The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [12]
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.
“For which incident a jury returned a verdict of not guilty by reason of self-defense,” his lawyer replied smoothly.
Tharrington put the printout down and looked at Keller again. Keller was beginning to feel like a piece of livestock being haggled over at the market, but he kept his face neutral.
“I’m concerned here, counselor,” he said, “that your client is a violent man. He was apprehended with a shotgun in his car. He was carrying a weapon concealed on his person--”
“For which--” McCaskill began, but fell silent when Tharrington raised a hand. “I realize he claims to have a carry permit for that weapon. He has not been able to produce it.”
“That’s because Officer Wesson took it. Sir.” Keller said.
“Which brings us to my greatest concern,” Tharrington said. “The contempt and disrespect shown to law enforcement. It’s bad enough that Mr. Keller apparently fancies himself some sort of bounty hunter, despite having no official standing