Barbara Holloway: Desperate Measures Part 40

"Truck in the way," he said, then coughed.

Frank ran around the van and saw Alan moving toward a pickup truck.

"Don't come any closer!" Alan yelled at someone at the truck; he was holding a semiautomatic pistol, and was spotlighted by the truck headlights. Frank saw another figure approaching Alan from behind. A man with a club.

"Alan, behind you!" Frank yelled.

Alan whirled around and shot once, and the man screamed and fell. Facing the truck again, Alan shot out the headlights, and there was a scream of rage from the side of the truck. In the shifting light from the van and the flames, Frank could see two men with clubs. One of them threw the club at Alan, and yanked the cab door open, and Alan shot again. Both men ran behind the truck, out of sight. Alan dashed the remaining few feet to the truck, slid in and started the engine, gunned it, turned the wheel hard, then jumped out as the truck jerked forward, ran into the boulders on the side of the road, steamrolled its way through, and plunged into the nearly dry stream.

Someone else was shooting now. Another car had been behind the truck. Alan shot at it, then yelled to Frank, "Get in the van! Move!"

Frank turned and started to run, but the smoke was thicker than ever, and he was blinded. He stumbled, fell to one knee; he could feel the heat of fire on his back, on his face, his hands, and he tried to hold his breath. There was another gunshot, and a scream, and he fell facedown in the driveway.

Alex had frozen behind the wheel of the van. The nightmare had come to life, not waiting for sleep, a living, waking nightmare, combined now with the memory of the beating from the gang at Central Park, laughing as they hit him with baseball bats. They would roll him over like a log to be tossed on the fire. He coughed and leaned forward, trying to see what was happening, and he saw Frank stumbling in the wrong direction, toward the burning woods, then falling to his knees, all the way down. Alex's eyes felt on fire, and his throat was closing; he couldn't breathe. He coughed again, then wrenched open his door and flung off Graham's hand on his arm, trying to restrain him. He jumped from the van and raced to Frank. He heard someone yell, "There he is!" and there were more gunshots.

Dimly, as if dreaming, Frank knew he was being rolled over, that people were lifting him. He wanted to cry out, "Don't throw me on the fire!" Then he knew nothing.

Between them, Alex and Alan heaved Frank from the ground and hauled him to the van and dumped him in. Alan slammed the door and took a shot at the road as Alex raced around the van to get behind the wheel again. Dr. Minick slid around the seat to get to Frank sprawled on the backseat, and Alan yelled, "Get out of here! I'll follow." Alex started to drive. He sc.r.a.ped Alan's car as he pa.s.sed it, then sped up. Behind him, a moment later, he could see Alan's taillights following; he was backing out.

At ten Barbara said that for her the party was over; it was time to head back to the office. "Give you a drink there," she offered. Eugene parties were always nonalcoholic, and they all deserved a drink now. Sweaty, smoky, tired, and thirsty, they went to her offices, where Chris Romano met them on the stairs.

"Ms. Holloway," he said, rising, "Bailey sent me. There's been an accident. Your dad's in the hospital."

She felt her blood drain. "Oh, G.o.d! What happened?"

"I don't know. Bailey just said to bring you over to the hospital when you got home."

In the emergency room they were directed to a small room where Dr. Minick, Alex, and Alan Macagno were waiting. They were all red-eyed and filthy with soot and ash.

"Where's Dad?" Barbara said.

Sh.e.l.ley had gone straight to Alex and pulled a chair close to him. She took his hand. "Are you all right?"

"Okay," he said. He did not remove his hand from hers.

"They're treating Frank for smoke inhalation," Dr. Minick said. "They won't be much longer. He'll be all right. I doubt they'll keep him overnight." His face was drawn and gray. He appeared ten years older than he had looked that morning.

Barbara sank down onto a hard plastic chair. "What happened?"

"I got there in time to interrupt an ambush," Alan said. "One truck, one car, four guys. The woods were on fire. I called your old man on the cell phone and told him the score, then got out and waved my gun around a little."

