Page 45 of Dead Mountain

He held up the tie. “Do we have to do this? I just want to go home and sleep. I was stuck in a cell with a rancid drunk who farted all night. At least he didn’t try to—”

“Skip, TMI! Let’s just do what he says. Lightfeather’s top-notch.”

He nodded glumly.

It was a one-hour drive up to Moriarty and through Tijeras Canyon to Albuquerque. The Cervantes Club—Nora had heard of the place but never been there—was at the top of one of Albuquerque’s tallest buildings. In the elevator, Skip put on the tie. Nora was glad she had dressed up for the drive to Estancia, but Skip looked like hell—unshaven, hair messy, clothes filthy from digging in the cave. Well, so be it. If Lightfeather didn’t mind, she wouldn’t either.

They entered the hushed confines of the restaurant. Lightfeather was already seated at a table by the window. He waved them over, rose, and held Nora’s chair for her. Skip took a seat on the other side.

“Sorry,” said Skip. “I must look like a bum.”

“Don’t worry,” said Lightfeather with a smile. “I often take my clients here to help them recover from a night or two in jail. Now, before we start, I have to ask: May we speak freely about the case in front of your sister?”

“Of course.”

“Good. But first, let’s get drinks.” He waved his finger and a waiter hurried over. “Nora?” he asked. “Your preference?”

“Coffee, black.”

Lightfeather looked disappointed. “Nothing else?”

“No thanks.”

Skip said, “I’ll take a beer. Nuckolls lager.”

“My usual,” Lightfeather told the waiter, who then left them alone.

“How was the food in the jail?” asked Lightfeather. “Did you order Betty’s strawberry shortcake?”

Skip had to laugh. “You know I didn’t.” He turned to Nora. “The jail doesn’t have a kitchen, so they let you order from Betty’s Café. The only thing is, you’re not allowed to order the strawberry shortcake for dessert. Jail rule. The rest of the offerings are . . . godawful.”

The drinks arrived—Lightfeather’s turned out to be a martini, straight up with two olives, which arrived frosty with chips of ice. They ordered lunch from the menu. Nora didn’t feel particularly hungry and chose a salade niçoise. Skip wanted the cowboy steak—the most expensive item on the menu, his usual practice when someone else was paying. Lightfeather had the same. Nora wondered who, in fact, was paying—Isleta Pueblo? She’d better check into that.

After the waiter left again, Lightfeather said, “I hate to interrupt a good lunch to talk shop.”

“I was only defending my sister,” Skip began, all in a rush, “and it’s on tape; I recorded it on my cell phone—”

Lightfeather held up his hand. “It would be best if I first went over the charges against you. I’m afraid they’re serious class three and four felonies. The first is ‘Willfully and intentionally assaulting a peace officer while he is in the lawful discharge of his duties with intent to commit obstruction of justice.’ Two: ‘Intentionally fleeing, attempting to evade or evading an officer of this state when the person committing the act of fleeing, attempting to evade or evasion has knowledge that the officer is attempting to apprehend or arrest him.’ Class four felony. Three: ‘Larceny in the third degree, the value of the property being over two thousand five hundred dollars and below twenty thousand dollars.’ And four: ‘Tampering with evidence with intent to prevent the apprehension of the suspected person.’”

“Bullshit!” Skip burst out. “I may have pushed him away, but I never tried to run. And what’s this crap about tampering with evidence and resisting arrest? Jesus Christ!”

Again, Lightfeather held up his hand. “I know. You’ve already described to me what happened, and I believe you. Nora will corroborate it. The problem is proving it in court.”

“But I recorded the whole thing!”

“I’ve filed for all evidence on the phone to be turned over.” He hesitated. “You really believe that recording still exists?”

Skip stared. “You think they erased it?”

“Of course they did,” Nora said.

The lawyer nodded. “I would have to agree. That recording most likely shows the sheriff trying to assault you in an attempt to illegally seize your phone, knocking down your sister in the process. If they didn’t erase that recording, you’d not only be acquitted, but you could probably win a significant damage award.”

“But—erasing it would be illegal! Is that how they operate around here?”

“Most county sheriffs in New Mexico would never do anything like that. Unfortunately, Hawley’s the exception.”

“I’ve got my phone set to upload all images to the cloud,” said Skip triumphantly. “So it’s there.”

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