Tribal Court (2 page)

Chapter 2

"Fuck you."

Johnny Quilcene sat defiantly in his plastic chair. He probably would have crossed his arms and leaned back with a grin, but his hands were cuffed behind him so he could only offer a slouch to go with his shit-eating grin.

"Nice language," Chen replied evenly. He was seated opposite Quilcene. Next to him was Emily Lassiter, one of the newer detectives. Normally she did property crimes, but it was three in the morning and it was a murder. All hands on deck. Good experience for her and someone to play bad cop to Chen's good.

"Let me explain a few things to you, Johnny," Chen went on. "Then maybe we can reach an understanding."

"Fuck you," Quilcene repeated. The grin turned into a scowl. Almost menacing, Brunelle thought as he watched the proceedings through an obvious two-way mirror with the adjoining room.

Quilcene was young. Nineteen. Shaved head with a bit of black stubble showing. Thin, but wiry. And a nose that wasn't exactly big, but came to a pronounced point. He had tattoos up both arms and some script Brunelle couldn't quite make out crawling around his neck. There was no teardrop tattoo yet—the badge of honor for murderers—but Brunelle had no doubt he'd earned himself one a few hours earlier. The most important tattoo was the one they couldn't see, but was on the information sheet from his last booking: "NGB" across his chest. Native Gangster Blood. He was a member of the Blood gang, a set that was exclusively Native American and centered primarily around the Duwallup tribe near Tacoma. The same tribe George 'Child Molester' Traver was a member of.

"Right," Chen replied. "Fuck you too. Now, let's get to it…"

Quilcene jerked his head at Chen's reply. Chen had his attention.
Good
.

"We know Traver was a dirt bag," Chen continued. "Honestly, between you, me, and the wall, I'm glad he's gone. One less child rapist I gotta track down and waste a jail bed on, ya know? So really, I'm just looking to wrap this up. He had three active warrants, including some pretty sick stuff. I dunno, maybe you knew this guy. Knew he was a child molester, and maybe worse. Maybe he comes at you in the dark and you figure he's gonna rape you too. I dunno. But maybe you pull out that nice little knife you left behind—"

"With your fingerprints," Lassiter interrupted.

"You don't got no fingerprints back yet, bitch," Quilcene sneered. "Those fingerprint dudes are fat fuckers sitting at a desk all day. I seen 'em testify before. They ain't up at three in the fucking morning checking no fucking fingerprints."

Brunelle smiled. Quilcene was an asshole, but he was right.

Lassiter bristled, but Chen kept going.

"She's just saying what we all know. There's probably prints on that knife handle, and if there are, they're probably yours. And Johnny, that's bad news for you."

"And bad news for you if no fingerprints come back," Quilcene countered. "Why don't we just wait and see what bullshit evidence you think you got on me before you start saying you got my fingerprints on the fucking murder weapon and shit."

Chen rubbed his chin. "Well, that's just it, Johnny. Waiting is bad for you."

"Really bad," Lassiter tried. She was new to the game. It was showing.

Brunelle rolled his eyes and hoped Chen could overcome Lassiter's rookie performance.

Quilcene shifted in his seat. His eyes darted from Chen to Lassiter and back again. He was clearly thinking, but he wasn't saying anything.

"Waiting is bad for you," Chen repeated. "This is your chance, Johnny. Your one chance to come clean and tell us your side of the story.

At that, a grin replaced the concern that was starting to show on Quilcene's face. "Naw, I got plenty a' time to tell you my side a' the story. Like, after you give my lawyer all the police reports and I see what you actually got on me and my lawyer finds all the holes in your case."

Brunelle had to nod begrudgingly. The kid knew how the game was played.

"Now, look, Quilcene," Lassiter started. She leaned onto the table and jabbed a finger at him. Her straw-colored hair was pulled back in a simple pony-tail. She might have looked like a simple angry schoolteacher, except for the .45 semi-auto on her hip.

Before she could say more, though, Chen gently pushed down her accusatory finger and nodded congenially to his subject.

"Well, Johnny," he said. "You could do that. But let me tell you why that's a bad idea."

