Blood Land (13 page)

“Life, love, and war,” Shelly said.

“You’ve never struck me as the type to cause yourself debits in order to gain upward mobility.”

“I’m not a mover and a shaker, that what you are trying to say?”

“Guess so,” Pruett said thinking how good a cold microbrew would taste.

“I love the law,” she responded. “Always have. I figure as long as I am practicing, I’m doing what I was meant to be doing. I don’t need the moniker on the door.”

“I think Beulah is dirty,” Pruett said, laying it there in the middle of them. “I can’t prove anything as definite yet, but there is a strange and befouled undercurrent running in your office.”

Delgado said nothing.

“That doesn’t draw outrage?” Pruett said. “No indignation even?”

“We’re talking about my career now, Pruett,” she said slowly. “Right or wrong, I really don’t warm up to the idea of being unemployed. Not much lawyering going on in this little town, in case you hadn’t noticed. Mine is a pretty good gig for a small town girl.”

“Not for one with a love of the law,” he said.

“Maybe not,” Shelly said. “But we each make a sacrifice. Sometimes more than one.”

“I have suspicions,” Pruett said. “I wanted to bring it to you first. If you have no interest in justice, then I’ll go to Jackson. Or anywhere else in the state. I could even go to the Feds. I wanted to give you the chance, if you were willing.”

“You know what this will do for the defense, right?”

Pruett knew. He also knew Delgado was right. Everyone makes sacrifices. To put Beulah Jorgensen under indictment in the very conspiracy that started the wheels of murder headed toward his wife would be to hand the defense the case. He could be freeing the man who murdered his beloved.

“I know what it means,” Pruett said. “I also know what Bethy would have me do, were she able to say so.”

“Beulah has a place where she keeps her personal files,” Delgado said. “I mean
personal
. As in, hidden. She’s an oaf. Thinks no one is the wiser. You tell me what you have and maybe I’ll have a looksee into that private stock of paperwork.”

The next person to visit was J.W. Hanson. Pruett now knew of Ty’s intent to confess to the crime, and though he knew Hanson would try to talk the cowboy out of doing such a thing, Pruett figured the lawyer would be more motivated if he knew what train was barreling down the track. Pruett found Hanson at his hotel room, with Wendy.

“A minute of your time,” Pruett said, touching the tip of his hat and smiling at his daughter.

“Sure,” said Hanson. The two walked out into the parking lot of the Shady Day hotel.

“I know what Ty’s planning tomorrow,” Pruett said.

“He mentioned that he told you,” said Hanson. “Though I am sure that makes you a happy man, I am trying to convince him otherwise.”

“I figured,” said Pruett. “Ty can be stubborn.”

“On that much, we agree,” Hanson said.

“I have some information that might make your argument a little more convincing.”

“Sorry,
more
convincing?” Hanson said.

“I’m an officer of the law, Professor. This is a matter of due process, and of justice. I’m not interested in anything else,” Pruett said.

“My apologies,” Hanson allowed. “You were saying?”

“Beulah Jorgensen does some business on the side. She represented both Will
and
Rory McIntyre.”

“She disclosed these relationships in discovery,” Hanson said.

“Did she disclose she’s been taking sizeable payoffs from Rory McIntyre since the death of his father and the reading of the McIntyre will?”

Hanson stood there, incredulous, his chiseled features trying their best to twist themselves into a look of surprise. “You have
proof
of this allegation?”

“I can’t prove yet where the payoffs came from, but they’re big—too big for a Town Attorney—and they began three days after the reading of the will,” Pruett said.

“Jesus.”

“Shelly Delgado is looking into some files Beulah keeps on the side, see if there’s anything of interest there,” Pruett said.

“Why are you doing this?” he said. “I mean, you know what Ty intends to do.”

“I want what’s right and fair, Professor. My own daughter has never really believed that about me. Not sure I’ve always believed it. But it’s what I want.”

“You should know something,” Hanson said. “In the spirit of full disclosure.”

Pruett looked at him.

“This is a breach,” the professor said. “But I feel under the circumstances I can trust you with this information.”

“Shoot,” Pruett said.

“We’ve already met with Jorgensen. Ty refuses to take any plea arrangement. In fact, he is asking for the maximum penalty.”

“And Jorgensen is agreeable?” Pruett said.

