Tribal Court (9 page)

Chapter 15

Brunelle wanted to talk to Freddy right away. They had a lot to discuss—and not just case prep. Brunelle had several very specific questions for Freddy about his very specific blood feud argument.

But Freddy begged off. He insisted he didn't have time just then. 'Personal matters' and 'previously scheduled appointments' took priority. Brunelle decided not to argue. There would be time later. And the next bit would be sensitive. Probably better to do it alone anyway. Or at least without Freddy cheerleading for a Mourning War.

Quilcene's sister's name was Stacy. The niece was Caitlyn. Three years old.
Nice
. They lived in a single-wide on the back half of the reservation. Brunelle parked his Ford Jackass on the curbless road in front of the house and walked through the toys strewn across the walkway to the front door. Putting on his best 'sympathetic professional' mask, he knocked on the screen door.

The sound of children playing leaked through the windows. After a moment, the interior door flew open and a heavy-set Native woman was staring at Brunelle through the screen.

"Hello, ma'am. My name is Dave Brunelle. I'm from the King County Prosecutor's Office. I was wondering if you had a few minutes to chat?"

Stacy Quilcene's eyes narrowed. "Prosecutor? You the one prosecuting Johnny?"

Brunelle shrugged and tried to smile lightly. "I'm afraid so. Do you have a moment to talk about his case?"

"I ain't talking to no prosecutor," Stacy said and started to close the door.

"Talon Winter said I should talk to you."

The door stopped. "Johnny's lawyer?" Stacy asked. Brunelle knew Talon would already have met with her. Always three steps ahead.

"Yes, Johnny's lawyer."

Stacy set her jaw. "Johnny's lawyer said I should talk to you?"

"That's not exactly what she said," Brunelle replied, always the lawyer. "She said
I
should talk to
you
. She was trying to convince me to cut Johnny a deal. She said I should talk to you about what happened to your daughter."

That was all accurate, Brunelle knew. He also knew he'd left out the most important part: that he told Talon no deals. He wasn't there to be convinced Johnny Quilcene deserved a manslaughter. He was there to discover what Stacy was going to tell the jury. So he could prepare to neutralize it.

Stacy chewed her lip for a few seconds, then punched the handle to the door and turned around. "Okay, come on in." She walked back into the house. "Gimme a second while I put in a video. I kinda run a daycare here for the neighbors."

Brunelle walked in and assessed the home. He didn't bother looking for her daycare license. Toys and half-empty plates littered the place. A TV in the front room was muted and tuned to some daytime drama-talk show. He heard the kids from the back bedroom, arguing over which video they were going to watch. There were two camps: Dora and Pokémon—with a lone dissenter simply sobbing.

Sometimes he regretted never having gotten married and had kids. This was a nice reminder not to regret.

He heard the video start—Dora had triumphed—and Stacy returned to collapse into the couch by the window. Brunelle sat in one of the small armchairs on the other side of the small room.

"Okay," Stacy exhaled, clearly relishing the chance to sit down for a moment. "What do you want to talk about?"

Brunelle frowned and looked down, rubbing his hands slightly. He needed to affect the right balance of empathy and professionalism.

"Tell me what happened to your daughter."

Brunelle raised his face again. Stacy's face fought to control its expression.

"Yeah, I figured that was it," she said. "Why don't you say it the right way?"

Brunelle cocked his head. "The right way?"

"Nothing
happened
to my daughter," Stacy declared. "the weather
happens
. Car crashes
happen
. Hurricanes and earthquakes and fire drills—those just happen. Ask me what George Traver
did
to my daughter."

Brunelle nodded. She was absolutely right. "Okay. What did George Traver do to your daughter?"

Stacy looked down the hallway at the Dora screening. She turned back and met Brunelle's eyes fiercely. "You mean besides destroying her innocence? Besides teaching her never to trust anyone ever again? Teaching her to blame herself for other people's sick actions? For thinking she's dirty and worthless and broken? Being afraid of every man in her life? Johnny? Her own fucking dad? You mean besides that?"

Brunelle swallowed. He was used to victims unleashing their anger in his presence, but that was when he was on their side. They were sharing, coping, purging—not raging at him.