He told it almost dreamily, as if it had been a pleasant day in the woods. A faint smile played on his lips, vanished, returned. He looked like a college freshman-and most often was mistaken for one-but this was his other side, the side that Bailey hired and trusted.

"So, the van was coming and the truck was still in the way, and I said to move it, or I'd shoot the first person in my line of fire. They didn't, and I did. I ran the truck into the creek, and that made someone sore, I guess, and he had a gun, so I had to shoot him, too."

Sh.e.l.ley gasped.

"Did you kill him?" Barbara asked coldly.

"Nope. Shoulder."

"s.h.i.t! You need more practice."

Alan grinned. "The guy that was shooting didn't hit anything. Talk about practice, tell him. So your old man came around the van and the smoke got to him and he fell. Alex got out, and between us we hauled him back to the van and shoved him inside. I followed the van to the hospital and confessed to the cops."

"Where's Bailey?"

"Helping the cops inspect the van and my car. Burned, dented by rocks, maybe bullet holes. A real mess. Both of them. Your old man's car is a goner. Left to burn up."

The detectives returned with Bailey before Barbara was allowed to see Frank. "We'll be investigating tomorrow," one of the officers said. "I'm afraid they couldn't save your house," he said to Minick. "Where will you be tonight, over the weekend?"

"My place," Will said. He gave the address. "And they need a police guard."

The detective nodded. "We'll see to it."

Barbara caught Bailey's eye. He would see to it also, their exchanged looks said.

"I'll buy you some new berets," Sh.e.l.ley said in a low voice to Alex.

"I got them out," he said. "Them and the computer. That's it."

"I'll be around to get statements, but it will keep until tomorrow," the detective said. "Ms. Holloway, if they release your father, will he be at his place?"

"Yes."

"I'll see him tomorrow, too, then. And that's it for now. You folks had a bad day. Try to get some rest." Then he gave Alan the first hard look he had shown them. "And we'll want you to hang around. Fill in some details."

"Not going anywhere," Alan said. "Can I have my mouthpiece with me when you bring out the rubber hoses?"

The detective's face froze. "c.r.a.p, just what we need, a funny guy."

When Barbara was permitted to go to the examination-and-treatment room, Frank was dressed and tying his shoes. "I'm okay," he said. He was very hoa.r.s.e, and his eyes were red and teary; he looked ghastly.

"Can't turn my back on you for a minute," she said. "You get bashed in the head, nearly burned up, smoked like a sausage...." She swallowed hard, then burst into tears, surprising them both very much.

42.

Frank was at the dinette table reading the newspaper and eating when Barbara went down the next morning. She had spent the night, as had Bailey, who was not in sight.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Okay. Sore throat. I'm having a soft-boiled egg; do what you want about breakfast."

She put bread in the toaster, poured juice and coffee, then sat down opposite him. He was pale, with several abrasions on his cheek, and he looked mad as h.e.l.l. Being mad was fine; he had a right.

"They're comparing it to dragging a man behind a truck, or stringing up a man on a fence and letting him freeze to death," Frank said. "Hate crime. Vigilante stuff, lynch-mob psychology."

"Cops calling it that?"

"No. Commentators. Op-ed pieces. The police are investigating, no other comment."

She shrugged, got her toast and jelly, and sat down again.

"The phone's been ringing all morning," Frank said sourly. "Reporters, friends, neighbors, G.o.d knows who all. I turned the ringer off"

"We'll have to hand out a statement of some sort. Want me to call Patsy, let her be our official spokeswoman?"

They were still at the table when the doorbell rang. Barbara went to see who it was, and admitted Bailey and a county detective.

"They're getting Alan's life story," Bailey said. "This is Sergeant Oleski; he'll get your father's life story. Got coffee?"

She led them back to the dinette and poured coffee for Bailey; the detective said no thank you very politely. Excusing herself, she went to the study to listen to the phone calls on the answering machine.

After the detective left, she rejoined Bailey and Frank, whose mood had not improved a bit. "Tell him we'll both represent him," Frank said fiercely. "With all the resources of two offices."