“I’d describe her as
giddy
,” Hanson remarked.

The hatred in Pruett burned. Fuck it, he thought. Time to pull harder on the fray.

“The sky is falling

with the ash and mud

They gotta make a promise

yeah, blood to blood

So shut the door

and then slowly turn around

And now you know

you can't make a sound.”

Roseanne Cash,

Burn Down This Town

“YOU KNEW all of this,” Hanson asked his client.

“I knew,” Ty said.

Hanson was sitting on the cot; Ty McIntyre’s back was to his attorney, and he leaned languidly on the bars of his cell.

“How did you find out?” Hanson said.

“My old man let it slip. He was drunk. Told me he didn’t want to go to his grave not having told me how good he screwed me. Said I’d never be able to prove it.”

“I have some news that may change how you feel about all this,” Hanson said.

“Ain’t nothin’ ever going to change how I feel about all this,” Ty said. “Not ever.”

“I think Beulah Jorgensen was involved,” Hanson said. “I think there may have been tampering with your grandfather’s will.”

“Don’t matter,” said McIntyre.

“She can’t prosecute you, Ty. Not if we can find the proof we’re after. She’ll be disbarred and criminally charged. Your old man, too. And I doubt seriously if the City Attorney’s office is going to want to go full tilt on a new trial. I think you can plead out to manslaughter two. Maybe negligent death. You could get probation with time served, considering the injustice.”

“Told you what I wanted you to do. Just need you to do it, lawyer man.”

“Ty, as your attorney…”

“Just fucking
do it
,” Ty hissed.

The plea hearing began at ten A.M. At nine o’clock, Pruett met with Hanson in an anteroom, before the proceedings began.

“You tried to talk him out of it?” Pruett said. “Pleading guilty, I mean?”

Hanson nodded. “The determination of that man is as astounding as it is problematic.”

“This is all wrong,” Pruett said.

“I’d think you of all people would feel just the opposite.”

“There’s more behind this. We’ve just been pickin’ at scabs—there’s a lot more bleeding to come, I believe,” Pruett said.

“It’s within my ability to withdraw as counsel under such a plea. It would add some time to the process, but it’s very unlikely to change the outcome.”

“Let him plead guilty,” Pruett proclaimed. He was tired and felt old as time. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the truth anymore. If Ty had killed Bethy, why shouldn’t he just say so?

Pruett sat in the crowded gallery, behind the defendant’s table. Deputies Munney and Baptiste stood at opposing sides of the courtroom and Zach Canter guarded the door. It was standing room only. The court granted media access, but only at the rear of the courtroom and only as space permitted. He stated there would be no camping out—that the courtroom doors opened at eight o’clock each morning and that the first half hour was designated for family, friends, and townsfolk, in that order. The press was to be allowed the final fifteen minutes between eight forty-five and nine to gather in the rear of the courtroom.

“All rise,” Baptiste bellowed as the Honorable Bridger C. Butler entered the courtroom. He was shorter than Pruett remembered.

“Be seated,” Butler said, reviewing some paperwork on the bench.

He looked up, nodding at the prosecutor, who was standing already.

“Beulah Jorgensen, Your Honor. From the Town Prosecutor’s office, representing the State of Wyoming.”

“Ms. Jorgensen,” the judge said. He looked to the defendant’s table.

Hanson stood. “J.W. Hanson, Your Honor. Representing the accused.”

“Mr. Hanson,” Judge Butler said. “Before we begin, I wish to say a few words to the courtroom. It is not within my domain to lessen the sensational nature of the charges in this case, nor am I inclined to issue any directives to the press insofar as any gag orders. I am a staunch believer in our ancestors’ intent to protect the freedom of speech. That said, I would ask that all reporting heretofore be as accurate and without intentional drama as is prudent. Otherwise, it is
well
within my power to exclude all media from these premises.”

Without asking for anyone’s acquiescence, Butler turned to the defense.

“Mr. Hanson, how does your client plead?”

J.W. Hanson nodded to Ty, who stood up.

“Guilty, Judge,” Ty McIntyre said.

Butler looked as if he’d swallowed a fly. He turned toward the Prosecution’s table. “Ms. Jorgensen, is there an agreement between these parties of which the court is unaware?”

“No, Your Honor. There is no plea agreement.”

“Counsel, approach,” Butler said, waving them in.

