The Perk (25 page)

"And what do you figure?"

"I don't figure Delgado for a fool. I
figure he'll make good on his threat."

"A Thanksgiving weekend protest?"

"Yep."

"Well, that's their free speech
right."

"No, Beck, that's a time bomb. City cops,
they'll try to arrest the whole bunch of 'em. And that could turn Main Street into another Alamo, only with the Mexicans losing this time. All it would take
is one trigger-happy cop … or deer hunter."

"Thanksgiving still the biggest hunting
weekend?"

"Yep. We'll have more guns in town that
weekend than they got in Baghdad. Every pickup and SUV in town'll be packing
thirty-aught-six rifles and deer hunters, both loaded. One dumb-ass and we got
dead Mexicans on Main Street."

"So that's what, eight weeks from now,
before that time bomb goes off?"

"Yep."

"And all this happened three weeks
ago?"

"Yep."

"One week before the election?"

"Yep."

"That's why the D.A. dropped out of the
election."

"Chicago lawyers, y'all are real smart. Yep,
they needed Junior in the D.A.'s office to pull it off. If he's in your chair
on the second floor of the courthouse, he can't control the case. Another D.A.
might've sent Slade straight to the grand jury. Junior, he wasn't happy about
it, but they promised him the judgeship would be his for life. Starting next
year."

"And you told me all this because …?"

"Because Slade walking on this don't sound
like justice …"

There was that word again.

"… And I don't like it when some people
figure they're above the law. Figured you might not like it either."

"I don't. But I don't have jurisdiction until
the grand jury indicts him. And the grand jury can't indict unless the J.P.
finds probable cause and refers Slade over."

"Which ain't gonna happen … unless you
do something about it."

"Such as?"

"You got original jurisdiction over all
felony cases. You can order Slade's case transferred from the J.P. court to
the district court. Then you preside over the examining trial. You decide if
there's probable cause to send Slade to the grand jury."

"Will the grand jury indict Slade if his
dad's connected?"

"Fifty-fifty. But there's three Mexicans
on the grand jury, that's the law now, so there can't be a cover-up. I figure
if Slade goes to the grand jury, he'll plead out."

"Only problem is, Grady, I've got to have
good cause to transfer the case out of J.P. court or Stutz will just appeal my
order and the appeals court will kick it back to the J.P."

"Good cause, huh? Like the J.P. biased in
favor of Slade?"

"That'd be good."

"Like the J.P. biased against Mexicans?"

"That'd be better. But, Grady, I've got to
have evidence."

"Evidence, huh? Like a tape
recording?"

Beck laughed. "Yeah, a tape recording of a
judge exhibiting bias is pretty good evidence, Grady, but in my experience those
recordings are kind of hard to come by."

"Oh. Okay, I'll see what I can do about
that."

"You do that."

"You'll be in the rest of the day?"

Beck nodded. "After the next court session."
He picked up Heidi's file. "Mind if I keep this a while longer?"

Grady shook his head. "I know where you
work." Beck stood, and Grady said, "Funny, ain't it?"

"What's that?"

"Tourists. Every weekend they come to town,
shop on Main Street, go to a festival at the Marktplatz, eat at a nice
restaurant, think the place looks like a picture-postcard, figure living here
must be damn near perfect." Grady shook his head. "But they don't
have a clue what's really going on, right below the surface of this small
town."

One walk up and down
Main Street had convinced Robert and Lisa Davenport that Fredericksburg, Texas, was just the kind of small town they wanted to retire to. They had grown tired of
the crime and cold winters of Cleveland and wanted to spend their senior years
in the crime-free country and warm climate of Texas. They bought a two-acre
tract just outside the city limits and built their dream home. They moved in
on the first Friday in November a year ago. They fell asleep—with their
windows open, something they had never done in Cleveland—around 10:30
P.M.
to
the sounds of a quiet country night.

They awoke at 6:55
A.M.
to the sound of gunfire.

