The Big Gamble - Michael Mcgarrity [45]
Outside, the wind was blowing hard in an angry gray sky and snow clouds masked Carrizo Mountain. The bleak morning completely matched Clayton’s gloomy mood.
He headed back to the Mescalero Reservation and the resort to begin his own search for the mysterious Johnny Jackson, thinking that if he turned out to be a figment of Staggs’s imagination there would be hell to pay.
Paul Hewitt had a theory about how people became lawyers, and it had to do with the names parents gave their children. Hang a couple of colorful monikers on a newborn and it was a lead pipe cinch that another budding lawyer would eventually be launched into the world. In the DA’s case, the name was Roland Hatley Moore, Hat to all his friends.
Hewitt sipped his coffee at a back table in the Dugout Bar & Grill, waiting patiently for Hat to make his appearance. The Dugout opened early for breakfast, which could consist of either the house special of home fries, eggs smothered in green chile with a side of bacon, or a double shot of whiskey for those who drank their meals.
A favorite local hangout, it also drew travelers passing through town. Bison, moose, and elk heads hung on the dark paneled walls, along with framed posters crusted yellow from nicotine smoke. Mismatched tables and chairs filled the dining area, and two pool tables were crammed into a small adjacent space next to some windows.
A see-through partition separated the dining area from the bar, which was festooned with old six-shooters and rifles. Fortunately, none worked, although the butt of one pistol recently had been used to quiet a rowdy customer.
With the town fathers and local real estate agents now touting Carrizozo as an arts and crafts community— which it really wasn’t—a small group of newcomers had moved in. Most were retired baby boomers or senior citizens, pursuing their hobbies or artistic dreams and making a few bucks from the sale of their work.
Down the street a new restaurant had recently opened where you could get a gourmet sandwich with sprouts, a veggie burrito, a fancy pastry, lemon-flavored bottled water, an all-natural juice drink, or a decaffeinated latte, all while surfing the Internet.
In the year the place had been open, Hewitt had never seen one cowboy, rancher, or blue-collar worker cross the threshold.
Hat arrived, spotted Hewitt in the back of the room, and sat himself down at the table.
“What in the hell were you thinking?” he said as he unbuttoned his western-cut sport coat.
“I think you’re getting a little thick around the middle, Hat. It’s time for you to join the gym I go to in Ruidoso. We can work out together. It opens at six in the morning.”
“I’m not even alive at six in the morning,” Hat replied, leaning across the table to look Hewitt dead in the eye. “For chrissake, you can’t let a felony suspect walk. That’s not your prerogative. Do you know how many reporters have called me asking why I wasn’t filing charges against Staggs?”
“How many?”
“Too many.”
“Got any suggestions?”
“Arrest Staggs, discipline your deputy, and let me deal with Tredwell. Maybe I’ll agree to a plea bargain.”
“Can’t do that. It was a false arrest to begin with. No exigent circumstances, no probable cause. Tredwell threatened a civil rights suit if we refused to cut Staggs loose, so we agreed that Deputy Istee had simply held Staggs in protective custody during a potentially dangerous felony arrest.”
“Jesus, you’re kidding me. That’s not what the news reports said.”
“Consider the source.”
“You’ve got to stop squabbling with the Ruidoso police chief.”
“I will, as soon as he goes back to Houston, or wherever the hell he came from.” Hewitt waited for the waitress to pour Hat a cup of coffee and move off. “Are you gonna help me out here?”
“I’m not going to lie for you, Paul.”
“I’m not asking you to. Just say that you agree there was insufficient probable cause to warrant an arrest of Staggs by Deputy Istee.”
“Why are you protecting this kid?” Hat asked.
“That’s not what this is about.”
Hat looked at his watch, slugged down his coffee, and stood up. “Get me