A Ghost of Justice (2 page)

3

Phil
Lindley stood gazing out the north window of his corner office.  The First Guilford Tower stood only a few blocks away, but he didn't really see the overly familiar sight.

"Okay," he said.  "It was a pretty solid and simple case.  No myriad of facts to muddle through.  The defense's line about the 'mystery car' didn't go.  That's why the trial went so quickly.  The speed with which it went through appeals is because of the changes that occurred as a result of the events that started the century.  I say that for the few of you old enough to remember all the long, drawn-out process we used to have."

He turned to face his clients.  He had been representing the family for so long that they were all as familiar as the north view.  He sighed, leaning against the window sill.  "I

think that was a blessing in view of the circumstances."

"Goddammit!  How can you use the word 'blessing' in this," old Eric Senior spat out.  Then he held his hand shakily up as he lowered his head.  "Sorry, Phil.  I…I know what you mean."  The elder Sheafer also sighed.  "And you're right.  But I don't understand why he might be let loose.  What is this goddamned law you keep quoting?  And his dad hasn't even been told yet!"

Phil Lindley nodded and took a slow, deep breath.  Then he began, choosing his words carefully.  “The law was passed four years ago, in the summer of Thirty-Six.  So

much pressure in the election year for more tax reductions gave congress and the president no choice.  With the Balanced Budget Amendment ratified in twenty-two, they were forced to keep cutting deep.  Job Service is gone.  Welfare and Social Retirement are down to thirty percent of pre-Amendment coverage.  Dismantling of Health Care and

federal unemployment insurance.  Those aren't all.  A whole lot of new laws have run through state legislatures as a result.  North Carolina's no different.  All are simply trying to achieve the impossible: balance the budget of feds and states.  The Federal Vigilante Act is just one of those.  It's really only an extension of a much older law."  Phil stepped  next to his desk and half sat on it, his right foot pressing into the carpet.  He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was apologizing for a government run largely by careless

elements, but he had to explain.

After another deep intake of air, he continued.  "Prisons are expensive.  They decided not to build any new space and they even closed some.  Leavenworth, SuperMax, San Quentin.  All the old big ones.  The states can't pick up the slack."  Phil shrugged, frowning.  The careless political elements only heeded to the top one percent of wealth.  Everyone else was left to their own devices on far too many of the things that would

make this a more civilized culture.  "So," he resumed, "the Vigilante Act came about.  No other way.  The law covers more than murders, really.  But the name stuck.  Mr. Hardy can go free in three more days if there is no room to keep him.  I checked this morning.  The jails are at 127%.  If they stay that way, or go up, the sheriff will have no option.  It's 

the law."

Bob Sheafer asked, "Why does my brother get the job?  I mean, it was his own…"  Bob put his hand over his eyes for a second.  "Steve was like one of my own to me," he said softly, gesturing to the two men beside him.  "And mine are as much a part of Eric's own to him."

The younger, Ed, laid a hand on his shoulder.  Frank, at the far end of the sofa, was leaning forward, elbows on his knees.  He glanced at his father, then resumed

studying the carpet at his feet.

"God, Phil," Bob said.  "If David hadn't been with Tricia and little Vicki at the game, Eric would've lost his grandson, too.  Thank God Emily was with him and not staying with her brother.  Eric would've lost his whole family.  Now we're going to have to tell him we've already buried his son and daughter-in-law?  And the state says, 'Sorry, but you've got to get their killer yourself,' on top of it all?  Christ, that's a hell of a thing."

"I'm sorry, Bob.  There's nothing we can do.  The law specifies next-of-kin as the 'executioner-of-record.'  Strictly applied, that would mean David.  But, since--"

"Since he's a minor, " Frank interrupted.  "That leaves Uncle Eric as the hangman.  God, this is a shitty law."

"Yeah," Phil agreed.  "But there's a chance some gang of punks will kill Hardy.  Jeez.  A lot of redneck and militia types love this law.  Turned it into a damned sport.  He's likely to be dead before he can leave the vicinity of the jail."

