Lonely Valor: Vietnam POW-MIA Ultimate Survivor Odyssey Series, #3

By Don Price

The Viet Cong force march MacLaine into Cambodia against his will. There his captors mistreat him until a kind Cambodian woman intervenes. She takes pity on him and makes his POW life more bearable. Then a former American POW, who joined the Viet Cong, offers MacLaine an opportunity to do the same. Presented with this dilemma, MacLaine must decide about his future. His decision causes the death of a Viet Cong officer, and this puts MacLaine into even greater jeopardy. 
Elizabeth is successful in the courtroom but not in her personal life. Her family is shattered by a senseless murder at the MacLaine farm. She wants to run for Congress, but is thwarted by arsonists and the Tecumseh County good old boys. Despite major setbacks, she perseveres and never wavers in her quest for her brother's freedom. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Price
• Release date: Sep 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516396962

Don Price

Don Price is a retired Marine colonel who served 3 tours in Vietnam earning a Silver Star, 3 Bronze Stars w/V, a Purple Heart, 8 Air Medals, 3 Navy Commendation Medals w/V, and 3 Vietnamese Crosses of Gallantry. He taught English at the Naval Academy, graduated from the National War College, and commanded an infantry battalion on Okinawa. He is the author of The First Marine Captured in Vietnam, a biography of Medal of Honor recipient Donald Gilbert Cook published in 2007 by McFarland. Don lives in the heart of the Wild West, Cochise County, Arizona. His favorite quote comes from LtGen Ulysses S. Grant's dispatch (dated May 11, 1864) to Washington during the Battle of Spotsylvania Court House: "I propose to fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer."

Book preview

The Vietnam POW-MIA Ultimate

Survivor Odyssey Series

Book Three

LONELY VALOR

Don Price

Text copyright @ 2015 Donald L Price and Arlene C Olszewski

All Rights Reserved

You have never lived

Until you've almost died:

And for those who fight for them,

Life and freedom have a flavor

The protected will never know.

US Special Forces Motto

Table of Contents

Chapter 3-1 A Hero's Demise

Chapter 3-2 A Hunting Tigress

Chapter 3-3 Hanoi Hannah

Chapter 3-4 Thirteen Years

Chapter 3-5 The Well Digger

Chapter 3-6 Coffin with Metal Handles

Chapter 3-7 Bon Voyage Remy

Chapter 3-8 Holiday Blues

Chapter 3-9 Major Magoo's Mirror

Chapter 3-10 Grog Rogers

Chapter 3-11 Mustached One

Chapter 3-12 Boom Boom Lizzie

Chapter 3-13 Krista Tonnelli

Chapter 3-14 Confirmed Alive

Chapter 3-15 Rondeaux's Luck

Chapter 3-16 Rewards

Chapter 3-17 Escape and Misadventure

Chapter 3-18 Collaborator MacLaine

Chapter 3-19 Count Dracula

Chapter 3-20 Murder on the Farm

Chapter 3-21 Letter from Cambodia

Chapter 3-22 Judge Bogart's Eulogy

Chapter 3-23 POW or Freedom Fighter?

Chapter 3-24 Spiked Punch

Chapter 3-25 Play Dead

Epilogue

Prologue

MacLaine's odyssey continued when three elderly Viet Cong guards pulled him out of the primitive hospital and force marched him to a POW camp deep in the jungle. There he was locked in a bamboo cage with an insane American Green Beret officer, Marcel Rondeaux, who was dying of malnutrition.

The camp commander interrogated MacLaine, who successfully continued to play the moron. Nevertheless, the commander made MacLaine responsible for Rondeaux's care and recovery. Afterward MacLaine mentally reviewed all of the events that led up to and including the ambush and his capture.

While confined in the county jail for contempt of court, MacLaine's sister, deputy Tecumseh County prosecutor Elizabeth MacLaine, was verbally abused by a male inmate, a wife beater.

Released from jail with the help of her uncle and best child-hood friend, Charlene Bogart, the judge's adopted daughter, the two young women were physically threatened and verbally harassed by the wife beater's sinister father and two obnoxious brothers in a local diner. Elizabeth's Uncle Harley, the fierce biker and brawler, came to their rescue.

Subsequently, Elizabeth began prosecuting the wife beater, Roy Rhino Chisholm in Judge Bogart's courtroom.