"Now what?" Barbara asked.

"Alan," Bailey said. "Two guys, one with a bullet hole in his shoulder, one shot in the leg, are charging Alan with a.s.sault, attempted murder, destruction of private property-the truck and the car-and with being a maniac in general."

She snorted.

"No kidding," Bailey said. "See, they're mill workers, laid off until operations can start again, and they were killing time, drinking a little, and then started cruising around peacefully looking for fires to put out, when this maniac showed up waving a gun at them and shooting everything in sight."

"Did they send an arson crew out there?" she demanded.

"Sure did. No report yet. The fire's still going strong, a whole crew out handling it, smoke jumpers and everything, and they're sore. You start burning down houses, they get mad. Minick's and two others so far. Besides, it's too close to home."

She turned to Frank. "The judge called. I called back and told him you're fine. He's sore, too. And Will's going to drop over this afternoon to clear his press release with us. But mostly, I think, to avoid dinner with Dolly and Arnold. He said she's quote fit to be tied unquote. Cousin Herbert is going to make dinner for them all. Will's going shopping with Dr. Minick for clothes for the homeless, and afterward he'll come over. I said I'd be here."

"You don't have to hang out here," Frank said irritably. "I'm not a target. They wanted Alex. They were going to force him and Graham to leave, stop them at the road, and grab Alex; probably planned to load him in the truck and take him somewhere and beat him to death."

"I know," she said. "It just happened that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time twice now. But I want to hang out here. Okay?"

"Sure," he said gruffly.

Will came around that afternoon and showed them a copy of his press statement. It was a marvel of lawyerly double-talk, using a lot of words to say very little. He would have no further comment until the police concluded their investigation.

"How can you do that?" Barbara asked.

"Practice," he said. "It takes years of practice. In fact, some time ago, I found that I was having fun seeing how long I could go on without saying anything. My clients think I'm a legal genius."

And that was the difference between him and Sam Bixby, her father's elderly partner, she realized. Sam took it seriously, and Will treated it like a joke.

That night, after Will left, she thought of the creeps who had planned to murder Alex. They would get a lawyer, whether they pressed charges or found themselves as defendants. And their lawyer would argue that they needed to be defended as much as a saint would if charged, an argument she had used more than once to justify herself and what she did. Where do you draw the line?

She had no answer, only the persistent question that came late at night more often than she would like to admit. Where do you draw the line?

Sunday afternoon Frank was in his study reading when he heard Barbara yell out something. He hurried to the hall in time to see her racing down the stairs, then toward the back door, where she stopped long enough to kick off her shoes before she ran out into the yard. Understanding, he breathed, "Ah. She noticed."

It was raining. Not a hard, leaf-stripping downpour, but a gentle misty rain that was like having an infinite cloud sink lower and lower, caressing all it touched on its way to the parched earth.

On the back lawn Barbara spread out her arms in welcome, and lifted her face to the rain.

When their group arrived in court on Monday morning, the corridors were chaotic with news-media people and onlookers. A police escort cleared the way for them to get through and into the courtroom, where a bailiff met Barbara and said the judge wanted her and her father in chambers. He went to Novak's table to deliver the same message, then led them around the bench through a back door to the hall with many doorways to the jury rooms, and beyond to the judge's anteroom.

They were ushered into the inner room without delay. Judge Mac, already in his robes, was sitting behind his desk. "Good morning," he said, and they all responded politely. "Frank, are you well?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Please be seated." He waited until they took chairs, and then said, "As you all know, a circ.u.mstantial case requires the same degree of certainty as one with eyewitnesses or indisputable forensic evidence, and therefore is a much more difficult case to present. I have a written decision which I shall read in court, but for now I want to outline the gist of it. I am dismissing the charges against Alexander Feldman for lack of sufficient compelling evidence that points to him and to him alone as the probable murderer."

Barbara did not move, but she felt herself rising as if an immense weight had been removed, and she felt her heart thudding hard. Frank's hand caught hers and squeezed it, then let go.

