawman groused.
"Get out, my ass! You musta lost your fuckin' mind. You realize I'm drownin' here? An' let me tell you somethin', boy, if I go down..."
"Awright, I know," the man in khaki interrupted him, his voice a grudging whine. "What should I do?"
Peck made a sour face. "You shoulda stayed exac'ly where you were," he growled. "But since you're here already you can fill me in."
Hank Musgrove made a show of studying his fingernails. "It's like I tole ya, Mr. Peck, that mouthpiece set me up like it was me on trial, insteada Bolan. Christ, he knew about that spic Martinez, Houston — ever'thin'. You tole me that was dead an' buried, Mr. Peck."
"Don't start on that again, goddammit!"
"Well..."
"I'll put you down a well, you start that shit again!"
Musgrove glowered at him for a moment, angry color rising in his cheeks, but he was not about to challenge Peck. Not here. Not now. It would have been a suicidal gesture, and the deputy was interested in saving what was left of his disordered life, not throwing it away.
"What happened next?" Peck asked.
"Judge Sambo threw the questions out. He says it's all irreverent, or some such thang."
Peck shook his head. "You ass."
"Well, what the hell did I do now?"
"If it was all thrown out, you haven't got a goddamned thing to sweat about."
"I figured that, at first. But what if Kendricks gets it in his head to run a check outta Houston? An' suppose he comes across those files you said were gone for good?"
"You startin' in on that again?"
"I gotta take precautions."
"We can worry over Kendricks later, dammit. Bolan is the problem now."
"He's in the bag."
"You think so, huh?"
"Hell, yes. Judge Sambo sat right there an' listened to him runnin' down how many guys he's wasted, how he'd do it all again if he could get the chance. His ass is in a sling."
"Let's just suppose you're wrong."
"Say what?"
"Let's us pretend he gets hisself acquitted here. What then?"
Hank Musgrove shrugged. "I guess I'd reckon I've seen ever'thin'."
"I guess you won't be seein' anything, not ever, if this blows up in our faces."
"Jesus, Ethan..."
"You about to tell our friends in Dallas that we couldn't pull it off? You gonna wish 'em better luck the next time 'round?"
"I hadn't thought about it," Musgrove grudgingly admitted.
"Well, jus' think about it now."
"I'd rather not."
"I guess tha's just about the smartest thing you've said all day."
"What are ya gonna do?"
"I'm gonna do jus' what I always do," the rancher said expansively. "I'm gonna save your bacon for ya."
And his own damn bacon in the process. No need to mention that.
"It shouldn't be no problem," Musgrove said, already working on his fingernails again. "They'll transfer Bolan up to Huntsville once he's been convicted. Guy like that'll be a sittin' duck up there."
"This guy ain't goin' to Huntsville," Peck replied. "He's never gonna get that far."
"They gonna take him on the road?"
The rancher snorted. "They ain't gonna take him anywhere. We're gonna take this boy, an' he ain't goin' on the goddamn road."
"What're you gettin' at?"
"I'm sendin' in a coupla my boys this afternoon to watch the trial. See to it that they get inside all right."
"Now, jus' hold on..."
"Hold on to what? You tellin' me you can't pull off a simple job like that? Are you in charge of the security down there, or what?"
"Well, yeah..."
"Then lissen when I tell you somethin', dammit. I'm not askin' you to let 'em in. I'm tellin' you."
"It won't be easy," Musgrove whined.
"If it was easy, I'd be forced to cut your pay. Now wouldn't I? You haven't given me my money's worth, the way it is. An' if you can't quit jerkin' off a while, I'll have ta find myself another boy."
The lawman stiffened and dropped his beefy hands into his lap. "You won't be needin' anybody else," he said.
"Awright, then. When my people get there, give 'em seats where they can have a view of ever'thin', you unnerstan'?"
The man in khaki nodded sullenly.
"I want you ready to support 'em, Hank, in case they have some kinda problem there."
"But Kendricks..."
Ethan raised his head to stem the flow of words.
"You're thinkin', Hank, an' we both know that doesn't get you anywhere." He liked to watch the color rising in his flunky's cheeks. "Bo Kendricks isn't gonna be a problem anymore, providin' that you do your job."
The implications finally registered, and Hank was torn between a worried frown and something like a clownish grin.
"How are you gonna work it, Ethan?"
Peck decided not to reprimand him on the first-name liberty. There would be time enough for reasserting discipline when all their present troubles had been cleared away.
"Never mind. Jus' get those boys inside the courtroom, like I tole ya, an' be ready if they need a helpin' hand." A sudden mental image made him smile. "An', Hank, make sure you park yourself well clear, you unnerstan'? I wouldn't want you standin' in between my boys an' Bolan when the shit comes down."
