The Creed of Violence

SEVEN

HE DOWNTOWN COURTHOUSE was an ornate three-story edifice that stood out grimly against the Spartan timelessness of the west.

There was no official federal courthouse; the U.S. court and federal offices were housed on the second floor. The building had a dome, and light from that dome spilled down through a ceiling well.

Justice Knox was in conversation with an attorney when John Lourdes arrived. He waited impatiently, the coming sunlight from the dome hot against his neck until the conversation was done. Knox, alone, approached him.

"Mr. Lourdes. I appreciate your promptness. We have a lot to-"

"Sir. Am I to understand that-"

"Mr. Lourdes, you will understand when I am done explaining. And then you will have no need to jump-start my conversation."

"My apologies, sir."

Knox took him by the arm and they paced off a few steps. Knox spoke privately about the previous night. The district judge had given Knox use of his private office so as few people as possible would know about the meeting. Knox had sat behind the judge's desk. He'd removed the one comfortable attorney's chair, leaving only a stiff-backed shaker for Burr when he arrived. Burr, dressed in an elegant evening suit, could well have been going to the opera. He'd sat in that rigid chair with his legs crossed and smoked with one hand while letting the ashes drop into the palm of the other.

"You had an operative in the Mills Building when my client arrived," he said.

"Yes," said Knox.

"And unless he was having coffee at the Modern Cafe or shopping at that pedestrian department store, he was on duty."

Knox did not proffer an answer.

"We both know what profligates that building has started to attract since it became apparent there was going to be an insurrection. As I have indicated, my client possesses information you might find acutely relevant to an ongoing or future investigation."

"We'll have him deposed and if his information proves to be reliable and valuable, then-"

"I have no intention of allowing my client to rely on the future goodwill of the federal government."

"I see. That being the case, in what small way can you be of service to us?"

"My client has unique access to certain parties operating in strict violation of American law. My client has a singular curriculum vitae that allows him to come and go freely and without exception amongst the very element that you need to unearth, investigate and ultimately indict. In short ... for my client's services, you guarantee in writing an earned immunity."

Burr stood. He walked to the window, opened it, then flicked his ashes out into the night. He let time pass before coming about. He was smiling when he did. "It seems one of the judge's chairs is missing."

"Really?" said Knox. "I wouldn't know."

"It was here last week when I came to see him. No matter." He remained at the window, leaning back against the sill.

"One day, Mr. Knox, the government will come to the purely utilitarian decision that to efficiently and successfully deal with profligates it must enlist the services of efficient and successful profligates. As a matter of fact, I could foresee a time when our law enforcement hierarchy, the backbone of your prized bureaucracy, will all be onetime members of that wayward class."

"I guess that means my job would be in jeopardy under your definition of government service."

"Is it better to hire good men and fail, or solicit men who are ... contra bonos mores ... and succeed?"

Knox leaned forward. Thoughts were forming, possible plans of action, the weighing of realities. He rested his elbows on the table, set his chin on clasped and upturned hands. He studied Burr. The electric light from the wall sconce left the lawyer's complexion all the more sallow; his neck was noticeably too thin for the ruffled shirt collar. "Was it the drugs?" he asked.

Burr exhaled a rail-thin line of smoke.

"The morphine. It is morphine, that-"

"Turned me into a dissolute." Burr fingered his cigarette out the window. "I have had a taste for the unsavory . . . ever since childhood. Perhaps that's what makes me such an effective and successful attorney."

"What you are proposing would demand crossing the border, would it not?"

"Yes."

"We have no authority there."

"That doesn't mean you couldn't, or shouldn't, send an operative with him, for the gathering of evidence, the ascertainment of fact, against individuals or groups that have the potential to negatively affect domestic security. This operative could have authority over my client. We would agree to that."

"How does one have authority over someone with his biography?"

"There's a way."

"You said a few minutes ago you would never allow your client-"

"To rely on the future goodwill of the government. I emphasized the word-future."