He nodded again, slowly, his hands pressed into a twisted knot. "No," he said softly. "Never mind. I don't need to know any more than that."

And in a way, he didn't. He didn't need to drive home thinking about the details of George Traver's fat sweaty body and the owner of one of those giggles down the hall. What mattered was how Stacy would present to the jury. And she'd present great—for Talon.
Damn it.

"The only thing I really need to know is whether Johnny knew. Did Johnny know what happened to, uh…?"

He'd forgotten the girl's name already.
Damn it again
.

"Caitlyn," Stacy reminded him. "And yes. of course he did. Everyone did. You don't hide that sort of thing. It just makes it worse."

Brunelle nodded. "How did Johnny react when he found out? Were you there?"

"I was the one who told him," Stacy sneered. "How did he react?" She laughed and shook her head. "He went fucking nuts. He's NGB. Did you know that?"

"Yeah," Brunelle answered. "He's got it tattooed across his chest. Kinda hard to miss."

"Yeah, well, you don't fuck with NGB."

Now that phrase might help him in front of the jury. Noble uncle seeking justice, or just violent gang thug?

"Did Johnny usually carry a weapon," he asked.

"No." Stacy shook her head.

No, of course not, Brunelle thought sarcastically.
What gang member carries a weapon?

"We have the knife," Brunelle explained. "Did he carry that knife often?"

"That knife?" Stacy repeated. "No, that knife was special."

"Special?"

"Have you seen it?" Stacy asked.

"Not since the night of the murder," Brunelle admitted. "And I was a bit distracted."

He realized he had another errand to run. He stood up to take his leave.

Stacy stood up too and they made their way to the front door.

"So," she asked, "are you gonna give Johnny the deal?"

Brunelle looked down. He shoved one hand into his pocket and set his other on the doorknob. Without turning to face her, he opened the door and shook his head. "No."

Chapter 16

Brunelle tried to shake the memory of children giggling and yelling '
¡Vamanos!
' as he turned the corner and clacked down the long concrete hallway in the basement of Seattle P.D.'s main precinct.

Chen was waiting for him in front of the property room.

"You're late," Chen said in greeting, giving his watch an exaggerated glance.

"Nice to see you too," Brunelle replied. "Thanks for always being happy to make time for me."

Chen laughed. "Just giving you a hard time. Although I would like to make this quick. I've got a million and one things on my desk."

"I know the feeling," Brunelle commiserated as he reached the detective. "It'll be quick. There's just one thing I want to look at, but I definitely don't want to do it alone. Always have a witness when you look at evidence. Prosecutor 101."

Chen nodded. "Understood. I'm just glad I didn't have to drive down to the tribal police station. I was afraid they would have moved the evidence down there too."

Brunelle shook his head. "I don't think they even have an evidence room. They barely have a courtroom."

Chen laughed again. "Great. Looking forward to testifying down there. If I can find it."

Brunelle actually felt a little bad. He was starting to respect LeClair at least. "Okay, well, let's get this done. I just want to see the knife."

Chen knocked on the window and an evidence officer promptly appeared.

"Item number one on this case, please." Chen slid the young officer a copy of the first property sheet on the case and pointed to the case number.

The officer gave a, "Be right back," and disappeared with Chen's paperwork.

"So," Chen turned to Brunelle, "how's it going so far?"

Brunelle rolled his eyes. "Great. My victim was a scumbag who deserved to die."

"I told you that already," Chen reminded him.

"Yes, you did. And now the judge is going to let the defense attorney tell the jury. So that'll be two of you."

"Three," Chen corrected. "Don't forget Kat."

"Not likely," Brunelle let slip. "So, yeah, three of you."

Before Chen could press him on Kat, the officer returned. "Uh, detective? You wanted to see the knife, right?"

"Right," Chen answered, concern tingeing the word.

"Er, I'm afraid there's a problem."

"A problem?" Brunelle inserted himself. His pulse quickened. "It's the fucking murder weapon. There better not be any problems."

The evidence officer slid Chen's copy of the property sheets back to the detective, then pushed the property room's originals under the glass. He pointed to a stamp on the originals marked 'Evidence Viewing.' "We use this stamp whenever someone checks out evidence. It has blank lines to fill in the date and time, and also for the viewer to sign the item out of evidence and back in again. But there's only one signature here."