Meanwhile, the supposedly dead Captain Lance Warfield arrives under guard at the POW camp. MacLaine does not recognize him at first because he has been starved and tortured and is barely alive. MacLaine soon realizes the diseased human wreck is Warfield. He tries to nurse him back to health, but Warfield appears to be beyond saving.

Chapter 3-1

A Hero's Demise

"Your Honor, Elizabeth said, if it pleases the court, I would now like to call Sergeant Duane Zinnman to the stand."

Judge Bogart nodded.

The tall, well-built state trooper strode forward in a rolling John Wayne gait, wearing an immaculate forest-green gabardine uniform with black tie and belt.

To her it was obvious that the powerful man kept himself as physically fit as an accomplished NFL tight end, despite spending long patrol shifts on the road.

Below the black shoulder epaulet, his bulging upper right arm displayed an inverted pie-slice shaped patch of black cloth highlighted in gold embroidery thread, the West Virginia State Police logo. Sharp knife-edged military creases enhanced his custom-fitted shirt. A black stripe shot down each side of his pressed-to-perfection trouser legs toward his gleaming black spit-shined shoes. Although Sergeant Zinnman had given Elizabeth a well-deserved speeding ticket on her way to Charleston, he was now ready to help her convict Rhino.

All right! Elizabeth cheered in silence as the most impressive sergeant was sworn in. He looked as impeccable as one of Tommy's former Marine drill instructors who still takes great pride in his personal appearance. A donut muncher he was not.

Please state your full name and occupation, Elizabeth requested.

Okay, my Smokey Bear of bears, don't screw it up now because I'm on a roll here. Help me knock them dead in the jury box. Together we can bury at least one of these Chisholm degenerates.

Duane Elihu Zinnman, he said, leaning back with an air of complete confidence. Professional law enforcement officer.

His firm voice matched his commanding presence.

Where do you reside, Sergeant Zinnman? Elizabeth asked, noting his strong, square, clean-cut, and surprisingly sensitive-looking face.

Charleston, West Virginia.

Yes, Duane is bound to be a great witness. He's experienced in testifying, too. Maybe Judge Bo will give us a ten-minute recess. Getting unfocused, am I? It's his damn hard bod under all the spit and polish. To die for. I'm a pushover for a man in a uniform! Hello. Focus my senses above my neckline. Come on, do your damned job, or else Rhino will walk. Keep your horny MacLaine libido under control.

How long have you been in law enforcement? she asked, still trying her best not to get sidetracked by the officer's striking handsomeness.

Eighteen years.

Ooh lah lah. He was what he was. Aura unadulterated. Plain and simple. Masculinity. A far from over-the-hill hunk.

Do you know Mr. Roy Chisholm Jr.?

I do.

Is he in this courtroom?

Grab a hold, gal. Come on, now. Don't blow this.

He is.

Where?

Mr. Chisholm is seated at the defense table immediately to the left of Mr. Stringfellow.

Sergeant Zinnman did not look at Rhino.

And in what circumstances did you become acquainted with Mr. Chisholm?

As composed as a veteran jungle sniper, Sergeant Zinnman eyed Rhino and said, The first time I met Mr. Chisholm, I had to shoot him.

The courtroom crowd murmured. Some yokels laughed.

Judge Bogart removed his bifocals, again pinching the bridge of his nose.

Looks like our living legend wants to be home, in front of the fireplace in his study, sipping hot Ovaltine and nibbling Oreos, Elizabeth surmised.

Then she caught a subtle waft of Sergeant Zinnman's aftershave lotion. Smells enticing. Aqua Velva? No. Old Spice? Maybe. Aphrodisiac? Yes! Definitely virile.

Sergeant Zinnman, when and where did this shooting incident take place?

Led astray by her libido, Elizabeth's mind started to wander again.

Yes-sir-ree-sir. Wonder where he parks those shiny shoes at night? Come on. Reel your mink-like self back in, lady.

Around 1:30 a.m., January 30, 1968, on Oakhurst Drive—State Route 119—in South Charleston.

Were you on or off official duty?

I was on my regular nightshift duty in my cruiser when I observed Mr. Chisholm driving south at a high rate of speed in a beat-up Chevy pickup with no lights on.

What did you do? Elizabeth asked her most convincing witness thus far.

I gave pursuit with both my siren and red-bubble roof lights turned on, but Mr. Chisholm refused to pull over.

How did you make him stop?