"Jase, you were given a bad case to prosecute, poorly investigated, and biased from the beginning," Judge Mac continued. "Briefly, I'll tell you what I found lacking; it is in greater detail in the statement which I shall read. First, the boy Daniel is impeached. I don't know what the true story is, but his version is not truthful. His statement that perhaps he saw someone on the property is inconclusive, not trustworthy. The evidence of the stopwatch is compelling. He could not have seen his mother in the house, or spoken with her...."

He went over the same details that Barbara had, reaching the same conclusion. Wrigley's testimony was stricken. Koenig had nothing to tell except what Gus Marchand had told him, and that had to be treated as hearsay. Some of the investigating officers had shown bias from the start, and evidence that should have been considered had been overlooked, for example, Rachel's boyfriend, the birth-control pills and condoms.

"I have informed the Children's Services Division that Rachel Marchand's story of stalking must be investigated. She is under the care of a competent psychologist who will a.s.sist in the investigation. She is not to be questioned by the police until that investigation has been concluded. Ms. Holloway, I also informed them that you have certain evidence regarding her allegations, and you will be called to present whatever facts you have gathered."

He drew in a breath and leaned back. "Jase, I have based my decision on the presentation of the prosecution's case, not on any hypothesis that Ms. Holloway put forward, but I strongly advise you to consider the scenario she outlined and proceed accordingly."

Very deliberately he said then, "The seeds of hate have been sown, and they bear bitter fruit, as we saw on Friday night. I will call upon the district attorney's office to issue an unambiguous statement exonerating Alexander Feldman of wrongdoing, and start the long and arduous task of rooting out the cause of that hatred before it spreads further with even more disastrous results. Unleashed hatred in a close community such as ours can have devastating effects. I strongly urge continued police protection for Mr. Feldman until the district attorney's office issues such a statement."

As Frank had said early on, Judge Mac was a fiend for details; he liked all the i's dotted, and all the t's crossed. With court in session once more, he cited the Const.i.tution, as well as Oregon statutes; he referred to case law. He stressed that a circ.u.mstantial case demanded the same burden of proof as any other and that the burden was on the state, not on the defendant. He referred to testimony and explained why it was stricken, or simply not trustworthy.... He had seven pages to read; he read them slowly, stopping to explain a point now and again, and throughout there was not a sound in the courtroom, not a movement, not a rustle.

When he finished and declared Alex free to go and then left the bench, bedlam erupted. Sh.e.l.ley had tears on her cheeks, and Dolly screamed; people were rushing toward the defense table, where Barbara hugged Alex, then Dr. Minick, then Will and anyone else who got within reach. And on the other side of the courtroom, a detective had approached Daniel Marchand and was talking to him. Rachel grabbed her brother's arm; he pushed her away, and she took a step back, another, and then let out a piercing scream. Her aunt and another woman held her by the arms and took her from the courtroom.

"I said from the start that if there had been a competent attorney, all this would have been stopped before it got this far," Dolly was saying. "A whole week wasted! For what?"

Alex moved toward her and said in a low intense voice, ''I'm very tired, and Graham is tired. We're going someplace where we can rest. I suggest you go back home now. When you can admit that Barbara pulled off something like a miracle and apologize to her, let Will Thaxton know, and he'll get in touch with me. I'll give you a call then." He turned, then stopped, and said over his shoulder, "Thanks for coming."

Arnold put his arm around Dolly and said to no one in particular, "It's been a very hard time. Hard for all of us. We should go back home now, get on with life. My boy, don't write us off. Your mother's in a very emotional state. Come, Dolly, let's see if we can make our way through the horde."

When Cousin Herbert said in Frank's driveway that he would be right proud to make them all some supper at Will's house, Frank didn't bat an eye. "Great," he said. ''I'll pick up some champagne."

"And some real stuff," Bailey said.

"And some real stuff."

Herbert drove off with Dr. Minick and Alex in the van. A city detective followed at a discreet distance.

"Press conference at two," Barbara reminded Frank. She, Frank, and Alan Macagno would meet the press in her office, and for once she was looking forward to it.