In fact, Peck thought, he wouldn't mind at all if Musgrove took a portion of the cross fire himself. Dead men had the definite advantage of their inability to contradict the evidence.
After all, it was ironic. The redneck tub of lard had helped to frame Mack Bolan on a murder charge, and now, in death, he would himself be framed as Bolan's killer. It was clean and classic, something that the Dallas crowd could readily appreciate.
But he would have to put the wheels in motion soon before the Dallas delegation surfaced to assume control. If his torpedoes weren't in place before the visitors arrived, there would be hell to pay. With guns on station, though, the new arrivals would be forced to let him go ahead, then marvel at the wonders that he had performed.
And, dammit, it was not too late to save the play. If Musgrove pulled his weight, if nothing else went wrong...
And if it did go sour... well, there was still Plan B. It paid to think ahead, and Ethan Peck was more than ready to collect his dividends.
27
A nagging premonition of disaster haunted Johnny Bolan as he settled in beside a high-ranking representative from Time. He tried to tell himself that it was paranoia, but it wouldn't wash. He told himself that Mack would be secure, protected in captivity... and still he could not make himself believe the lie.
Whichever way it went there would be nothing in his brother's future but a string of holding cells. And any one of them could be his execution chamber, as the Mob was granted time to plot its strategy, prepare logistics, choose an angle of attack.
But there was something more to Johnny's haunted feeling, something else. He sensed that there was danger inside the court itself, that Mack might not be safe until the verdict was announced.
An hour had elapsed since word had come down that court was reconvening and that the judge had come to a decision in the Bolan case. Delays had been inevitable with deputies and bailiffs patting down the newsmen, former witnesses, the diehard hangers-on. No more than half the gallery was filled so far, and they were lined up in the corridor, three deep, all hoping for a ringside seat.
The young man didn't waste his time with speculation on the outcome of the trial. For Mack it would be death no matter what the final ruling, if he had to spend another moment in jail.
And he was looking at a lifetime in the slammer. Assuming that he was impossibly acquitted, cleared of every charge in every city, state and country where indictments had been handed down, his prospects for eventual release were nil. It would be years before the countless trials and hearings could be scheduled into overcrowded dockets, and as far as making bail...
He had to smile despite the grim surroundings. Bailing out the Executioner, with some two thousand murder charges waiting in the wings, would be impossible of course. It would be easier to win a blanket presidential pardon for the Manson family, and wasn't that a crock?
The man had sacrificed himself, his future, in a hopeless war to hold the line against the savages, and he was a pariah now.
Johnny had been supervising the security precautions from the corner of his eye, and something struck him now as out of place. Scanning, he focused on a slender man with sandy hair and drooping Fu Manchu mustache, his eyes invisible behind a pair of aviator shades. His nylon jacket seemed to be a size too large, and...
Johnny stiffened. It had to be in excess of 110 degrees outside, and even inside the courtroom the air-conditioning was marginal at best- A sheen of perspiration glistened on the thin man's brow, and yet he made no move to take the jacket off. Did Johnny imagine a bulge beneath the jacket?
Another man, incongruous in suit and tie, was waiting to be frisked as Johnny turned to face the double doors. Before the bailiffs could begin to pat him down, another deputy — he looked familiar; from the Blue Oasis? — waved them off and pointed out an empty seat in front, behind the prosecution table.
They're going for it here. Johnny felt the short hairs rising stiffly on his neck, the gooseflesh prickling along his arms despite the muggy heat.
Tight security had stopped him from deciding to conceal a firearm on his person, but the younger Bolan was not totally unarmed. For all the good it did, his second ballpoint pen was actually a lethal Guardfather, loaded with a four-inch, needle-pointed spike of stainless steel, designed for hand-to-hand encounters on the street. The buckle of his belt concealed a three-inch dirk, available for instant use in an emergency... and, once again, it wasn't worth a damn against two men with guns.
Unless he had a chance to close in before they opened fire.
With two armed men there would be no way in hell for him to reach them both. The suit-and-tie was close, two rows away, his profile turned toward Johnny as he studied angles, calculated the trajectories, but Nylon Jacket was clearly out of reach. It would require a miracle to take them both...
And it would not be two, he saw now, but four. The bailiffs had been interrupted as they started patting down a pair of carbon-copy types wearing leisure suits that handily hid the hardware beneath. It seemed impossible that no one noticed or shouted an alarm. And Johnny knew that it was dirty, that the local lawmen were bought and paid for. But the vultures had smelled blood, and nothing would distract them as they waited for the main course.
