Free Perfect Justice by William Bernhardt Page B

up at Ben. “Makes you want to kill the man responsible.”
    “I’m telling you, I never hurt—”
    “She was beautiful,” Gustafson said, stony-eyed. “But now she’s—” With the sudden fury of a hurricane, Gustafson whipped out his billy club and pounded Ben on the back. The sudden pain was so shattering that Ben found he couldn’t make a sound. His knees weakened; his back felt paralyzed.
    “My little sister never hurt anyone. That’s for goddamn sure. So don’t come crying to me for sympathy.”
    Ben leaned against the wall for support. “But I … wasn’t involved … didn’t even know …”
    “Liar.” Gustafson pounded him again, this time on the rib cage. “Admit it. Admit you knew about the firebombing!”
    “I’m just”—Ben gasped—“a lawyer.”
    Gustafson spun him around and shoved him face-first into the wall. Ben’s cheek scraped against the speckled concrete. “All the worse, as far as I’m concerned. At least the boys in Cell Block B believe in what they’re doing. You’re just in it for the money.”
    Ben’s reply was smothered as Gustafson jerked him away from the wall. The next blow from the billy club caught Ben on the side of the head. He fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.
    Gustafson rammed the club under Ben’s throat, drove his knee into Ben’s spine, and pulled upward. His knee burrowed into Ben’s back while the club flattened his larynx.
    Then, abruptly, Gustafson removed the club and let Ben’s head fall to the floor. Ben braced himself for the next blow, but it never came. Instead he heard the sound of Gustafson’s boots moving down the corridor.
    Wasn’t he afraid Ben would try to escape? Ben almost laughed. He couldn’t even move. The thought of trying to stand up hurt him more than he could bear.
    He heard Gustafson open the door and leave the cell corridor. Ben lay there on the floor, unable to move, unable to help himself, racked with pain.
    And he realized, with sudden and terrible certainty, that he was absolutely, totally—
    Alone.

14.
    C OLONEL NGUYEN SAT IN the center of the chicken barn that served as Coi Than Tien’s town hall. On his left, his old friend Duong Dang sat with the council of elders, the nominal governing body of their community. On his right, “Dan” Pham sat with his followers, principally the younger members of the settlement.
    The two groups could not have been more polarized. It was the old guard versus the young Turks, the voice of conciliation pitted against the voice of resistance. And there seemed to be no middle ground that either side could accept.
    Dang tapped a small gavel. “Now that we have resolved the guard-duty issue, we will address Dinh Pham’s suggestions about a possible response to last night’s incident.”
    Pham leaped to his feet. “We must fight back! We must retaliate!”
    Dang pounded his gavel. “You have not been properly recognized.”
    “Everyone knows who I am.”
    “That is not the point. It is a matter of courtesy, of tradition—”
    “I’m not interested in traditions. I’m interested in retaliation.”
    “There are proper ways to proceed—” “My grandmother was shot!” Pham shouted. His voice echoed through the barn, rattling the rafters on the roof. A horrible silence blanketed the barn.
    Colonel Nguyen closed his eyes. As he had learned last night after the black pickup disappeared, some of the ricocheting pellets had pierced a window and struck Pham’s elderly grandmother. Although the injury was not itself terminal, at her age, any wound could be life threatening.
    Dang stroked his white beard. “We all grieve with you for Xuan’s injury.”
    “Grieving is not enough. It is time for action!”
    Nguyen shook his head. There was such a difference between Pham and Dang. Dang still spoke in the old traditional ways; Pham had fully assimilated the slang and rhetoric of his adopted country. And what they said was as different as the way they said it. Dang spoke with