Lassiter yanked her hand out from under Chen's and shot him a narrowed-eye glare. Chen wasn't letting her play her role. Brunelle wondered if she'd be able to let the affront go and channel her 'bad cop' again later if it were needed. He hadn't really dealt with her before—just a nod in the hallway a couple of times. If she was good, she'd be doing homicides soon enough. Best to get to know her now. So Brunelle had two subjects to study through the mirror.

"First off," Chen pointed to a finger on his left hand, "we all know you did it."

Quilcene started to protest, but Chen raised a hand to quiet him. "Now, now. Just hear me out. You don't have to agree with me or confess to anything. Just listen. You did it. You stabbed him. Even if you don't admit that right now, it's important to keep in mind that you did do it and the evidence is almost certainly going to show that."

"Almost," Quilcene laughed. "You said almost. See, man, even you know you ain't got shit."

Chen nodded. "No, right now, I ain't got shit. But I will. Which is why you better get real smart, real fast. That knife may or may not have fingerprints on it, but if it does, we both know they're yours."

Quilcene shrugged and looked away. "Whatever, dude."

"And there are witnesses, Johnny," Chen continued. "They may or may not be able to pick the killer out of a photomontage, but if they can, we both know they're gonna pick you."

"Bunch a' homeless drunks," Quilcene dismissed them with another shrug.

"And Johnny," Chen allowed himself a small smile, "you had blood on your hands. They swabbed your hands when they arrested you. You know, those big Q-tip things? Those are going to the crime lab, and unless you cut yourself on a fucking bottle cap, that blood's gonna come back as George Traver's. No maybes about it."

Quilcene narrowed his eyes at Chen as thoughts raced unexpressed behind them.

"When that happens, Johnny," Lassiter interrupted, "you're going down for murder."

Okay
, Brunelle nodded,
that kind of worked. Good job, Lassiter
.

"Unless," Chen raised a finger, but then let the thought linger, unexpressed.

Quilcene just sat there, but his eyes started to get shifty. Experienced detectives like Chen knew that people hate silence. They'll fill it themselves if they have to. Chen was waiting for Quilcene to blurt something out. Brunelle hoped Lassiter knew enough to stay quiet too.

Finally, Quilcene bit. "Unless what?"

Chen grinned. "Unless you come clean now. Before the fingerprints. Before the photomontage. Before the blood. Before you read those police reports with your lawyer and realize we've got your ass and so you better make up some bullshit story to fit the evidence. Juries aren't stupid, Johnny. They see right through that shit."

Brunelle wasn't as sure about juries not being stupid, but he always tried to help them see through the bullshit stories.

"But," Chen wrapped up his sales pitch, "if you tell us your side of the story now, the jury will know you were telling the truth. Hell, the prosecutor will know you're telling the truth, and maybe this never gets to a jury."

"How the fuck does murder not go to a jury?" Quilcene snapped, an incredulous frown on his face.

"When it's not a murder," Chen answered. "Murder is an
unlawful
killing, Johnny. But self defense is a justified killing. It's not murder. Hell, it's not even manslaughter. It's excusable homicide. You just walk."

Brunelle winced. He understood what Chen was trying to do: trick Quilcene into admitting he was the one who'd shoved that knife into Traver's chest. That would solve the 'whodunit?' part of the case. But Brunelle was still uneasy with coaching Quilcene how to cash in a 'get out of jail free' card. He tried to take solace in the fact that a nineteen year old gang-banger would have trouble claiming self defense against a fifty-two-year-old drunk homeless man.

Quilcene pursed his lips and nodded. He didn't say anything for several seconds. Then he looked Chen right in the eye. "You know what kind of sick asshole he was, man?"

Chen nodded. "We sure do. Child molester. Registered sex offender. Active warrants. A real bad guy."

"Yeah," Quilcene sneered. "Real bad guy. Fucker molested half the kids on my block growing up. Finally went to prison, but got out again and moved right back into my neighborhood. We didn't want his sick pervert ass in our neighborhood, but the cops—fuckers like you who're supposed to protect us—the cops said they couldn't do nothing. Level three fucking child molester in a neighborhood full of fucking kids and you fuckers can't do nothing."

