Read Online Apache Country by Frederick H. Christian - Free Book Online

cops found out that without their realizing it, they were also
using them to manipulate or control people they loved. And by the
time they realized they were doing it, it was too late. Silence and
love are bitter rivals.
    “You think he can get bail?” Weddle
asked.
    Easton was tempted to ask him how many Apache
he knew who could raise a fifty thousand dollar bail bond. Instead,
he told himself to make allowances. This was all new to Weddle and
he was clearly feeling his way. He shook his head.
    “My bet is no. But even if he could, the DA’s
office would almost certainly contend there’s a distinct risk of
flight.”
    Weddle made an impatient gesture and put down
the coffee cup. It was the first positive thing he had done since
he came in.
    “Oh, come on,” he said scornfully. “A
distinct risk of flight?”
    “We’re dealing with a double homicide here,
Mr. Weddle,” Easton reminded the lawyer.
    “This is an Apache, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Where’s he going to run to?”
    “Maybe the same place he was going to run to
when he put the two State Police officers who tried to arrest him
into hospital.”
    “They told me all that. I still contend—”
    Easton interrupted. “Have you had many
dealings with Apache, Mr. Weddle? Know anything about them?”
    The lawyer put on a defiant face. “Not
Apache, maybe,” he said defensively. “But I’ve done quite a lot of
PD work for the Department of Justice over on the Big Rez.”
    In New Mexico the words Big Rez meant only
one thing: the Navajo reservation. The Navajos were the most
populous tribe in America, their lands far and away the largest
area occupied by Native Americans. Easton spent a moment wondering
what sort of public defender work Weddle might have done over
there. He didn’t talk like he had much experience and he didn’t
look like he spent much of his time outdoors. Didn’t even wear a
hat. Which probably meant he’d been doing paperwork. Depositions,
subpoenas, locating witnesses, that kind of thing. What the hell
was Charlie Goodwin thinking about, sending a greenhorn like this
to handle a homicide case?
    “How long have you had him in custody?” the
lawyer asked.
    Easton looked at the clock. “Call it fifteen
hours.”
    “You’ve interrogated him?”
    Easton nodded.
    “Has he told you anything?”
    It was such a fundamentally naïve question
Easton almost smiled. No matter how inexperienced, every attorney
knew the law required the prosecution to discover whatever evidence
it had to him. If Ironheel told them anything, they had to tell his
attorney. So the question Weddle was really asking was, How much
trouble am I in?
    “We’ve gone around the block a few times with
him,” Easton said reassuringly. “But he’s refused to answer most of
our questions. You can watch the interrogation videos, if you want
to.”
    And good luck, he thought. Although they had
spent three more hours with him following their conversation in
Patti Lafferty’s office, Cochrane and Irving had gotten nothing
more out of Ironheel, who had clamped his mouth shut and refused to
answer any more questions.
    “Maybe later,” Weddle said, putting on a
brisk air the way you put on a hat. “Can I see him now?”
    “Sure,” Easton said. “I’ll tell them we’re on
our way.”
    He dialed 822 on the internal line and told
duty RO Hal Sweeney they were on their way over. When they got to
the jail he introduced Weddle and Hal led the way along the
corridor to Ironheel’s cell. The cell door gave off its mournful
clang as he slid it back and Ironheel looked up, his eyes still
dark and wary.
    “Nt’é nánt’ii?” he growled. What do you
want?
    “This is Jerry Weddle, Ironheel. He’s the
lawyer appointed to handle your defense,” Easton told him. He
watched the Apache carefully for any sign of the silent plea he
thought he had seen earlier in the dark eyes. There was none.
    “Don’t need no lawyer,” Ironheel said.
    His tone was resentful, as if the