A Reasonable Doubt

grin.  “It’s like I told you, she and my mother go way back -- my mother being from the only Native American family in an otherwise very white neighborhood.  Grace lived across the street.  She was an equal rights advocate even in grade school -- always defending my mother, always standing up to the bullies.  She was the one who introduced my mother to my father.  And she was the one who prosecuted the man that shot and killed my father just because he refused to take my mother out of a public restaurant where they went to celebrate their wedding anniversary.  And she won the case, too.”

And now all the pieces fit.  Lily nodded slowly.  “And you believe that Jason Lightfoot deserves a fair trial.”

“Yes, Ma’am, I do,” the US Marshal said.  “Guilty or innocent.”

“I keep a pretty hectic schedule,” she warned him.

“That’s all right, I’ve already got myself a room over at Miss Polly’s,” he said.  “As soon as I explained to her why I was here, she said never mind the schedule she keeps to -- I could have a key to the front door, and she would be happy to fix me my meals whenever I wanted them.  So all you have to do is tell me when to be where, and I’ll take it from there.”

“What about your family?”

“I’ve got a wife and three kids back in Spokane,” he said.

“And how do they feel about this?”

“They’re behind me, one hundred percent.”

“Well, we’ll have to work out some time -- you know, when you can go home and be with them,” Lily told him.

“That would be much appreciated,” he said.  “But we don’t have to worry about that right now.”

“Then I guess it’s settled.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Lily couldn’t believe it.  She had actually agreed to put her life in the hands of another person.  It meant, of course, admitting that she feared for her safety.  It was not a position she had ever thought she would be in -- not in her town, not in her life.  Nevertheless, she felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief.

. . .

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” she told her father that evening.

“And who might that be?” he asked.

She smiled.  “Oh, just a guardian angel,” she said.

The on-loan US Marshal had followed her home to Morgan Hill, and stood in the driveway, watching, as she locked the Camry in the garage.

“You can take it out again in November,” he assured her with a grin.

“Not so fast,” she retorted.  “You haven’t passed the final test yet.”

“Oh, and what would that be?” he asked.

“My father.”

It would be fair to say that Carson Burns liked John Dancer right from the start.  The man from Spokane was as low-key as it got, easy-going, soft-spoken and intelligent.  He would fit right into the community without arousing much concern -- the kind of man who could take care of himself and, Carson decided, who would be able to take care of his daughter, too.

“You’ll stay to dinner, young fellow,” the former Jackson County Prosecutor declared, after no more than fifteen minutes, and it was more a directive than an invitation.

Lily smiled broadly at the man from Spokane.  “I guess that means you passed the test,” she told him.

John Dancer smiled in return.  It had been a long time since anyone had called him young.

. . .

Sunset was coming later and later to the Pacific Northwest, as spring went scurrying into summer.  It meant that the sky was still blue at nine o’clock that evening when John Dancer pulled to the side of a road to check the name on a mailbox that sat at the end of a dirt drive leading to a small bungalow.  Satisfied with what he saw, he left the 4-Runner where it was, and walked up to the house.

“Evening, Ma’am,” he said pleasantly through the screen door to the nondescript woman who responded to his knock.  “I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but I wonder if I might have a word or two with your husband.”

With a shrug, the woman disappeared inside the house and, a few moments later, was replaced by a balding, heavyset man wearing a T-shirt and jeans, his stomach bulging over his waistband, a bottle of beer in his hand.

“Yeah, you wanted to see me?” the man asked, the slight slur to his words an indication that this was likely not his first beer of the evening.

“Yes, sir, I surely did,” Dancer replied politely enough, resting his hands casually on his hips, which pushed back just enough of his jacket so that the guard could see he was carrying both a badge and a weapon.  “The name is Dancer, and I wanted you to be one of the first to know that I’m here in town to make sure that Lily Burns gets to represent her client, Jason Lightfoot -- in a court of law, not a court of public opinion, just like she’s supposed to, just like every citizen deserves -- without any further interference.”

“Yeah, so what’s it to me?” the man retorted, but not before Dancer noted a dark flush creep up his neck and across his face.

“Maybe something, maybe nothing,” Lily’s new protector conceded.  “But like I said, I just wanted you to know that, as of now, the fun and games are over.  I’ll be watching her back, and should there be any other, let’s just say, misguided encounters, the person or persons involved -- whoever he or they may be -- will be answering to me.”

“Don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Buzz Crandall, the guard from the Jackson County Jail, declared.

“Well, it’s good that we had this little chat then,” Dancer said, “before anything else happens -- and the fox ends up in the henhouse.”

Crandall visibly paled at that, but stood his ground and said nothing.

“And now that we understand each other,” the marshal concluded, “I’ll wish you a pleasant evening.”  With a little nod, he turned and