The Buzzard Table - By Margaret Maron Page 0,15

When the light hit it, his fair hair was closer to silver than gold. As he and Reid sat down, those frizzy white curls and the long neck gave him a vague resemblance to a dandelion gone to seed. If I wanted to get fanciful, I could almost imagine that his dark green sweater formed the dandelion’s basal leaves.

Resisting the temptation to look for further parallels, I gave my attention to Claudia O’Hale, who had called the arresting officer to the witness stand. Deputy Tub Greene wasn’t much older than young Harper, but he was the complete professional in his crisply pressed shirt and creased wool slacks, despite a utility belt that strained against his disappearing waistline as my clerk swore him in. Hard to stay in shape when you sit in a patrol car too long and snack on Moon Pies and RCs.

Upon being asked about that December day, Greene described how the protestors had been issued a permit that clearly stated they had to stay outside the fence, but that the defendant had later been caught trying to get inside one of the locked hangars with his camera. When given the chance to leave the premises without penalty, Mr. Harper had become foulmouthed and verbally abusive, whereupon he was placed under arrest.

Reid stood to cross-examine. He’s tall and good-looking, with such a boyish face that women jurors have a hard time voting against him. Unfortunately for him, this was not a jury trial.

“When you say my client ‘tried to get inside,’ Deputy Greene, what do you mean?”

“When apprehended, he was carrying a crowbar.”

“Did you see him actually use it?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he threaten you with it?”

“No, sir.”

“So you arrested him merely because he was carrying a perfectly legal carpenter’s tool.”

“No, sir. I arrested him because he was trespassing and refused to leave.”

“Were you aware that my client is a freelance reporter and has had some of his pictures published in the Dobbs Ledger and the Cotton Grove Courier?”

“No, sir, not at that time. Besides, he wasn’t wearing a press badge.”

“No further questions,” Reid said and sat down.

I looked over at the ADA. “Ms. O’Hale?”

“Redirect, Your Honor. Deputy Greene, were there any members of the press at this demonstration?”

“Yes, ma’am. There was a reporter from the News and Observer and two television stations. There were also stringers for the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the Associated Press.”

“And did any of these real reporters—”

“Objection,” said Reid.

“Sustained,” I said. “Less pejorative, please, Ms. O’Hale.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.” She turned back to the deputy. “Were those reporters wearing press badges?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And did any of the reporters with credentials push their way onto the field?”

“No, ma’am. They poked their long-lens cameras through the chain-link fence, but they respected our instructions and didn’t try to get in. Just Mr. Harper.”

“Any of them get foulmouthed because you kept them from entering?”

“No, ma’am.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

I looked at my cousin. “Redirect, Mr. Stephenson?”

Without rising, Reid said, “What about you, Deputy Greene? Weren’t you the one who got foulmouthed first?”

The young officer flushed a deep brick red. His mother goes to the same church as one of my born-again sisters-in-law, a church that does not hold with cussing. “I don’t remember,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

“No further questions,” Reid said.

“Ms. O’Hale?” I asked.

“The State rests,” she told me.

“Call your first witness, Mr. Stephenson.”

Reid touched the young man’s shoulder and told him to take the stand. Once Harper had sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, he told us his name and that he had turned eighteen a week after the incident.

“In your own words, Jeremy, why did you go out to that airstrip and what did you hope to accomplish?”

Despite his resemblance to a dandelion, there was nothing fuzzy about the boy’s response. He sizzled with self-righteousness. “We heard that they’d started up the rendition flights again and we called for a demonstration against it.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Reid asked.

“P-A-T. Patriots Against Torture. We’re a loosely organized Internet group of concerned citizens from wherever these flights touch down—Nevada, Maine, North Carolina. We’re people who don’t believe America should sanction torture no matter what the excuse or provocation.”

“Where are your headquarters?”

Young Harper gave an impatient jerk of his head. “We don’t have a headquarters. I told you. We’re an Internet group on Yahoo! and I’m one of the group’s administrators. It’s like Facebook except that it’s not as visible. You can’t just Google PAT and enter our website. You have to join