I didn't. Remaining smileless, Sergeant Zinnman regarded Rhino with what appeared to be amused contempt. He helped himself to one of Kanawha County's larger snow banks.

After Mr. Chisholm crashed into the snow bank, what happened next, Sergeant Zinnman?

I stopped to render aid, the sergeant recounted in an impassive but factual tone. Mr. Chisholm crawled out of his truck window wielding an illegal weapon.

What type?

A twelve-gauge, double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun.

What did the defendant do then?

He advanced toward me in a threatening manner.

What did you do?

I retreated behind my cruiser. Drew my service revolver. Three times I ordered Mr. Chisholm to drop his shotgun. He refused and continued to threaten my life in both words and gestures.

In what way?

Mr. Chisholm loudly and repeatedly stated his intention to kill me. To 'blow me away'—or words to that effect—and pointed his shotgun's barrel in my direction.

You were forced to shoot him?

Objection. Stringfellow sounded desperate. The prosecution is again asking for a conclusion.

May I reframe, Your Honor?

Judge Bogart nodded his weak assent.

Elizabeth asked, So, Sergeant Zinnman, what did you do?

I shot him.

When did you shoot the defendant?

After he fired at me with his shotgun.

Did he hit you?

He did not.

Why?

I don't know, but I believe Mr. Chisholm was too impaired by drugs and alcohol to take proper aim.

Objection. Stringfellow arose. No field sobriety test results have been entered into evidence before this court. Therefore, Sergeant Zinnman's conclusion is erroneous.

Sustained, the judge said in a murmur. The jury will disregard the sergeant's last answer. Recast your question, Miss MacLaine.

Yes, Your Honor. Elizabeth cleared her throat. What happened when Mr. Chisholm attempted to discharge his illegal firearm in public?

Before he fired it, he tried to take careful and direct aim at me. The sergeant looked at the jury. As I testified a moment ago, he did not hit me, but he did blow the bubble lights off the top of my cruiser.

The courtroom crowd laughed but Judge Bo did not find it amusing.

The next person who even snickers, he said, will be standing tall before my bench, and he or she better be ready to lighten the amount of money in their wallet or purse.

He nodded to Elizabeth to continue.

* * *

When MacLaine returned from gathering firewood, he found Warfield staring bug-eyed at the thatch ceiling of the cage, his pupils dilated to black-olive size.

Thank God, you're back, Warfield murmured.

I had to get out of the cage for a while, sir.

I understand, Mac, he replied in lethargic slowness.

MacLaine sat down on the rack beside what was left of his good captain. Skipper, I found a banana in the jungle for you. He pulled the small green finger-sized delicacy from his ragged black pajama's pocket.

No, Mac, you enjoy it.

Please, sir, you must eat something.

No, it would be wasted in me.

Don't talk that way, Captain Warfield, MacLaine said in a half-assed ordering tone.

Mac, if you ever get out of here, never tell my parents what happened to me.

MacLaine gulped, fighting back tears.

I want my mother and father to remember me like I was when I left home—not like I am now.

Roger that, sir, just like you were when you left the good old US-of-A looking like Captain AJ Squared-Away.

Right, and Mac—make sure I'm dead before you bury me because I don't want to be buried alive.

No way, sir—you're going to live.

And, Mac, don't let the jungle animals dig me up either.

MacLaine didn't know what to say.

And, Mac, when you get home, I want you to look up my best friend, a Marine officer named Samuel Solveig Sparkman, and tell him what happened to me—the whole truth.

The ears and nose ring, too?

Everything, Corporal MacLaine, and don't sugar coat it, Warfield answered with surprising firmness.

Yes sir. Will do. You have my word, sir.

MacLaine saw his skipper's face was ashen-blue and his lips grayish-white. His skin was cold to the touch.

Thank God, you've come, Mac, because I did not want to die here all alone and no one know of my passing.

Then Warfield rolled over into a fetal position and said nothing more.

MacLaine could see his captain was breathing in short, shallow gasps.

At length, Warfield spasmed from the waist down and his legs jerked and quivered.

MacLaine thought he was gone, but decided to check to make sure.

There was nothing else he could do except to pray for his soul.

* * *

To continue, Officer Zinnman, after the defendant shot the lights off your cruiser, what did you do? Elizabeth asked.

Dropped to the ground, crawled under my cruiser, took careful aim with my thirty-eight, and shot him.

Where? Elizabeth asked.