The evidence officer looked up at them. "It looks like the knife got pulled for a viewing, but then never returned."

Chen snatched up the paperwork as Brunelle's stomach flipped. "Who checked it out?" the detective demanded even as he scanned the page.

The officer shook his head. "I don't recognize the name."

Chen looked up from the sheets. "Who the hell is 'F. McCloud'?"

Brunelle couldn't believe it. Or worse yet, he could.

"Freddy."

Chapter 17

5:00. Freddy's 'office' in the Tribal Police H.Q.

That's where they agreed to meet. It was a long drive from Seattle in afternoon traffic and Freddy had claimed 'stuff' to do, but Brunelle had insisted on the meeting. And on neutral—and safe—ground.

Brunelle got there early and checked in with Sixrivers in his back corner office. He didn't tell him everything he had planned—there was a chance Freddy could explain it without law enforcement having to be called in—but Brunelle figured he should explain his presence in the precinct.

"Just meeting with Freddy," he assured.

Sixrivers slid aside whatever file he was looking at. "Can I give you some advice?"

Brunelle shrugged. "Sure."

"Go home."

Brunelle was surprised. "Go home? What does that mean?"

"It means," Sixrivers leaned back and crossed his arms, "you should go back to Seattle and forget all about this little case."

"I would if I could," Brunelle admitted. "You think I want to be down here, in some unfamiliar court, before a judge I don't know, applying century-old law, against a defense attorney who wants to skin me alive? Believe me, I've tried, but my boss won't let me off the case. I'm stuck down here."

Sixrivers nodded. "Too bad. But I understand. I've got superiors too. And I sympathize with you having to deal with us down here. I hate dealing with other agencies, but it's part of the job. I know most of the Tacoma P.D. guys, but Seattle? Forget about it. I tell them I'm with Duwallup Tribal P.D. and I might as well be saying 'mall cop.'"

Brunelle winced at the truth of that statement. "Yeah, well, it's a small police department. I'm sure other small departments get the same reaction."

Sixrivers stared at Brunelle for several seconds. "You really think that's true?"

Brunelle sighed. "No, probably not. Hell, I didn't even know you had your own department until this case."

Sixrivers nodded again. "Yeah, that's what I figured."

Brunelle shrugged. "Sorry."

The detective waved it away. "Don't be. I like our department. We're small, but we serve an important function. We're close to the community. They trust us. Even the criminals. We might be on opposite sides with the NGBs when it comes to drive-bys or burglaries or drug trafficking, but we're on the same side if there's a party and it just kind of gets out of hand. I'm a firm believer in pointing things out to people, then letting them take care of it themselves. If they can't, well, then we can step in to help, but we're still part of the community."

Brunelle grinned. "But I'm not."

Sixrivers offered a kind of smile. "Nope. You're not."

"But I'm staying anyway."

"Well, good," Sixrivers leaned back toward his desk and slid that file back in front of him. "You seem like a good attorney. You'll make sure Quilcene is held accountable for what he did."

"I'll try," Brunelle said. Then he looked at his watch. "I better get going. Freddy will be here any minute."

"Good to know," Sixrivers said, then turned his attention back to his work. "See you around, I'm sure."

Brunelle walked through the cubicle and waited in Freddy's makeshift office. He remembered why he'd come down, and paced nervously, stewing and telling himself he must have it wrong.

"Hey, Dave!" Freddy greeted his co-counsel affably as he strolled into the room. "Good to see you. So, what's so important that I have to miss the all-you-can-eat casino buffet?"

Brunelle frowned. He'd seen Chen and the other detectives do this hundreds of times. There was an art to confronting a suspect, reading him, and drawing out the information without him being able to help himself. But Brunelle wasn't a cop. He was a prosecutor. A trial lawyer. He asked questions, people answered. The end.

"Why'd you do it, Freddy?"

Freddy cocked his head. The smile slipped a bit. "Do what?"

"Do who?" Brunelle corrected. "Quilcene's cousin. Why did you have to go and kill him?"

"What?!" Freddy threw his hands wide. "Me? Are you kidding? You have to be kidding."