"Did he molest one of the kids in your neighborhood, Johnny?" Lassiter asked. 'Bad cop' was long gone. This was genuinely concerned cop. Brunelle wondered if she had young kids. "Is that why you confronted him?"

Quilcene narrowed his eyes again. "Fucker deserved to die. I'm glad he's dead."

"And…?" Chen encouraged.

"And fuck you," Quilcene answered. "I ain't saying shit more. Fucker deserved it."

Chen leaned back and nodded. "Maybe so. But that's not how the system works."

"Then fuck the system, man," Quilcene practically shouted.

Chen looked to Lassiter then at Quilcene. "You got anything else to say, Johnny?"

"Nope. Fucker deserved it. That's all I got to say. Fucker deserved it.
You
got anything to say?"

Chen stood up. "Yep. You're under arrest for the murder of George Traver."

Brunelle was relieved Quilcene hadn't gone with Chen's suggestion of a self-defense story. 'Fucker deserved it' wasn't an actual legal defense. It might be true, but Brunelle would be able to give the jury the whole 'no one gets to be judge, jury, and executioner' line. It was clichéd but it was true. Still...

He watched as Chen and Lassiter led Quilcene from the interrogation room.

"Fucker deserved it," Quilcene said one last time.

Maybe he did
, Brunelle thought. And despite the law, he knew the jury would sympathize.
Damn it.

Chapter 3

Brunelle considered typing 'fucker deserved it' into the search box on the legal research website, but opted for 'justifiable homicide child molester' instead. He clicked the 'search' button and waited while the program scoured the applicable case law.

He'd come in early after only three hours of sleep—a nap, really—to review the available evidence and draft the charging documents. He knew they were going to charge one count of Murder in the First Degree, but he also knew they didn't quite have the evidence yet. Quilcene roughly matched the suspect description and was arrested in the area with blood on his hands, but it had been less than twelve hours since the murder. The 'fat fuckers' in the fingerprint unit were just getting to work; it'd be at least until the afternoon, if not tomorrow, before they confirmed the match. The DNA on Traver's blood would take at least a day longer than that, even with a 'drop everything' rush. And detectives still had to go back out to show photomontages to the witnesses from the night before—if they could even find them, and if they weren't too drunk to remember.

So instead of filing charges, he'd have to ask the judge to agree that there was 'probable cause' to believe Quilcene had committed the crime, and then hold him for seventy-two hours while the evidence caught up with the arrest. Then he could come in and file charges with confidence. It would also give him three days to research, and rebut, the 'fucker deserved it' defense.

The search was done and Brunelle clicked on the first case in the list, but before he could begin reading it, there was a knock on his doorframe.

It was Matt Duncan, the elected prosecutor for King County. Brunelle's boss. Everyone's boss.

"Have you filed charges against Quilcene yet?" he asked.

Brunelle shook his head. "Not yet. We're waiting on some lab results so I'm going to ask for a seventy-two hour hold."

Duncan
nodded. "Good. Hold off. We need to talk."

Brunelle didn't like the sound of that. He didn't need Duncan buying off on the 'fucker deserved it' bit. "What is it?"

Duncan
grimaced. "Why don't you come to my office? There's a …" He paused, seeking the right word. "A complication."

"That doesn't sound good," Brunelle said as he stood from his chair.

Duncan
offered a shrug and a smile. "I learned a long time ago to think of every difficulty as an opportunity."

Brunelle followed him down the hall to his corner office. "How big is this 'opportunity'?"

Duncan
turned back as they reached his office door. "Pretty big."

Duncan
's office boasted a panoramic view of Elliot Bay, albeit between the other, taller buildings closer to the waterfront. Still, it was a nice view and the furniture was set up to allow visitors to enjoy it as they sat at the large conference table that took up half of the oversized office.

Brunelle sat down and immediately noticed a leather-bound book laying open at the center of the table. He pulled it to him and tipped it closed long enough to read the spine: 'Indian Treaties of the Northwest Territories.'