In the leg. His right calf, to be exact.

Why there?

I didn't want to kill him. Just stop him from advancing and threatening my life.

"What happened then?

He dropped his shotgun in the snow, Zinnman said, eyeing Judge Bo for the first time. I then called for backup and an ambulance.

After you shot the defendant, did you look at his wounded leg?

Yes ma'am.

Please go to the defense table and examine the defendant's right leg.

Sergeant Zinnman stood with martial erectness and marched straight over to the table where Bailiff Erikson had hiked up Rhino's trouser leg.

What do you observe, sir? Elizabeth asked him.

She saw Rhino was uncomfortable in the immediate presence of the two big men examining his leg.

Serves him right, the repulsive brute.

Two scars, Zinnman answered.

Are the scars in the same locations where you shot the defendant?

They are, ma'am.

What was the nature of the defendant's wound inflicted by you?

A clean shot—in and out—no bones or major arteries hit.

Sounds like you are a good shot and the defendant is lucky.

But now, she thought, thanks to this judge and jury, Rhino is running out of luck.

Objection, Your Honor, Clarence said, rising again. My colleague is making a gratuitous conclusion about the officer's marksmanship skill and—

Hush and sit, Mr. Stringfellow, Judge Bogart cut him off, and again removed his glasses and glared at Rhino.

His ever-dominant eyes were menacing but not mean. No, she thought, just cold, calculating—and scary.

Did you arrest Mr. Chisholm? Elizabeth asked.

Now back on the witness stand, Sergeant Zinnman answered, Yes ma'am.

On what charges?

Drunk driving, resisting arrest, driving without a license, possession of an illegal weapon, and assault on a police officer with a deadly weapon.

Was he convicted?

Yes, except for the drunk driving charge the judge dropped.

Do you know why?

Mr. Chisholm had lost some blood from the gunshot wound, so we ran no field sobriety tests on him. Sergeant Zinnman gave Clarence Stringfellow a look as dry as a banker's eye. The jury convicted him of all the other charges.

What was his sentence?

Mr. Chisholm received five years in the Moundsville State Penitentiary. Sergeant Zinnman's clean-shaven jaw tightened as he looked with respect up at Judge Bogart. But, the state paroled him after three.

Thank you for your testimony, sir, Elizabeth said, thinking he could still give her a good case of the moans anytime he was so inclined to cross the Tecumseh County line.

No. Never play around under Judge Bogart's flagpole. Not with this Z-Man who's as irresistible as chocolate, and just too striking and recognizable for his own good. Stella would find out about him in no time. Possibility of a Charleston fling? No. Forget it—he's married!

* * *

MacLaine took his captain's gaunt, large-boned wrists and checked his pulse, finding it fluttering like a spent campfire. He knew now it would not be long. Then he saw Warfield's eyes roll back, heard his throat gurgle, his mouth moan mother, and his rasping cease.

MacLaine fought back the urge to sob, not wanting any guard to ever hear him lose his composure. He now had to become the hard one. Harder than Captain Warfield, the bravest of the brave, who refused to give his name, rank, serial number or date of birth to the bastards.

The Front did not know they had captured the soaring pride of the Naval Academy Class of 1966, and MacLaine swore they would never know if it was within his power.

He smelled a terrible stench, and knew Warfield's bowels had voided in death. What an awful way to go, he thought, lying in your own filth.

One at a time, MacLaine closed Warfield's eyes, and began to pray for the strength to bury his good captain. He knew the damned guards would not help him, deeming his lost leader's remains to be unclean.

* * *

Your Honor, Elizabeth said, I request Matron Maude Langtree be called to the stand.

So ordered, Judge Bogart said. From a seat in the rear of the courtroom, the statuesque Mrs. Langtree advanced with the stateliness of African royalty. She was perfect in her Tecumseh County deputy sheriff's uniform of chocolate-brown gabardine slacks, and tropical-tan long-sleeved blouse with shoulder epaulets. A shiny-silver six-pointed badge was pinned to her buxom bosom.

Matron Langtree, please state your full name and occupation.

Okay, good lady, we're still on a roll here, so help me hammer some more nails into Rhino's coffin.

Maude McClellan Langtree. She responded without hesitation, and looked up with pride at Judge Bogart, her mentor. Women's matron and correctional officer.

Where do you live, Mrs. Langtree?

Phillipsville, West Virginia.

