Not that I like the stuff, it’s disgusting; my brother Jens eats it by the plate. No, I’m thinking of sushi because it’s tightly bundled with seaweed, and, like sushi, I’m going to wrap this testimony up with seaweed.
Robert Baumgartner is seaweed … at least his essence and texture are that of seaweed, dark green and slimy-wet, his tracks and touchings not unlike the clawings of some nefarious sea beast risen from surf and slouching ashore for some ill purpose. I find the essence and texture appropriate, since seaweed’s slippery and disgusting and some people actually swallow it, much like Baumgartner’s theories and hypotheses.
The courtroom door opens. Too soon, I think. Either Baumgartner is not as clever as I thought, or he’s overconfident.
Walking to the front of the courtroom, I see the jurors have moved to the front of their chairs, where they perch like expectant vultures. Whether they plan to feast on my carcass or Baumgartner’s is not so clear, though Marge Simpson manages a small smile as I pass. Stopping in front of and slightly to the left of the judge, I turn to Baumgartner and point to the floor with both hands. “This is where you were standing when I left.”
He nods, but it was a statement, not a question.
Jimmy’s parked on a pew in the third row on the right. He sees me—sees me like I see life energy, reads me like I read essence and texture. My loathing for our esteemed defense attorney is as clear as the tracks he left around the courtroom. Jimmy’s looking right at me and shaking his head slowly from side to side. I can almost hear his voice in my ear: Don’t do it, Steps. He’s afraid I’m going to lose control and toss aside the part of my job where I pretend to track, and instead brazenly walk through the courtroom and point out everywhere Baumgartner walked and everything he touched. It’s tempting. I’m tired of living the lie … but then I hear Jimmy’s unspoken words in my ear again: Remember, you’re a man-tracker, not some mystic or superhuman aura reader.
I take a deep breath, hold it a few seconds, and then release it in a long stream, letting my angst go with it. Today I’m a man-tracker.
On my hands and knees with a borrowed flashlight, I illuminate the carpet and pretend to find signs and directionality. I follow the trail up to the bench, and then back down, over to the Washington State flag at the right, then back to the U.S. flag at the left, then around the outer edge of pews on the left side of the courtroom, up the center aisle, a pause at the jury box, and then down the pews on the right side. As I reach the back of the room I stop, a smile coming to my lips.
Baumgartner’s trail disappears and I kneel to conduct a faux-examination of the final print, suppressing a chuckle as I picture him trying to fool me. After a moment, I rise and examine the area around the back pew, a seemingly random scan in search of signs. After toying with Baumgartner for a few minutes, I suddenly discover a right-shoe track—or so I say—on the seat of the back pew, then the left-shoe track on the pew in front of it, all the way to the front of the courtroom, where I get down on my knees and examine the attorney’s shoes up close, saying, “I think I found him.”
The courtroom explodes with laughter and one of the jurors actually claps. I stand, brush my pants off, and take my seat back in the witness box. The judge bangs his gavel and bangs it some more until the room settles.
Silence.
More silence.
Ticking-clock silence.
“Mr. Baumgartner—” the judge begins.
“No further questions.”
CHAPTER THREE
June 16, Seattle
We’re wheels-up out of SeaTac just after five P.M. and just a twenty-minute flight from home. The Puget Sound is large, blue, and beautiful out the left window; enchanting. Ferries like the Kaleetan, the Kittitas, and the Tacoma shuffle passengers and cars east and west between Seattle and Bainbridge Island, Edmonds and Kingston, Mukilteo and Clinton, while freighters run north and south as they come and go from the ports of Seattle and Tacoma. Islands dot the Sound, both big and small, some with roads and busy cities, others with little more than private piers and rough airstrips.
Island living.
It sounds quiet and serene. Might be kind of nice, though I think I’d want to be somewhere more tropical … but without humidity or bugs … and no monkeys screeching all night and pooping on my deck … for that matter, no seagulls, either. They can be just as messy. And no sharks. What’s the point of living on the water if you can’t go into the water?
Actually, Big Perch is sounding pretty good right now.
“Seriously, what’s wrong?” Jimmy says, leaning forward in his seat, his hands clasped together on the table between us. When I don’t answer, he continues, “You did good work today … you do good work every day. Bad guys go to jail for a long time and victims’ families get closure and justice.”
“There’s no justice for what Quillan did,” I say flatly.
“Why? Because the death sentence is off the table? He’s off the street for the rest of his life. There won’t be any other victims, except for maybe Quillan himself if he crosses the wrong person in prison.”
“We can hope,” I say, my eyes still on the Sound. Jimmy just watches me. “I’ve thought about it, you know.”
“Thought about what?”
I look him straight in the eye. “Quitting.”
He plays it cool, conversational, but I can tell he’s upset.
“What would you do?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly, slowly twisting my fingers into knots. “Maybe find buried treasure, or Jimmy Hoffa, or Bigfoot; whatever I can do to make a living that doesn’t involve death … well, except for Jimmy Hoffa.”
“Bigfoot’s an animal; shine doesn’t work for animals.”