He looked up at Duncan. "Big, huh?"

Duncan
was gazing out the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "Yeah. Big." He turned around and sat opposite Brunelle. "I just got off the phone with the lawyer for the Duwallup Indian Tribe, down by Tacoma. She called me about the Duwallup Tribal Court. Did you know they had a court?"

"I didn't even know they had a lawyer."

Duncan
laughed. "Yep. A lawyer—several, in fact—a judge, and a court. And apparently that court was created pursuant to their treaty with the United States government."

Brunelle looked down again at the tome in his hand. "I don't like where this is going," he said. "Quilcene is Native Gangster Blood. They're starting to come up to Seattle. So I know he's Native. Is he Duwallup?"

"Exactly," Duncan sighed. "And so is your victim. George something, right?"

"Traver."

"Right. George Traver. They're both Duwallup Indians."

"Native American," Brunelle corrected.

"What?" Duncan cocked his head at Brunelle.

"Native American," Brunelle repeated. "I don't think we're supposed to say 'Indian' any more."

Duncan
frowned. "Their lawyer did. She specifically said 'Duwallup Indian Tribe,'"

"Yeah, it's different when you say it that way, I think." Brunelle looked at the ceiling as he considered. "It's officially the Duwallup Indian Tribe, but you refer to the members of it as Native American, or even just Native."

"Really?"

Brunelle shrugged. "I think so."

Duncan
smiled. "I knew you were the right man for the job."

Brunelle leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Crap. What job?"

Duncan
suppressed a friendly laugh. "Remember that treaty I mentioned? The one in that book you're trying to ignore right now?"

Brunelle raised an indignant eyebrow. "I'm not trying to ignore anything. In fact, I snuck a peek at the title when you were gazing importantly out the window."

"Well, go ahead and take it," Duncan said. "You're going to want to brush up on Indian Law. Er, sorry, Native American Law."

Brunelle slid the book to the side. "Enough riddles, Matt. What's going on?"

Duncan
smiled again, creasing his eyes playfully. "Apparently, that treaty gives the Tribe jurisdiction over crimes committed by one tribal member against another. That's why their lawyer called. To assert that treaty right."

Brunelle ran a hand through his closely cropped hair. "Are you fucking kidding me? I've never heard of anything like that. The murder happened in our county. We have jurisdiction."

"I guess not," Duncan replied. "Their lawyer explained it pretty convincingly. It gives them original jurisdiction to any crime committed by one tribal member against the other."

"Then why hasn't this ever come up before?"

"Turns out, it has," Duncan answered. "About a hundred years ago, right after the treaty was signed. The Tribe asserted the treaty right, but the federal court basically invalidated it. Held that the provision only applied to conduct exclusively on the reservation and not otherwise prohibited by state or federal law."

"Well, I'd say murder is otherwise prohibited by state law," Brunelle pointed out.

"Of course it is," Duncan agreed. "But it was a bullshit decision. The treaty doesn't say anything of the sort. It was just a racist ruling by a federal government that never honored any treaty with any tribe."

Brunelle raised an eyebrow at his boss's impassioned description.

"Their lawyer's words," he explained. "Not mine."

Brunelle nodded. "Of course."

"But it doesn't matter," Duncan went on. "They're asserting the treaty now, and the Bureau of Indian Affairs—or Native American Affairs, or whatever—is backing them. We have no choice."

"You could cite that racist decision as precedent," Brunelle suggested unhelpfully.

Duncan
shook his head. "I don't need that kind of press."

"Matt, listen to me." Brunelle leaned forward earnestly. "You can't send a murder case to some rinky-dink tribal court. Do they even have a prosecutor?"

"They do now." Duncan stuck out a hand to shake. "Congratulations."

Brunelle slumped back in his chair and put his hand over his face. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Duncan
shook his head. "Afraid not, Dave. No joke. You're going to be our emissary to the Duwallup Tribal Court." Then he looked at his watch. "Oh, shit. You'd better get going. Your co-counsel is expecting you at ten-thirty."

Brunelle peeked through his fingers. "Co-counsel?"