The Devil's Right Hand. J.D. Rhoades
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he felt a sudden weight on him. The female cop had thrown her body across his. One of her hands grabbed Keller’s wrist. He heard the clink of metal as she took the cuffs off her belt. “Stay down,” she muttered. “You can’t win. Just stay down.” Keller tried to stand, then suddenly realized that she had placed herself between him and another blow. He relaxed and allowed himself to be handcuffed with his hands behind his back. When she was done, she rolled off and yanked Keller awkwardly to his feet. Her grip was very strong.
Keller looked at the male cop. The man’s image seemed to swim in a red haze before Keller’s eyes. The cop’s own eyes were dreamy and far away and there was a slight smile on his face.
“When this is over,” Keller said through pain-clenched teeth, “I’m going to take that fucking baton away and shove it up your ass.”
The cop’s smile widened. This was what he had been waiting for. He drew back his hand for another shot. Keller had no way to protect his head; he knew the next blow would shatter his skull. The female cop interposed her body between them again. “Get in the car, asshole,” she said. She put a hand on Keller’s head to guide him through the open door of the police cruiser. Without taking his eyes off the male cop, Keller slid into the back seat.
The brown truck pulled into the parking lot of the timber company office. The trailer was still surrounded by a web of yellow crime-scene tape that appeared to have been strung mostly at random. The three men got out of the truck and approached the steps. Raymond took a curved Hawkbill knife out of his pants pocket, opened it, and sliced through the tape. They walked up the steps and stood before the locked trailer door. There was a moment of silence. “John Lee,” Raymond said. “You got the keys?”
“Oh, um, yeah,” John Lee said, embarrassed. He fumbled for a moment in his pocket, then unlocked the door.
The interior of the trailer office was small and cramped. A metal desk sat facing the doorway and took up most of one side of the room. There was a gray metal filing cabinet behind the desk on their right. Raymond went around the desk and tried to open the cabinet. It was locked. He rattled the handle in frustration. “You got a key to this, John Lee?” he said.
John Lee shrugged. “Sorry, Raymond,” he said. “Daddy always kept that one hisself.”
Raymond slammed his hand against the cabinet in frustration. He turned to Sanchez. “He ever tell you where he kept the key to this?”
Sanchez shook his head. “No,” he said. Raymond turned back. He hit the cabinet again, as if he could convince it to open by beating it enough times. He withdrew the pistol from his belt and drew back the hammer. He carefully pointed it at the latch on the filing cabinet.
“Wait,” Sanchez said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small plexiglass key ring. He laid it carefully on the table. There were two keys on the ring, one smaller than the other.
Raymond looked at Sanchez, his eyes narrowed. “You trying to be funny?”
Sanchez looked back without expression. “You didn’t ask if I had a key. You asked if your father had ever told me where his key was.”
“God damn it,” Raymond snarled. “You knew what I meant.”
“Me?” Sanchez spread his hands. “How was I to know?”
Raymond made a strangled sound deep in his throat and pointed the pistol at Sanchez. Sanchez didn’t move.
“I was your father’s foreman,” he said. “He trusted me with a lot of things. If you kill me, there are many things you will never know.”
Raymond slammed the pistol down on the desk. John Lee flinched. “Then tell me, asshole!” Raymond yelled. “Quit playin’ games! I need me some goddamn help here!”
Sanchez’ face clouded with anger. “You have never asked. You have never asked me for anything, least of all help. All you have done is wave your pistola around and shout orders.” He looked at John Lee. “The two of you are out to avenge your father. All right. It is a matter of honor. A man understands such things. A man might be willing to help. A stupid ‘greaseball’ who must be ordered around--” he shrugged. “Such a one will only do what he is told, no more.”
Raymond stared at him for a long moment. “I ain’t gonna beg you,” he said finally.
Sanchez shook his head. “That is not what I ask.” They continued to stare at one another, neither one willing to be the first to look down. It was John Lee who finally spoke.
“Mr. Sanchez,” he said, “will you help us find the man that killed our daddy?”
Sanchez smiled. “Si, I will help you,” he said. “And call me Oscar.” He pointed at the desk. “When the man Julio talked about came around, he left a phone number where he could be reached. I saw your father write it on the pad on the desk.”
Raymond looked down at the desk blotter. It was covered with ink stains, coffee rings, doodles and hastily scrawled notes.
Finally he located something. “DeWayne Puryear,” he read. “That sound familiar?”
Sanchez nodded. “That is the name that he gave.”
“There’s an address and phone number here,” Raymond said.
Sanchez turned around and walked out the door. He was already waiting in the truck when Raymond and John Lee followed him.
Like most of the people who wore the black robe, Judge Harold T. Tharrington was a former prosecutor. The District Attorney had handpicked Tharrington to run for election to the bench. He had run without opposition; none of the other prosecutors would dare to buck the boss’ choice. For their own part, the lawyers of the defense bar declined to take the salary cut that came with going on the State payroll. Defendants paid better, and often in cash.
Tharrington looked over his glasses at Keller, who was standing before him. He was a short, balding man with a round face and a fussy demeanor. He clearly found Keller’s presence in his courtroom distasteful.
Keller had spent the previous day and night sharing a jail cell with a pair of Jamaicans. The two men had totally ignored him. They spent the time playing a seemingly endless game of cards and arguing in low, incomprehensible voices. The argument and the fact that the lights had never been turned off in the cells had made it impossible for Keller to sleep. His eyeballs felt raw and gritty. He hadn’t been allowed to shave. His hands were shackled in front of him and his ankles were fastened together with a short length of heavy chain. His lawyer stood by his side.
The lawyer’s name was Scott McCaskill. He was an imposing figure, a full six and a half feet tall. He had thick snow-white hair brushed back until it resembled a lion’s mane. His face tended to remind people of someone they’d seen on TV, someone playing a Senator or President. He had represented Keller several times before. Part of the secret to his success was his massive presence that seemed to draw all attention in the room to him and away from his raggedy-assed client.
“Your Honor,” McCaskill intoned in a voice so deep that it almost rattled the water glasses, “my client has no prior record. He is a bail bondsman licensed by the State of North Carolina. He served his country with distinction in the armed forces and was decorated for bravery in the Persian Gulf. In addition, we are confident that these charges are the result of a misunderstanding and will be resolved in his favor at trial.”
The judge picked up a sheet of computer printout and studied it. “Your client,” the judge observed, “has been remarkably lucky to have no record of convictions. The PIN check provided by officers Jones and Wesson shows a remarkable string of charges that were either dismissed by the local prosecutor or resulted in ‘not guilty’ verdicts at trial. Can you explain this?”
McCaskill shrugged and smiled. “The nature of Mr. Keller’s business is such that the people he returns to custody are often, shall we say, less than happy with their situation.”
“Two of them apparently ended up dead,” the judge said.