How long have you been in law enforcement?

Since Judge Bogart brung me in here nine years ago.

Do you know Mr. Roy Chisholm Jr.?

Yes ma'am.

Is he in this courtroom?

Yes, he be indeed, ma'am.

Where?

Right there next to Mr. Stringfellow.

More composed than a cloistered nun, she gazed at Rhino who glared back at her with KKK hatred. Then, he blinked.

Right on, Mrs. Langtree. You've got this redneck's number.

How did you happen to become acquainted with Mr. Chisholm? Elizabeth asked Maude in a probing mode.

I seen him down in the mine-jail from time to time.

When was the last time you saw him so confined?

Last night.

What was he doing?

An amused smile crossed Maude's broad, beautiful face as she answered, Pacin' back and forth in his cell, as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs.

A few spectators could not suppress their laughter.

Even Judge Bo smiled.

With his cane? Elizabeth asked.

No ma'am. He don't use that silly cane of his exceptin' when Mr. Stringfellow come on down to visit him, or when he come up here to court.

At all other times, Mr. Chisholm walks like most folks do—without a cane?

That boy can walk normal as me and you, Miss MacLaine. She glared back at Rhino. He don't need no walkin' stick. He just be lookin' for sympathy. He sure as shoot ain't gettin' none from me. He can bet on that, yes indeedy, he can.

* * *

MacLaine did not comply with one of Captain Warfield's last wishes.

He decided not to wait until tomorrow morning to make sure his good captain was dead because, beyond a doubt, the much-abused human being was history. Still in a fetal position, rigor mortis was stiffening his body's withered muscles into tight contraction on his skeletal frame, giving it a tensile strength it had so lacked in his last days of life.

When Intern Bay arrived that afternoon to check on his patient, he looked into the cage, pinched his nose, and nodded.

"Chet roi," Bay said, and wandered off toward Major Magoo's hooch.

MacLaine understood what he said: Dead already.

Yeah, he thought, Warfield will not be buried alive for sure.

Before long, Major Magoo arrived with a gaggle of guards who all surveyed the scene with dispassionate eyes, most holding black-and-white checkered cloths over their noses.

When did he die, Mac? the major asked.

I don't know.

You must know.

When I woke up from my nap, he was dead.

Ah—so he died in his sleep.

I reckon.

Therefore, the Front did not have an opportunity to save him.

Suppose so, MacLaine said.

Save him my ass. The fucking Front's treatment killed him. A better man than any of you dinks will ever be.

Now, Mac, you must bury our guest.

Okay—but how?

The generous Front will provide everything needed, the major said, motioning forward a pair of guards.

Yeah, I'll bet, MacLaine thought, with full military honors out here in the middle of the damned jungle.

Grandpa Stoop unlocked the cage and the guards tossed in a US poncho, US entrenching tool, small roll of comm wire, and a stack of bulgur wheat bags.

Mac, you will return the Front's poncho and shovel, Major Magoo said.

Will do, he replied, wanting to tell the four-eyed fuck that they were US taxpayers' property.

Major Magoo and party then took off like a flock of geese when an eagle flies overhead.

To MacLaine, they sure as hell seemed relieved to get away from his cage's noxious stench, and the undeniable presence of an American prisoner's death.

No, he thought, they just couldn't handle it—but he would have to—and all alone. It was now his duty to give his captain a decent burial if possible in the jungle.

MacLaine said a prayer asking for strength to lay this fearless Marine to rest.

* * *

What does Honorable Charles intend to do? Elizabeth wondered. Clarence and Rhino are in deep doo-doo. Couldn't happen to a nicer pair.

Bailiff Erikson, Judge Bogart said, his reedy voice stern.

Yes, Your Honor.

Seize Mr. Chisholm's cane.

His cane it is, sir.

Mr. Stringfellow, approach the bench and bring your client with you.

Rhino surrendered his cane to the bailiff.

Elizabeth wanted to cheer aloud, but swallowed her emotion and winked at Maude.

Rhino made the mistake of limping toward the bench.

Roy—stop your monkey business! Judge Bogart scolded. No more of your bamboozling in my courtroom. You walk like the Good Lord made you able to walk. Do you understand me, boy?

Yes sir, Rhino said, breaking into a normal stride.

Sock it to him, Judge Bo! Elizabeth beamed.

She leaned over and whispered to Maude, Judge Bo is quite a faith healer, huh, ma'am?