Deer hunting season in Gillespie County had begun at sunrise that Saturday morning. Their neighbor, William Raymond Boenker,
aka Billy Ray Boenker, enjoyed passing the time of day by sitting on his back
porch popping off the tops on beer cans and rounds from his .30-06 Remington rifle
at any deer that dared show its face on his property; from his rocking chair,
he had an unobstructed view of his entire four acres. His back porch was only
two hundred feet from the Davenport's back patio; at that distance, his .30-06 sounded
like a six-inch cannon. By Billy Ray's own estimation, he fired off three
hundred rounds a day seven days a week through the first weekend in January,
when deer hunting season officially ended.

Not being native Texans, the Davenports assumed
that Billy Ray's hunting practices were illegal; they called the sheriff. The
deputy dispatched to their home explained that while some Texas counties
required a minimum of ten or twenty acres for deer hunting, Gillespie County had no such minimum acreage requirement. City ordinances prohibited the
discharge of firearms within the city limits, but since Billy Ray's property was
outside the city limits, his actions, while stupid, were not criminal.

The Davenports then filed a civil suit seeking a
permanent injunction against Billy Ray's hunting on such a small tract; they
alleged nuisance, harassment, and intentional infliction of emotional distress.
Both parties had filed various motions, culminating in Billy Ray's Motion for
Summary Judgment, which had been pending when Judge Stutz abruptly retired.

Beck had inherited the case. He was sitting
behind the bench facing the Davenports and their lawyer and Billy Ray Boenker
and Lawyer Polk. Again with this guy.

"Mr. and Mrs. Davenport," Beck said,
"Texas law is clear on this point. It's asinine, but it's clear. Mr. Boenker
is entitled to hunt deer on his four-acre tract. Therefore, I must grant his
motion and rule in his favor."

Beck turned to Billy Ray Boenker. "Billy
Ray, how far can a thirty-aught-six bullet fired at shoulder level
travel?"

He shrugged. "Forty-five degree angle, maybe
two miles."

"Two miles. Which means you could fire
your rifle from your back porch and the bullet could travel across your land
and the Davenport's land and a few other people's land?"

"I ain't aiming their way."

"It doesn't matter where you aim, you don't
own enough land to keep the bullet on your property."

"I aim down."

"Don't you understand how dangerous it is
for you to sit on your back porch and fire off a rifle?"

"I got my rights." He grinned at the Davenports. "And come November three, I'm gonna exercise my rights all day every day
for two months."

The neighbor from hell.

"Billy Ray, if you ever shoot anything that's
outside your property line, you're going straight to jail, you
understand?"

Billy Ray gave him a hard look. Beck turned to the Davenports. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."

"Well, there's something we can do,"
Mrs. Davenport said.

"Now, Mrs. Davenport, I know you're
disappointed, but you cannot take the law into your own hands."

She shook her head. "We're moving back to Cleveland. Texans are nuts."

"You got a tape player?"

Sheriff Grady Guenther was waiting for Beck when
he returned downstairs to his chambers. Beck shut the door and walked over to
his desk.

"There's one around here somewhere."

Beck sat and rummaged through the bottom
drawers. He found a tape player and placed it on the desk. Grady reached into
his shirt pocket and pulled out a cassette tape. He snapped the cassette into
the recorder.

"Not many folks know it, but the law
requires the magistrate to record his communications with the suspect, so there's
proof he gave him the Miranda warning and notified him of his rights. When my
men took Slade before Walt that night, that was all recorded."

Grady hit the PLAY button. A gruff voice came
across.

"Justice of the
Peace Walt Schmidt presiding. It is ten-thirty
P.M.
on Saturday, September eighth. Appearing before
me is Slade McQuade. Mr. McQuade, you have been arrested for aggravated
assault, to wit, it is alleged that you did inflict serious bodily injury upon
one Julio Espinoza."

There was the sound of paper being shuffled and
then it was obvious Schmidt was reading.

"Slade McQuade, you are hereby advised that
you have the right to remain silent, that anything you say can be used against
you in a court of law, that you have the right to an attorney prior to
questioning, and that you have the right to have an attorney present during
questioning. You have the right to terminate the questioning at any time. If
you cannot afford an attorney, you have the right to have one appointed for you
prior to any questioning. You have the right to an examining trial at which
this court will determine if probable cause exists to send your case to the
grand jury. Mr. McQuade, do you understand your rights as I have explained
them?"