"And he
will
be if I get a chance," Ed Sheafer said bitterly.

"Get in line, Eddie," Frank said.

Phil studied Frank for a moment.  Now the eldest of his generation, he sat staring at nothing, rhythmically pounding his palm with a clenched fist, the muscles in his neck standing out.  Phil realized Frank had been in agony since that night, blaming himself for being the last to see them alive, for leaving when he did.  Pointless self-blame, but all a part of his grieving.  Ed was somewhere in the same mental state, having just returned, on

that horrible night, from a trip to the western part of the state.  Everyone here was blaming themselves for one thing or another in the aftermath of Steve and Kelly's deaths.  Forgotten birthdays, a rudeness, argument.  Anything, little or not.

Better make sure they are clear on it, he thought.  "The designation 'executioner-of-record' is more than just a legal term.  It means that, given the right circumstances, Eric can be acquitted of wrongful death if he honestly believes he kills John Hardy and it turns out to be mistaken identity.  That leniency extends to no one else.  If any of you, or any other citizen, for that matter, goes after Mr. Hardy, be absolutely certain before you kill him."  One by one, he called them by name and looked for their acknowledgment.  He had to say Frank's name twice.  The new eldest of old Eric's grandchildren lagged but raised up to make eye contact.

That done, Phil glanced down at the carpet, not intentionally in mimic of Frank, then back up.  "Have any of you been able to contact Eric at all?  I've had no luck.  I have sent a sub-orbit mailer to him, but I'd like to get hold of him in real-time."

Ed spoke up.  "Mom finally got through to Cairo last night.  He's still out at his 'dig' site, but she talked to a Consortium member.  They're going to get someone in Siwah to drive out and bring him in.  They've had a lot of trouble with storms and atmospherics or something messing up communications all through Egypt and the rest of the Mediterranean.  And I'm sure Uncle Eric's been more concerned with his work than in the world out here."  Ed shook his head slowly.  He leaned back, staring into space. "I'm glad I'm not the one who has to tell him," he said in a whisper.

Phil nodded.  "It's all going to be hard on him."

"He's a Sheafer," Eric Senior said.  "He can handle it.  Handled Rose's death, you know."

Phil nodded again.  He remembered.

"Comes from me.  I was a company commander at the embassy in Saigon.  Got a Purple Heart and DSC, you know.  After losing Rose,  Eric went on to finish raising those kids…"  The old man paused.  Then he cried out, "Good God, Phil!  Steve was my first-born grandchild."  He beat on the armchair with a wrinkled fist.  Tears ran into the folds of his cheeks.  "There's no sense to this law.  No sense at all."

Phil Lindley walked over and knelt by his old friend and client.  "I know.  I agree with you.  But that's the way it is.  What we must do now is help Eric all we can, any way we can."  Phil touched him once on the arm and retreated back to the desk.  He was a

sensitive man, and right now he needed to remain strong for this family. 

He watched the four men leave his office after their goodbyes.  Thinking of old Eric's bitter anger, he realized that it was just the reaction the designers of the Vigilante Act had intended.  If Eric was like his father, John Hardy was already dead.

4

Dr
Albert Evans-Thomas, chairman of the Archeology School at Cambridge, and consortium co-director, kept office in a warehouse on the northern outskirts of Siwah.  At least he did when he couldn't be in the field.  He came out to greet them.  Solemnly.

Eric stepped out of the land rover behind Emily.  "What's this all about, Albert?"

"Could we go in to my office?  I would think that more appropriate," he said.  The director's face was grave.  "Inside, please,"  he said, gentle but insistent, holding his hand out.  "Eric.  Emily."  Then he turned and went in.

They had no choice but to follow.  After the hour-long ride the cool interior should have been inviting.  Emily hardly noticed the shelter from the heat.