Mrs. Langtree chuckled under her breath until Judge Bogart gave her the eye. Her wonderful smile faded at once.

Elizabeth listened to the ticking of the wall clock while Judge Bogart hissed down from the bench at her erstwhile opponent.

She glanced over her shoulder at the courtroom spectators.

With all their buttons ready to pop, they reminded her of a church congregation waiting in silence for the choir to sing Handel's Hallelujah Chorus.

She looked back at the bench and was glad not to be the subject of the old man's well-known wrath.

Under his gimlet-eyed stare, Clarence and Rhino staggered back to their seats like they'd just been lobotomized with a tomahawk.

Elizabeth waited until his nibs eyed her.

Your Honor, I have nothing further for Mrs. Langtree she responded, however, I request to call to the stand Miss Minnie Pritchard.

Judge Bo nodded as Mrs. Langtree stepped down.

A chunky young woman with a black-beehive hairdo rose from her seat next to Uncle Harley. Edging forward, she carried a black plastic US Government valise, and seemed unsure of herself. She wore a conservative gray tweed business suit, and used too much Tangee cosmetics.

This little lady looks popeyed, Elizabeth thought. A scared rabbit. Even the swear-in is taking its toll, despite her old flame, Harley, being right here to protect her.

Would you please state your full name and occupation, Miss Pritchard? Elizabeth asked.

Easy, Minnie. Settle down. Just help me pound the final nail into Rhino's coffin of perjury.

Yes—Minnie Pritchard, she replied in a weak monotone, while sitting bolt upright in the chair and staring dead straight ahead. Admissions Officer, Veterans Administration Hospital, Clarksburg, West Virginia,

Where do you live?

Wolf Summit.

The skin on Minnie's chubby face seeped perspiration through too many layers of Tangee.

How long have you been with the VA? Elizabeth asked.

Can Minnie baby handle this?

Seven—er—eleven years.

Minnie's pudgy knees were locked together tighter than a virgin's in a brothel.

Do you know Mr. Roy Chisholm Jr.?

I know who he is . . . but . . . I don't, like you know . . . know him.

Understood, Miss Pritchard, Elizabeth said. Is he in this courtroom?

I believe . . . he . . . uh—

Minnie sure is a skittish little filly, Elizabeth thought, in particular around her loins, I'll bet.

Where?

Right over there, she whispered. Her voice quaked. She tilted her head sideways toward Rhino, afraid to look in his direction.

Minnie is as nervous as a June bug in a hen house. Harley's ample honey-buns is scared to death of the plug-ugly Rhino. Her testimony could go right down the damned toilet.

Miss Pritchard, Judge Bogart intervened, please relax. This court will protect you. Just do your civic duty—and like you've heard all your life—tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Yes sir, she said, and took a deep breath.

Elizabeth wanted to shout to the rafters: Hats off to Judge Bo! But she bit her tongue instead and waited.

Proceed, Miss MacLaine, Judge Bogart said.

Yes, Your Honor.

Minnie sighed like a lost schoolgirl.

Elizabeth asked her: How did you become acquainted with Mr. Chisholm?

He applied for treatment at our VA hospital.

For what?

Dental work.

Not his leg wound?

He never mentioned his leg.

Was he accepted for dental treatment?

No.

Why not?

His discharge papers had been altered.

How could you tell?

His DD-214 was typed in two different pitches—pica and elite. Minnie twisted a damp tissue in her plump hand. This alerted me.

Alerted you to what, Miss Pritchard?

Someone had sloppily dabbed white-out over the original conditions of his discharge.

For those jury members who many not know what 'white-out' is—could you explain?

White-out comes in a small bottle with a little brush. You can cover typing mistakes like painting your nails.

So someone used white-out in a crude attempt to falsify the document in question?

"Yes ma'am. They typed over the word 'honorable' but misspelled it—honoribel."

Some spectators murmured and a few laughed.

Order! Lumpkin commanded.

The laughter seemed to relax Minnie.

Judge Bogart rapped his gavel and said, Neighbors, the fraudulent alteration of an official US Army document is not a humorous matter.

Judge Bogart scrutinized Rhino like a patient but ravenous vulture.

With inner glee, Elizabeth watched Rhino squirm under the old infirm jurist's absolute dominance. She knew, thanks to her, Rhino was in serious straits with His Honor.

Proceed, Miss MacLaine, the judge ordered.