When John Lourdes heard justice Knox say "earned immunity" he wanted to vomit with rage. He stood in the light of that great dome trying to grasp the implications of the meeting with Burr.

"Now," said justice Knox, "there will be an operative with him when he goes into Mexico. That operative will have complete authority, or at least tactical control. I'm considering you for this assignment."

"Sir?"

"You don't have the most field experience, but you're the only one who's truly bilingual. I'm going to be honest. I have reservations."

He kept hearing himself say, "Sir?"

"It's about character."

"Character ... my character?"

He could feel the anger coming through in his voice.

"Not a lack of character. It's ... I noted your reaction to Howell when we were interrogating the girl. I heard the anger in your voice just a minute ago when I told you what is going to happen. I do not question your dedication. But I need to be assured the operative I send can remain dispassionate and view this as ... a practical application of strategy. Just as I have to remain dispassionate in my judgments."

Dispassion had been an essential condition to John Lourdes's successes. And rulership of the self demanded extreme concentration and commitment, so in certain respects justice Knox was correct. He had failed.

"Once in Mexico, sir, I would have no legal authority over him."

"No."

"How do we control him?"

"He knows if he fails to live up to his responsibility by trying to desert, abandon or escape, your orders are to kill him. He knows if he should pose a threat to you, your orders are to kill him. He knows if anything happens to you, even if it's no fault of his, it will be the same as if he failed his responsibility. He must get you back here alive."

"Why should he follow through with any of this, if an opportunity arises?"

"Because we have something he wants."

"And that is?"

"The ability to erase his past ... earned immunity."

There was a selfish purity to that he could understand and believe of his father,) ust as he could feel it in himself.

"You mean he has his own `practical application of strategy."'

Justice Knox's forehead furrowed deeply.

"Correct ... now, what about my concerns with regard to you?"

"Sir, I will go wherever the practical application of strategy demands I go."

A DUFFEL AND weapons lay ready on the bed. John Lourdes sat at the desk in his room. When he'd finished his last will and testament he folded the paper neatly and edged it with a thumb, then inserted it into an envelope along with his bank book. He sealed the envelope and wrote on it: To be opened in 4e eve/4 of my disappearance or dea4.

The truck was parked in an empty lot behind Burr's house. Justice Knox was to bring Rawbone there clandestinely. John Lourdes arrived early as he wanted to meet with Burr alone.

Burr sat at his desk. It was littered with open law books and longforgotten cups of coffee. The needle, as well, lay on a silk handkerchief. He wore the same ruffled shirt as the night before, and the air was spiked with marijuana smoke when Lourdes was ushered in by the silent female servant.

Burr's face took on an anguished look as he watched the young man rest his shotgun and rifle against his duffel.

"They're not here yet, as you are aware."

As John Lourdes approached the desk he removed an envelope from his coat pocket. Burr took to staring out the bay window. Across the river the red cut mountains stood out against the windless blue. He set the envelope down in front of Burr.

"What is this?"

"I'd like to hire you as my attorney."

Burr took the envelope and then turned it over. He saw what was written there.

"If I was your attorney I would advise against this quixotic nightmare."

"Are you my attorney?"

Burr nodded with despair; he would take on that duty.

A car pulled into the driveway. Knox and Howell and the murderer, turned recruit. They watched Howell walk with him to the guest quarters above the garage. Rawbone was still dressed in his suit and derby.

"He looks like a gent being escorted home after a neat bout of night prowling," said Burr.

"There's a bank book in the envelope." John Lourdes went to get his duffel and weapons. "I've signed over power of attorney. Take money for your fee. The rest is for my burial beside my mother."

Burr put the envelope down. His gaunt face looked across the room and back into a silent collection of years. "I remember how you used to sit in that chair."

John Lourdes's body arched. "So you know who I am?"

"Yes ... I have my own detectives when I need them. I remember slipping you money one night and telling you your birth was-"

"A crime of chance."

"I saw the look on your face and regretted having said it."

"If that's an apology, I accept."

"He should never have come back. I warned him."

"Some men just can't help themselves."

"I hope you're not one of those men, John."