Brunelle shook his head slowly. "I'm not kidding, Freddy. I wish I were."

"I didn't kill Quilcene's cousin, Dave." Freddy's voice raised in both pitch and volume. "How could you even think that?
Why
would you think that?"

"It all adds up, Freddy." He met his partner's wide-eyed gaze. "You talk too much,."

"Talk too much?" Freddy repeated. "What are you talking about?"

Brunelle noticed Freddy's face was flushing and his breaths were coming quicker. The smile was completely gone.

"In the casino," Brunelle started. "You told me blood feuds were a good thing. And I heard you refuse to give a statement to the cops. In your car talking to a friend, my ass. Then, in court—that argument of yours—about exactly how to carry out a blood feud in this case."

"I was exaggerating," Freddy argued, "to prove a point."

Brunelle shook his head. "Maybe the others thought that. LeClair, Talon, the gallery. But you got too close to the truth. You told me someone else from the tribe could take up the feud for Traver. Well, you're in the tribe, Freddy. Then you stood up in front of God and everybody and said someone in Quilcene's family should be killed. Killed with the same knife."

Freddy raised an enigmatic eyebrow. "Did I?"

"Yes," Brunelle growled. "And Bobby Quilcene was murdered. With the same knife"

Freddy raised an eyebrow. "Well, wasn't he dead already when I said that?"

"Yes, he was," Brunelle confirmed. "And you stole the knife out of property the day before he was killed."

"I didn't steal the knife!" Freddy insisted. "I just looked at it. Trial prep. I guess I forgot to tell you."

"It's trial prep if you look at it," Brunelle countered. "Not if you check it out and don't return it."

Freddy frowned but didn't say anything.

"It was the same knife," Brunelle repeated. "The same knife killed Traver and Bobby Quilcene."

Freddy crossed his arms. "Says who?"

"Says our M.E.," Brunelle stretched the truth a bit. "Kat Anderson."

"Kat Anderson?" Freddy's frown bounced back to his usual grin. "Oh, wow. We used to date. Say, 'Hi' for me."

"Damn it, Freddy!" Brunelle slammed the table. "You checked the knife out of property, you fucking idiot. The day before the murder. You fucking signed for it. We know you did it."

Freddy looked down and shook his head, the frown returning. "No, no, no. I didn't— Wait. Who's 'we'?"

"The case detective and I," Brunelle answered. "We went to look at the knife today and the evidence guy showed us the check out sheet with your signature on it."

Freddy shook his head again. "No, that's not right. I looked at it, but it was just a viewing. I just had the officer show it to me. She never even let go of the box it was strapped into. She just held up the box for me to see."

Brunelle stared at him, unbelieving.

"It's a really nice knife," Freddy went on. "The handle is ivory, I think. All carved and stuff."

"Freddy," Brunelle tried to keep his voice level. "You need to turn yourself in. I know you're under a lot of stress. Talon told me how you don't have a regular law job and—"

"What?!" Freddy shrieked. "You've talked to Talon about me? That bitch? Well, fuck her and her snooty law firm. I don't need them. And I don't need you or this case either. I thought it'd be great to work with you, Dave. Learn a few things. But you're just as big of an asshole as Talon, did you know that? So fuck you both. I quit."

He turned and stormed out. Between the references to Kat and Talon, Brunelle almost forgot what they we're really talking about. "Freddy! Wait. It'll go easier for you if you turn yourself in."

But Freddy didn't reply. Brunelle hurried through the cubicles, looking for an officer, any officer. He spied Sixrivers still sitting at his desk.

"Detective!" Brunelle ran to his doorframe. "You're not going to believe this, but—"

The sound of gunfire echoed through the precinct. Then squealing tires. Then nothing.

The parking lot.

Sixrivers jumped up from his desk and he and Brunelle ran out the front door, along with a half dozen other officers. The suspect vehicle was peeling out of the far end of the parking lot, way too far to get a license plate.

Turning back, Brunelle saw the result of the gunfire. On the asphalt, atop a quickly growing slick of arterial blood, was Freddy. His eyes gazed up at the darkening clouds with that lifeless stare Brunelle knew only too well.

Sixrivers knelt down to confirm what they both already knew.

"He's dead."