What type discharge did Mr. Chisholm, in fact, receive? Elizabeth asked.

A Bad Conduct Discharge, Minnie answered.

How do you know?

Our hospital administrator got in touch with the Adjutant General of the Army in the Pentagon. Miss Pritchard put on a pair of unfashionable, upswept cat-eye spectacles and opened her valise. The Adjutant General provided us a certified copy of Mr. Chisholm's original DD-214. Here are copies for the court.

Elizabeth took the documents from Miss Pritchard, and gave one copy to Clarence who inhaled as if he had been impaled with a pitchfork.

Then she asked the court to accept the document into evidence.

So ordered, Judge Bogart said while reading a copy, his face growing grimmer, line-by-line.

Elizabeth glanced at Rhino who was staring vacantly at the wall clock while a frantic Clarence whispered into his ear.

Where are those two rats scurrying to now?

Judge Bogart looked up from Rhino's DD-214, and said, Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please be excused for a few minutes.

The old man was polite to the jurors, as usual, but his tone was ominous.

What's he up to? Judge Bo seldom if never excuses a jury. He always keeps the wheels of justice out in the open and grinding away. Oh, boy.

The jury filed out of the courtroom.

Judge Bogart leaned back in his leather chair, slumped, closed his eyes, and rubbed his hairless temples. After a protracted moment of silence, and without opening his eyes, he spoke almost in a whisper, Mr. Chisholm, I'm inclined to lock you up and throw away the key. However, such actions would be a rush to judgment. Instead, I ask when and if you say your prayers tonight, you give thanks to the framers of our Constitution for protecting a recidivistic wretch the likes of you.

Elizabeth had a hard time believing what she just heard, but she knew it was true. Judge Bo had voiced his bias against the defendant in a public forum.

Wow! Mistrial? Hope not because all my work would be for naught, and Rhino would be right back home in Fiddlers Hollow thumping on Ida Mae.

The judge opened his eyes and held up Rhino's DD-214, dangling it by a corner as if it were a used condom.

His eyes reminded Elizabeth of the business end of Dolly Dugan's double-barreled shotgun.

Mr. Chisholm, he said, in the awards section of this document neither a Bronze Star nor a Purple Heart is reflected. In point of fact, this document confirms you never set foot in Southeast Asia, but you did, indeed, receive a Bad Conduct Discharge.

Elizabeth knew Rhino's hash was fried.

Judge Bo dropped the DD-214.

It floated down and littered the courtroom floor.

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at the hushed spectators who stared at the discarded paper.

Elizabeth believed she knew what they were thinking for sure.

Yes—Rhino's discharge paper is trash, and so is his alibi.

Elizabeth again looked at Rhino.

In her mind's eye, she pictured him as a big, fat, naked goose—feathers plucked, full of stuffing, and trussed up tight. Even had those dainty little lacy paper cuffs around his ankles. Lord, have mercy.

She couldn't help herself.

The riot of laughter within her expressed itself not through her mouth, but through her eyes. Big tears. The biggest, fattest ever to roll down her cheeks.

Chapter 3-2

A Hunting Tigress

MacLaine knew what he had to do and set about his grim work.

Knowing Warfield to be twenty-seven years old, he took the empty condensed milk can, put twenty-seven pebbles in it, and then tied it around the corpse's neck with comm wire to serve as a primitive ID device.

Next, he shook out the wheat bags, noting they were gifts from the US Agency for International Development.

He wrapped them mummy-style around the corpse, and bound it tight with more comm wire.

Outside the cage, he spread out the poncho on the ground and gently positioned the corpse upon it. Although his wounded arm was almost healed, he was still too weak to carry the burden over his shoulder for any distance.

With the entrenching tool in his right hand, he grasped a corner of the poncho in his left, and dragged his good captain's remains down the trail to the stream with Grandpas Stoop and One Eye following but hanging well back to avoid the smell.

* * *

Elizabeth stared up at Judge Bogart when the jurors filed back into the courtroom and took their seats.

His fevered eyes narrowed as he turned toward the wall clock.

It was almost noon.

He again leaned back in his chair, slumped with eyes closed, and sighed.

Elizabeth could tell he was wiped out for certain. Still suffering from the flu, she thought. Char is right. Judge Bo should hang it up before he croaks on his beloved bench.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, he said, we shall now adjourn for lunch until one o'clock. My previous instructions to you on loose lips remain in effect. He gave a firm rap with his gavel. Trial and defense counselors, please approach the bench.

