Chapter 3
Sheriff Douglas Allen walked Ben back to the county jail cell where he had spent part of the night and morning between arrest and arraignment. “Sorry the accommodations aren’t nicer. I’ve been trying to get the town to appropriate money for a new jail, but it’s no go. People just aren’t interested in spending money to make life comfier for the criminal element.” He cleared his throat. “No offense intended.”
“None taken.” Ben resituated himself on the edge of the metal cot that passed for a bed. There was nowhere else to sit. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
Sheriff Allen grinned. “Let me save you the trouble. It’s short for Granville.”
“Granville?”
“Right. Usually a boy’s name, but that didn’t stop her pappy from passing it on to her. Actually, it’s her middle name. Her first name’s Rebecca, not that it matters. Everybody calls her Granny. Always has. Even when she was just a scrawny little thing.”
“She’s not just a scrawny little thing anymore.”
“You noticed that, did ya?” Allen laughed again, and Ben found himself liking this man who kept locking him up in an eight-square-foot cell. “I saw the way your eyes peeled back when she strolled across the courtroom. Not that you’re the first.”
“I don’t suppose she’s …”
“Available? She is, although she doesn’t normally consort with the criminal element.” He stepped out of the cell and locked the door. “Let me give you a piece of advice about our stunning young prosecutor, if I may.”
“I’m listening.”
“You know about the black widow?”
“I know what it is.”
“But do you know about the female’s … mating habits?”
Ben shrugged. “Sure. Mates with the male, then eats him.”
Allen nodded. “And do you know where the black widow learned its tricks? From watching that sweet little package you drooled over in the courtroom. Granny Adams taught the black widow everything it knows.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. But actually, that wasn’t my question.”
“It wasn’t? Damn. This is gonna get me thrown off the psychic hotline. What was it?”
“I wanted to know about the judge. He seems a bit … how shall I say it? On the extreme side.”
“That’s Tyrone, for you. Always very extreme.”
“Fancies himself a hanging judge?”
“Around here, we call Judge Pickens ‘The Time Machine’-because whatever the crime is, he always gives the defendant the maximum time.”
This was lovely to hear. “Even catnappers?”
“Don’t believe we’ve had any precedent. But I can tell you what he did to Sonny Carlisle last week.”
“Stiff sentence?”
“The stiffest. Sonny’d been drinking too hard out at Bunyan’s. He shouldn’t have been driving, but he was. Ended up smashing into two teenagers. Killed one of ’em. ’Course, it was negligent homicide, but that didn’t slow The Time Machine down any. He gave Sonny two fifty-year sentences.”
“
“You heard me right. One for each victim. To be served consecutively, not concurrently. When the sentencing was over, he glared down at Sonny and said, ‘Your parole officer hasn’t been born yet.’ ”
“Why did he go all ballistic when Granny painted me as some political extremist?”
All traces of the sheriff’s smile faded. “Well, for that answer, why don’t you ask these fellows in the adjoining cells? I’m sure they could explain it better than I can.” And on that, he pivoted on the heel of his cowboy boot and left the cell block.
Ben hadn’t even noticed that there were two people, a man and a woman, in the cells on either side of him. He didn’t think they’d been there last night when he was first brought in.
“Hi,” he said, waving in both directions. “I’m Ben Kincaid.”
The woman to his left barely lifted a hand. “Cheers.”
The woman’s most eye-catching feature was her hair-lots and lots of it, wild auburn curls like untamed ivy. Even though it was cut chin-length, it radiated out from her head like a nun’s habit. She wore large round eyeglasses with wire frames, which lent width to her otherwise thin face. Freckles dotted her cheekbones. She was dressed in jeans and a collarless shirt. She was attractive, Ben thought, in a practical, no-nonsense sort of way.
The man, similarly dressed in grubby jeans and a T-shirt, was equally uncommunicative. Ben’s greeting evoked barely a grunt.
“Lovely place, isn’t it?” Ben said, gesturing about the cell. “I’m thinking of coming back here every year.”
He thought he detected a twitch on the woman’s face that might roughly translate into a smile, but it was gone before he had a chance for closer scrutiny.
“Either of you know a good lawyer in the area? I’m a lawyer myself, but I’m going to need someone else to explain to the jury that my so-called crime was an act of conscience. It would sound too self-serving coming from me.”
The woman’s head lifted a notch. “You committed a crime of conscience?”
Ben nodded. “Right. Animal rights protest.”
“No kidding?” Ben noted that her accent seemed more East Coast than Pacific Northwest. “I’m sorry. I figured you were in here for drunk and disorderly.”
“Uh, no.”
“Whaddaya know, Rick? He’s one of us.” She walked over to the side of her cell that adjoined Ben’s and gripped the bars. “Animal rights, huh?”
“Yeah. Some heartless
The man on the other side approached the cell bars. “You committed a breaking and entering to save a cat? Maureen, I think this kid is definitely our kind of people.”
“Amen to that.” She stretched her hand through the bars. “My name is Maureen Williamson. My partner in crime is Rick Collier.”
Ben shook both hands. “So what are you two in for?”
“Disturbing the peace,” Maureen answered. “We staged a protest this morning on the courthouse steps, which supposedly violates a municipal ordinance-which I’m sure is unconstitutional, not that that kept them from using it to get rid of us. They’ll probably let us cool our heels for a day or so, then release us, hoping we’ve learned our lesson.”
“We’ve learned a lesson all right,” Rick said, “but not the one those pigs had in mind.”
Ben turned his attention back toward Maureen. “What kind of protest was this?”
“Rick and I are both members of Green Rage. Have you heard of us?”
A decided crease lined Ben’s forehead. “Of course I have. You’re an environmental group. A bit on the … extreme side.”
Rick snorted. “Compared to what? The Rotary Club?”
“You’re eco-terrorists.”
“That’s not true,” Maureen interjected. “That’s bad press generated by the logging interests.”
Rick cut in. “Don’t back away from the truth, Maureen. I’d rather we were eco-terrorists than some candy- ass sit-on-your-butt-and-negotiate Sierra Club group.”
“It’s a question of semantics. It’s true that Green Rage does engage in some activities that are not strictly speaking legal, just as your actions last night weren’t strictly speaking legal.”
“Wait a minute,” Ben said. “Rescuing a cat is hardly the same as-”
“You rescue cats; we rescue trees,” Rick said. “I don’t see much difference. Granted, we sometimes trash heavy equipment belonging to the logging companies. Tree cutters, that sort of thing. Sometimes we spike the roads to flatten their tires. Sometimes we spike trees-but we take every precaution to make sure no one gets
