purchased chemicals, the tubs where the meth was stored, the crates and shoeboxes neatly labeled with names and locations of deliveries, and if he could have gotten the rickety old Ford pickup used for distributing into the courtroom, he would have done it. “Overwhelming” had only started there. And it had pissed off Judge Rausche.
As His Honor approached across the driveway, leaving his wife and daughters to climb the portico steps, Evan figured he was about to be told exactly why Rausche wasn’t happy.
He was right.
“Y’all gotta understand somethin’, Sheriff,” began the judge without preamble. “That crystal stuff, it’s worse than moonshining, no argument on that. But it’s a principle we need to deal with here. We been lookin’ the other way on this kind of thing for at least three hundred years. Ain’t no big-city cop or prosecutor gonna come in and tell us what’s what.”
“Look in any direction you want,” Evan replied. “Half that shit was labeled for delivery to middle schools in two counties.”
Rausche stuck a finger into Lachlan’s face. “What you made me do, you with your evidence—which took days to process and inventory, by the way, and hours to present in court, and that’s not a productive use of county taxpayers’ time—you painted me into a corner. I don’t like that. It interferes with my judicial discretion. A little less evidence, fewer charges—that Stirling boy, he really knows how to pile on the counts, doesn’t he? Chargin’ for every piss they took off the side of the road onto some damned protected wildlife refuge! Your way, I had no choice in sentencing.”
Lachlan gritted his teeth. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right. If I’d provided only a kilo of meth for evidence, and Jamey Stirling had prosecuted on only a few counts, you could have slapped their wrists, told them not to do it again, and sent ’em home to cook up more.”
“I don’t much like your tone, boy.”
Lachlan wondered if the man knew what a ludicrous cliché of a Southern judge he was, then remembered what Jesse had told him before his first time testifying in Rausche’s courtroom. “Short, sweet, to the point. Don’t use any big words, and remember that the judge he replaced was worse. We keep an eye on him.” The trouble was that Witchly ethics prohibited magical interference with the process of the law. Even if every Witch in the county kept an eye on him, when he sat his ass in his chair, as far as the judicial system was concerned he was one rung down from God.
And besides all that, his eldest son, apple of his eye, was running against Evan for county sheriff.
“Tell you what, judge—the November ballots haven’t been printed up yet, so why don’t you take your name off and let somebody else put up with me and Jamey from now on?”
“What makes you think you’re gonna win an honest term as sheriff, runnin’ against Rick? This ain’t New York, boy. It ain’t even Richmond, where that fancy-ass pansy comes from. This is Pocahontas County, where I been the law for thirty-eight years. And I’ll be the law for thirty-eight more if the Almighty lets me live that long.”
Or if your wife doesn’t find out what you do at legal conventions—or, rather, who you do at legal conventions. Evan widened his smile. Rausche was stupid, but he wasn’t stupid —he recognized the taunt, turned his head a fraction, spat onto the gravel about an inch and a half from Evan’s boots, and went to join his womenfolk.
“Well, that was productive,” Evan muttered to himself.
“I’d say predictable,” said a woman’s voice behind him, and he turned to give Louvena Cox a genuine smile. “Politics just ain’t your thing, are they, son?”
He leaned down about a foot and a half to kiss her cheek, then offered his arm. “I leave the charm to Holly.”
“Nice double meaning in that,” she approved. “Where is she?”
“Changing clothes. Chocolate on silk seems to be out
As His Honor approached across the driveway, leaving his wife and daughters to climb the portico steps, Evan figured he was about to be told exactly why Rausche wasn’t happy.
He was right.
“Y’all gotta understand somethin’, Sheriff,” began the judge without preamble. “That crystal stuff, it’s worse than moonshining, no argument on that. But it’s a principle we need to deal with here. We been lookin’ the other way on this kind of thing for at least three hundred years. Ain’t no big-city cop or prosecutor gonna come in and tell us what’s what.”
“Look in any direction you want,” Evan replied. “Half that shit was labeled for delivery to middle schools in two counties.”
Rausche stuck a finger into Lachlan’s face. “What you made me do, you with your evidence—which took days to process and inventory, by the way, and hours to present in court, and that’s not a productive use of county taxpayers’ time—you painted me into a corner. I don’t like that. It interferes with my judicial discretion. A little less evidence, fewer charges—that Stirling boy, he really knows how to pile on the counts, doesn’t he? Chargin’ for every piss they took off the side of the road onto some damned protected wildlife refuge! Your way, I had no choice in sentencing.”
Lachlan gritted his teeth. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right. If I’d provided only a kilo of meth for evidence, and Jamey Stirling had prosecuted on only a few counts, you could have slapped their wrists, told them not to do it again, and sent ’em home to cook up more.”
“I don’t much like your tone, boy.”
Lachlan wondered if the man knew what a ludicrous cliché of a Southern judge he was, then remembered what Jesse had told him before his first time testifying in Rausche’s courtroom. “Short, sweet, to the point. Don’t use any big words, and remember that the judge he replaced was worse. We keep an eye on him.” The trouble was that Witchly ethics prohibited magical interference with the process of the law. Even if every Witch in the county kept an eye on him, when he sat his ass in his chair, as far as the judicial system was concerned he was one rung down from God.
And besides all that, his eldest son, apple of his eye, was running against Evan for county sheriff.
“Tell you what, judge—the November ballots haven’t been printed up yet, so why don’t you take your name off and let somebody else put up with me and Jamey from now on?”
“What makes you think you’re gonna win an honest term as sheriff, runnin’ against Rick? This ain’t New York, boy. It ain’t even Richmond, where that fancy-ass pansy comes from. This is Pocahontas County, where I been the law for thirty-eight years. And I’ll be the law for thirty-eight more if the Almighty lets me live that long.”
Or if your wife doesn’t find out what you do at legal conventions—or, rather, who you do at legal conventions. Evan widened his smile. Rausche was stupid, but he wasn’t stupid —he recognized the taunt, turned his head a fraction, spat onto the gravel about an inch and a half from Evan’s boots, and went to join his womenfolk.
“Well, that was productive,” Evan muttered to himself.
“I’d say predictable,” said a woman’s voice behind him, and he turned to give Louvena Cox a genuine smile. “Politics just ain’t your thing, are they, son?”
He leaned down about a foot and a half to kiss her cheek, then offered his arm. “I leave the charm to Holly.”
“Nice double meaning in that,” she approved. “Where is she?”
“Changing clothes. Chocolate on silk seems to be out
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