Molon Labe! (9 page)

Several stern, contemplative nods of approval answer his argument. Few jurors liked Agent Lorner.

Joel Salazar, an accountant, says, "Let's not forget the testimony of the previous owner, Mr. Krassny. He installed an ATF-approved muzzle brake, and it's still on the rifle. That alone raises reasonable doubt in my mind."

Foreman Slater is solemn. "OK folks, let's talk about this. What are your thoughts on what Mr. Preston has just said?"

As the jurors file back into the courtroom, Krempler glances at his watch, smiles, and comments to his assistant, "An hour and ten minutes. Just about right."

The mood at the defense table is not so confident.

"Wow — that was pretty quick! Is that good?" asks Bill Russell.

"I'm not sure. We'll see," answers Juliette. She also is nervous about the jurors' early return. Such usually betokened a conviction, however, she forces herself to remain calm as one could never predict a jury.

After the jury is seated and the court is called to order, Fleming begins. "Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?"

Robert Slater stands and replies, "We have, Your Honor."

"Very well. Will the defendant please rise."

Bill Russell and Juliette Kramer both stand. This moment was always the most exquisitely suspenseful for all present, especially for the defense. Nothing in life compared to those agonizing seconds as a defendant waited to hear the first consonant from the jury foreman's lips.

Bill Russell's future depends on that consonant. An "n" and he is vindicated and free. A hard "g" and he is a convicted felon, forbidden to ever vote, hold a professional license, or own a gun.

Focal points. They are the rudder of life. Russell had several such focal points and they flashed through his mind as the résumé of his existence. His hand-to-hand duel in a Vietnam jungle when his bayonet pierced the VC's chest barely in time. His nervous marriage proposal to Connie when he wasn't at all sure that she'd accept. At the emergency room holding his sobbing wife, waiting for the trauma surgeon to emerge with a pronouncement of life or death over their son Carl severely injured in a motorcycle accident.

So far, Bill Russell's life had not ricochetted off any unexpected hard surfaces. His trajectory had sailed on, perforating all barriers. He survived Nam in one piece, Connie married him, and Carl not only lived but kept his damaged eye. In the courtroom Russell has time to appreciate this focal point arriving with such calenderal notice, unlike the others. He savors it, grateful for his life and family. Although death hangs not over him, a sort of amputation does. The State is poised to lop off five years of life and much of his freedom thereafter. And for what? A $20 tube of metal.

An "n" or a "g." Thumb up or thumb down. It's come to this all because of a burnt-out 30¢ bulb.

The tiny things. There's nothing bigger.

Fleming's voice snaps Russell back to the present. "Mr. Foreman, will you read the verdict."

Slater intones, "On the felony count of illegal possession of an assault weapon, we the jury, find the defendant . . . "

Over three hundred eyes and ears are locked on Slater's lips.

" . . . Not Guilty."

The courtroom erupts with cheers and applause. Krempler sits in his chair, stunned. A grapefruit can be thrown in Lorner's open mouth. Bill Russell hugs Juliette as Judge Fleming bangs and bangs his gavel, but the sound is lost amidst the furor. It takes nearly a minute for the courtroom to quiet down.

Foreman Slater continues, "Furthermore, this jury believes there is evidence of prosecutorial malfeasance in this case, and — "

The uproar is instant and deafening. Fleming's gavel pounding is a mime routine.

"— and recommends that the matter be reviewed by the Grand Jury," Slater manages to yell over the din.

Judge Fleming shouts, "Case dismissed! Court adjourned!" and flees the bench, his black robe fluttering behind him like a wake.

On the front steps of the Federal Building a large crowd gathers as the TV news crews jostle with questions for Bill Russell, Juliette Kramer, and most of the jurors, including James Preston. The afternoon rain had cleared out, leaving a bright and sunny day. It seemed fitting.

In the US Attorney's office, Krempler and Lorner are watching the live coverage. As Preston explains to the press the two different gunpowders likely used to create different flash plumes, Krempler slowly turns to Lorner. The ATF had a long and sordid history for evidence tampering such as Waco, as well as abusive raids such as in 1995 when Agent Donna Slusser stomped the Lamplugh's family kitten to death.