Albert gestured for them to sit once they were in his office.  They didn't.  He took a small flat package, obviously a book or document, and handed it to Eric.  One end was jaggedly torn open.  A simple label only said, 'Cambridge Egyptian Consortium.'  "It, ah, came like this."  The British professor began to look about.  "I'm sorry.  I-I had t-t-to open it to see what it was about.  So, I-I-I, ah…"  He stumbled to a halt.

It wasn't normal for him to stutter so.  And it seemed he was trying to apologize for something.  Either for reading her father's correspondence or…what else?

Albert found his words.  "It came scuffed and all, addressed just to the consortium.  I-I-I didn't know it was for you.  Not until I read…"  His voice faded again.

She turned and saw her father staring at the page, sunned face strikingly pale.  He reached out to a sconce on the wall to steady himself.  "Dad?"

He seemed not to hear.

"Dad, what is it?"

He looked up from the top page.  She recognized the expression.  She had seen it when her mother died.  He held out the package, having only looked at the single sheet.

"Grandma?" she asked, taking the bundle, which was heavy.  Glancing in, she saw it was all hard copy.  No n-pad.  She briefly scanned his eyes, but he wasn't going to tell her; didn't seem capable of speech.

Afraid of it, but drawn to it, she looked down.  It was simple.  Just a few lines on a sheet with Phil Lindley's letter head at the top.

Emily scanned over it, barely reading, looking for the news that had rocked her father.  And found it: 
'With most regret I must tell you that your son and daughter-in-law were murdered February 17
th
.  They were buried two weeks ago.

'The responsible party has been tried and convicted.  Documents related…'

She couldn't read any more.

Just like that.  No more brother.  She had a brother just a few months ago.  The whole family, including him, all went to Carolina Beach.  She thought she had a brother

this morning.  A few terse words and he was gone.

She had a sister, too.  Maybe not blood kin, but Kelly had become a real sister to her.  But now…

She sought one of Albert's offered chairs and sat.  The parcel had gained a ton of weight.  She laid it in her lap, unable to even think about it.  It wouldn't sink in.  Instead it raced wildly across her mind, not settling anywhere.  The letter said it so bluntly:
murdered
.

When was it?  That suddenly seemed imperative to know.  She glanced angrily down at her lap.  The letter still lay on the top.  Blinking to clear her eyes, she saw the date again.  Thirty-two days ago!  How could it have taken this long to tell them?

Vaguely, Emily heard Evans-Thomas mumbling something about a screw-up with the n-phones, radios not working, i-systems messed up and other garbage.  Just as quick as it was vital to know, she no longer cared about the time.  Steve and Kelly were dead.  Murdered.  This
had
to be a trick, a mistake, a dream…nightmare.

Albert was still talking.  "I really felt it a frightful invasion of your privacy, Eric.  But I did so want to help in any way I could, you see.  The next page said something about reservations with the West Suborbiter out of Morocco, paid in advance.  I took the liberty of checking.  This Lindley fellow must be a good friend indeed."

"Family lawyer," a voice croaked.  Emily didn't think it sounded like her father but nobody else was there.

"Yes, well.  He made a Time-of-Claim reservation with EuroStratus.  New thing, I understand.  It's in effect for the first flight after you claim it, see."

Poor man is nearly babbling, Emily thought.  The irony wasn't missed by her.  She and her father had lost Steve, and she felt sorry for Evans-Thomas.

The Englishman continued.  "Two reservations, of course.  You must go with

your father, Miss Sheafer."

As if I'd consider otherwise, she thought.

Her hands and feet suddenly lost feeling.  The chair seemed no longer sufficient to hold her and the parcel.  The document slid to the floor.  Emily raised a shaking hand to the side of her face.  "Oh, God," she managed to say weakly.  Remembering the other victim in the tragedy, she moaned and let her head slump against the hand.  "David," she managed to utter in a rasping voice.

Her father sat down next to her, encircling her shoulders with his arm.

Through a sudden and profound numbness she managed to notice a tremor going through him.