When Hanson and Jorgensen were in front of him, the judge twisted the small microphone to the right and covered it from view with his right hand. He addressed J.W. Hanson quietly.

“Mr. Hanson, this is a bit irregular. Truth told, we would have saved the State of Wyoming significant tax dollars were a simple confession presented upon arrest. With all respect, you do realize your client is charged with an offense that will result in him being sentenced to the most severe punishment allowable by law.”

“I understand, Your Honor.”

“He will be put to
death
, sir.”

“My client is aware, Judge. He makes this plea against my advice and despite my sternest objection.”

Butler turned to Beulah Jorgensen. “Ms. Jorgensen. Under the circumstances, is there leeway in the severity of the charges at hand? Under Wyoming law, a conviction for a premeditative act such as this leaves me little room for mercy. None, actually.”

“The State is not willing to lessen the charge, Your Honor.”

“Return,” Butler said, obviously annoyed.

“Mr. McIntyre,” the judge began when counsel had returned to their respective tables. “Do you understand the nature of the charge levied against you—that charge being murder in the first degree with aggravating circumstances?”

“Yessir,” Ty said, his head bowed.

“Please speak up for the record, Mr. McIntyre,” Butler said.

“Yes, I understand the charges against me,” Ty said, loudly this time.

“For the record, do you understand that a plea of ‘guilty’ will result in you being sentenced to death? I need you to understand the gravity of what you are pleading, and more importantly, sir, the seriousness of the sentence that will be imposed upon you.”

Ty McIntyre looked directly into the eyes of the judge, annunciating each word:

“I am guilty of murder, Judge. What I wish is to receive full sentence for what I done.”

Butler held Ty’s gaze for a few moments, perhaps looking for a lack of surety. He apparently found none. “I assume you make this plea of your own accord, Mr. McIntyre. That you are under no obligation or duress?”

“No, sir. No duress. I admit what I done freely.”

Butler turned again to the Prosecution. “Ms. Jorgensen?”

Beulah paused, staring down at the blank notebook before her on the table. “The State opposes the defendant’s plea, Your Honor.”

Butler drew back perceptibly. “Excuse me?”

“Based on the nineteen ninety-seven decision in the case State of Wyoming versus Roy W. Montgomery, Judge; a capital murder case. The Prosecution has the right to decline any plea, even—and under some circumstances,
particularly due to
—a guilty one.”

She reached in her satchel and removed a printed sheet of paper. She read aloud: “From Judge Henry Reinwald’s written decision:

‘
In response to a charge of murder with special circumstances, wherein the death penalty is sought; if the court believes there is substantive cause to suggest the accused harbors a ‘death wish’, i.e. makes his or her plea under self-serving or suicidal auspices, the court may require a ‘not guilty’ plea in expectation of a trial by a jury of peers’.
”

Judge Butler sat, transfixed.

“The decision was upheld, Your Honor,” Jorgensen said. “The jury found Montgomery guilty, and having received a death sentence, the defense even petitioned the Appellate Court to set aside the verdict and accept Montgomery’s original plea. The court upheld the decision and was
adamant
in denying the defendant’s plea of ‘guilty’ and refused to set aside the verdict, based on the grounds that were it to accept the
original
plea in place of the verdict, the court would be condoning the man’s wish to die.”

Butler looked back to J.W. Hanson. Then again to Jorgensen. His expression was that of a cornered animal, wary of the next step. He eventually found his poker face and addressed the room:

“Contingent on my review of Ms. Jorgensen’s precedent, this court denies the defendant’s ‘guilty’ plea and enters one of ‘not guilty’. Opening arguments begin tomorrow, Tuesday, and nine A.M.”

Hanson did not object.

The thunder of Butler’s gavel was the only sound in the room.

Sheriff Pruett met with Hanson after the plea hearing.

“A stroke of genius,” Hanson said. “Professionally speaking, it’s almost a shame you’re going to take that woman down.”

“To hell with that woman,” Pruett said. “Even a crazy dog outsmarts the fox once in a while.”

“What have you heard from Ms. Delgado?”

“Nothing,” Pruett said. “I planned to drop by the office after the hearing. You care to join me?”

Beulah Jorgensen was not gloating. In fact, she was not present at the Town Attorney’s office when Pruett and J.W. Hanson arrived. But neither was Shelly Delgado.