"What the fuck did you
do
, Lorner? Don't . . . tell . . . me . . . you — "

"Hey, you wanted a significant reduction in flash, you
got
a significant reduction in flash!" taunts Lorner. "
You're
the one who let Preston get on that jury. A target shooter? A
handloader
? Real smart, Krempler. Hey, too bad he wasn't wearing an orange and brown tie!"

"Do you know what you've
done
, genius? Michael Gartner at NBC News faked those pickup truck explosions and merely got canned.
We're
all looking at years in the federal pen!"

"Oh,
yeah
? How so? I'm not admitting to shit and they won't
find
shit 'cuz all the spent brass got thrown in the recycling barrel, so just chill out. This'll all die down."

"For the sake of your own ass, it'd better," retorts Krempler. "I didn't know a thing about this, Lorner, and I still don't. Jesus H. — what a nightmare! Just keep your mouth shut. And get the fuck out of my office!"

"Sure thing, Counselor," sneers Lorner. As he leaves, he stops, slowly turns, and says, "Hey, you didn't even compliment me on my suit!"

"Get
out
!" yells Jack Krempler.
Asshole
. He already knows what Agent Gordon Lorner would soon and forever more be called behind his back.
Flash Gordon
. Krempler lets out a mirthless chuckle.

The crowd on the Federal Building steps has not abated and is growing more festive by the minute.

Bill Russell invited Juliette Kramer and all the jurors over to his home for a backyard BBQ party on Saturday afternoon. Ms. Witherspoon stormed off, her wattles jiggling with every angry step. James Preston and Juliette Kramer manage to ease away from the crowd.

"Mr. Preston, you saved my client from prison," says Juliette. "I'd hoped to get at least one serious gun owner on the panel, but who knew how important that would be! I can't thank you enough!"

"Please, it's 'Jim.' I'm glad that I was there to help. When I reported for jury summons, I'd no idea of the adventure in store for me — for
all
of us. But there
is
one thing you could do for me."

"Certainly, Jim. What is that?" asks Juliette.

"Saving an innocent man from prison is hard work, and it's made for quite an appetite. Would you care to join me for dinner?"

Juliette smiles and laughs. To Preston it sounds like bells. "I'd love to, but only if I'm buying. What are you in the mood for?"

On a hunch, as a test, Preston replies, "Sushi. And I save it only for special occasions."

"Oooh, it's my favorite
too
! There's a new place on Midwest Avenue. Let's go!" says Juliette, laughing in that way of hers.

Yep
, he thinks.
Bells
.

It is only a few blocks away, and neither of them think to drive. Without thought and in step, they turn their backs on the Federal Building and cross the street together, Juliette taking his arm as ladies do — or used to.

"I thought Fleming was about to go into cardiac arrest when he heard the verdict," Preston remarks. "He's probably up in his chambers now, chugging a bottle of bourbon!"

Juliette chuckles. "Actually, Fleming's a vodkaholic. Finlandia, if you want to buy him some. Hey, you know what a judge is, don't you?"

Grinning, Preston replies, "No, what?"

"Just a grown man wearing a dress, banging on the furniture!"

They giggle all the way to the sushi bar.

Preston could remember their dinner only through a sweet, dreamy fog. Never had he felt so instantly and so totally entranced with a woman. She was expressive, but not gushy. Brilliant, but not haughty. Her beauty she wore simply, without motive. Loveliness seemed to well from some deep, inner spring.

He had never met anyone like her. He was in very, very deep smit. Walking her back to her green GMC Tahoe, Preston gives her a hug and thanks her for dinner.

She gets in, starts her truck, and rolls down the window. "Can I get you on my next jury? We may have to disguise you a bit. Fleming won't want you back," she says, her eyes crinkling.

"Neither would Krempler," he laughs.

Just before he turns to leave he says, "Juliette, do you know who you remind me of?"

"Hmmm. I've no idea. Who?"

There's a fond wistfulness in his smile. "Nobody."

Her face is a slow kaleidoscope of vulnerability, sweetness, and shyness. Her eyes well with tears, which she rapidly blinks back. He would never forget how she looked at him. His heart's first tattoo.