Slade: "Yeah."

Schmidt: "Son, best you don't say nothing
till your daddy gets here."

There were garbled sounds, something about
"my football."

Schmidt: "Heckuva game last night. But
why the hell did y'all punt on fourth-and-one?"

There was no response from Slade.

Schmidt: "Slade? Why'd y'all punt on
fourth-and-one?"

Still no response.

Schmidt: "Son, are you gonna answer
me?"

Slade: "You told me not to say
nothing."

Schmidt: "I didn't mean about football. I
meant about beating up the Mexican."

Slade: "Oh. Coach didn't want to run up
the score."

Schmidt: "Why the hell not? Ah, here's
the gal with my football. Can't wait to see you play for the Longhorns, Slade.
State championship here, national championship there. Say, how about signing
my football?"

Grady hit the STOP button.

"Walt's a big football fan."

He hit PLAY.

Schmidt: "Now, don't you worry, son. We
ain't gonna let this keep you from playing football for us. We know how to
handle Mexicans."

The sound stopped. Grady hit the STOP button,
looked up at Beck.

"That one of those tape recordings?"

Beck was shaking his head.

"Why would Schmidt say that knowing he's
being recorded?"

" 'Cause A, he don't do the recording.
Clerk does, so half the time Walt forgets he's being taped—you wouldn't believe
some of the stupid shit he says. B, law requires these tapes be preserved for
four months, then they're destroyed, so he ain't never had one come back and
bite him in the butt. Three, he—"

"C."

"See what?"

"No, you said A, B, three, instead of A, B,
C."

"Oh. C, he didn't know he'd be presiding
over Slade's examining trial. Stutz hadn't dreamed it up yet. And D, Walt
ain't the smartest goat rancher in the county."

"How'd you get the tape?"

"Deputy that took Slade in that night, he told me what Walt
said. So when you said you needed evidence, I just moseyed on over to his
office and asked Ingrid for it. She's his clerk."

"Why'd she give it to you?"

"Like I said, Beck, most Germans here are
good people."

"Grady, you got any advice on handling
Schmidt?"

"Well now, I'm not telling you how to do
your job, Beck, but was me I'd walk that order down the hall and hand it to
Walt personally, then I'd step over to the shelf where he keeps that football
and I'd pick it up and say, 'Why, is that Slade McQuade's autograph? When did
you get him to sign your football, Walt?' Then I'd give him a look that says I
know everything, see? And I'd whisper that if he objects to the transfer, that
tape recording will be transcribed and printed on the front page of the
newspaper. He won't want that. Unlike me, he needs his job."

"That's a good idea, Grady."

"Thought you might like it."

"Grady, how'd all this stay quiet for three
weeks? Can't keep a secret for three hours in this town."

He nodded. "People in a small town do talk.
But they also know when to keep their mouths shut. This was one of those
times. Not many folks knew about it, but those that did knew it could be real
bad for this town. So they kept it quiet." He looked at Beck. "But
I figure that's about to change."

"Yeah, Grady, that's about to change."

Grady smiled and stood. "Well, good luck
with that, Beck."

"Grady, you're not what I expected. I
figured—"

"I was that
sheriff from
In the Heat of the Night?
"

Beck felt his face flush. He lied. "Oh,
no, Grady, I—"

He waved Beck off. "You know, that's my
all-time favorite movie. 'Cause that old sheriff, he changed. Way I figured, I
got my job because of my daddy, but I didn't have to be my daddy. I know what
his reputation was, and I ain't particularly proud of it. I want my kids to be
proud of their daddy."

Grady stepped over and opened the door.

"I've been holding that time bomb in my lap
for three weeks … feels good to hand it off to you." He smiled. "Welcome
home, Beck."

The Fredericksburg Athletic Club was not like Beck's
downtown Chicago gym: there was no valet parking, no burled walnut lockers, no
saunas or steam rooms, and no old naked men playing gin rummy in the plush locker
room. This gym was located in a strip mall next to a taco joint and across
from the Wal-Mart. Four-wheel-drive pickups were parked outside.