She gets out, gives him a surprisingly strong hug and lightly kisses his cheek.
Hummingbird wings
. Her long wavy brunette hair is a soft bouquet, clean and fragrant. Her ivory neck he imagines a warm cradle for his face. He suddenly feels a champagne light-headedness.
I'm actually tipsy from her
.

"Thank you," she says, softly. She slowly releases him and gets back into her truck. She still has That Look on her face. Driving away she smiles brilliantly and pantomimes
Call me!

He smiles, nods, waves, standing there watching her taillights vanish in the dark. He can still smell her perfume wafting in the crisp night air. His feet, never touching pavement, hovercraft him back to his Suburban.

He does not recall the drive home.

James Wayne Preston is a Wyomingite in every sense of the word, an independent outdoorsman and lover of horses. Politically conservative, he is best described as a "libertarian Republican." His grandfather had made his first fortune in cattle and his second in oil. James now co-managed the ranch and family business interests with his father, Benjamin Preston.

A studious and disciplined only child, James was thin as a boy and didn't really begin to fill out until he was nearly eighteen. Adventuresome and nice looking with dark brown hair and eyes, he was nonetheless a bit shy with girls in high school. Not until his junior year did he have a girlfriend, but it was a tempestuous relationship which he ended badly. He got turned down for dates for weeks afterward. Although a solid personality shielded him from most peer pressure, seventeen
is
seventeen.

His favorite grandmother had some advice which changed his life.
Jimmy, a woman will walk over, around, or through any man better looking or more wealthy if you know how to
dance
. He knew it was true; Davis Bettencourt was no football star, but could he ever move a girl around on the dance floor. He was rarely without some lovely lass on his arm, including one formerly of the first-string quarterback.

So, James snuck off after school three days a week for dancing lessons across town. He even enrolled under an alias, Fred Rogers. If his dance teacher understood the pun, she never let on. James had his mother's natural rhythm and learned quickly. After just three months he could Swing, Salsa, C&W, and even Waltz. At the homecoming ball he astonished the entire school with his graceful moves. Girls all but stood in line for the next dance with him. Overnight his confidence and reputation skyrocketed. His prom was with the school's prettiest girl. His senior year ended up a huge success, academically and socially.

He planned on a military career beginning at Annapolis. Graduating fifth in his class, he proudly took on the "butter bars" of a Marine Corps second lieutenant and went off to helicopter flight school. He soon distinguished himself in the Bell AH-1W SuperCobra, and flew the sleek gunship in dozens of sorties during Desert Storm. His last had been the most interesting.

While attacking, without support, two Iraqi SA-6 "Gainful" SAM batteries he got caught in the radar of a deadly ZSU-23-4 self-propelled AA gun. The 4-barreled turreted system spewed a devastating 50-round burst of 23mm cannon shells, wounding both him and his gunner/copilot, and severely damaging his helo. Captain Preston barely limped back to base before the tail rotor sheared off. He was released from hospital nine days later on medical leave from flight duty. Desert Storm ended before he could fly again. He was happy to learn that he and his copilot had taken out two of the last SAM batteries of the war. For him it was a happy conclusion to his part of the fighting.

After the Gulf War he was offered a promotion to major if he "reupped" and switched to the MV-22 Osprey, a controversial tilt-rotor/fixed-wing assault transport. Preston seriously considered it but came to call the Osprey a "twitchy beast" and didn't much care for the hybrid craft, though he thought the tilt-rotor concept fascinating. After the MV-22's first crash in 1991 he felt his suspicions vindicated. While Preston loved being a Marine, he decided that he was too independent for military life, especially during peacetime. He left active duty as a captain with 169 combat hours.
A week and an hour
he liked to joke. He would miss the twin 1,725 horsepower GE turboshafts and the incredible nimbleness of the SuperCobra, however. Attack helos got in your blood like nothing else. He wondered if any other thrill could compare with sending Hellfire missiles into T-72 tanks. He doubted it.

Although he did not take lightly the killing of enemy soldiers, the surgical precision of his helo's weapons against the singularly evil purpose of Iraqi armor dispelled his initial qualms about combat. Saddam Hussein had had many months to withdraw from Kuwait during the Allied buildup, but refused to do so. His armored divisions could have surrendered once the air war began, but did not. Therefore, USMC Captain Preston went into, and emerged from, combat with a clean conscience.