Elizabeth looked at Clarence who was shaking his head in bewilderment, his face drained and ashen.

Mr. Stringfellow, Judge Bogart said, you allowed your client to take you for quite a perjurious ride, didn't you?

As a professional, I'm embarrassed—no mortified, to say the least, Your Honor.

How much more of my time are you going to fritter away? the judge asked with a grave look.

None, sir, because my client has agreed to plead guilty to the lesser included offense of—

Cold fish, Clarence. There is no lesser included offense here, and why are you trying to plea bargain with me instead of the prosecutor? Have you been tippling this morning?

No sir, I'm as sober as you are, Judge Bogart, and if you would only entertain the—

No more of your flawed sophistry, counselor. Judge Bo slammed Clarence's legal door shut. Justice demands the jury do its duty.

Yes sir, Clarence said, holding his hands up as if surrendering.

After lunch, I want a quick verdict so we can all get along home before the snowstorm hits.

But I'm still bound to defend my client on both moral and legal grounds, Your Honor.

Granted, Clarence, but no more of your boy's bald-faced lies and shameless fakery, Judge Bo ordered, or you—yourself—will be breaking out your checkbook for Tecumseh County's financial gain. Are we clear on the monetary issue, counselor?

Yes, Your Honor, Clarence said, treading water.

Miss MacLaine has peeled back a scab, Judge Bo mused, fisheyeing Rhino. She's uncovered some pus, and it needs to be cleansed out of our county.

Again, Elizabeth could not believe her ears. Wow! Judge Bo is sure being heavy handed and directive—if not downright threatening. Hope he doesn't screw up. Cause an overturn on appeal. Oh, crap. A possible travesty of justice. Clarence will appeal for sure. He always does to collect more public defender fees. So what? Forget it. The appeal deal is later. Don't worry about something that hasn't happened yet. The time is now. And now is the time for a conviction.

Elizabeth turned toward the defense table.

Rhino, the maniacal mugger, glared at her.

Elizabeth could see he hated her guts. Now he knows he's been had, and by a woman. There could be no better put down to his massive male ego.

Lumpkin Erikson took Judge Bo by the elbow and helped him down from the bench.

Elizabeth continued to contemplate her cause for nightmares, Rhino—her mine-jail nemesis, her bete noir, and now her prey. Yes, even in his new Sears polyester suit, absurd hand-painted tie, and stinky white nylon shirt, he's still just a mean, bad-to-the-bone, backwoods bully.

How do folks know? It's obvious. The stupid shit didn't cut off his dirty ponytail or remove his swastika earring from his earlobe.

Yes, he's a nasty redneck malefactor who is going back to Moundsville, where he belongs, before Uncle Harley carves up his big-biker butt.

* * *

After a half hour of hard start-and-stop effort, MacLaine finally pulled Warfield's corpse up to the stream bank. He collapsed in exhaustion next to a tree stump, and rested for a while in the stifling afternoon heat. At length, he struggled to his feet. With entrenching tool in hand, he paced off twenty-seven steps due west from the stump to the foot of a healthy young screw pine.

There he began to dig a grave on an east-west axis as deep as possible.

When he reached about four feet in depth, the grave began to fill with water so he stopped and rested again.

Still feeling completely washed-out, he arose after taking a break, went back and dragged the poncho to graveside. After pausing to say a short prayer, he rolled the corpse into the watery grave with a splash. He made sure its head pointed toward the east—toward home—the good old US-of-A.

After another long rest break, MacLaine back-filled the grave and then trudged back and forth into the jungle, gathering large rocks that he placed one by one on the grave to prevent the animals from digging, per Captain Warfield's last wishes.

When the rock cairn reached a foot in height, he finally stopped his struggle and thanked God for giving him the strength to bury his good captain, all the while hoping the jungle would not be Lance Warfield's final resting place.

No, he thought, Captain Warfield deserves to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery with the rest of our nation's heroes.

He prayed to God to let him live to tell Captain Warfield's parents that their courageous son was a Marine hero of the first order, tell one and all where he'd buried him, and one day retrieve his worldly remains and take them home to where they belonged.

He prayed that someday in the future, the comm wire, milk can, and hideous grenade ring would cause a metal detector to pinpoint the lonely jungle gravesite.

And he prayed that someday he might also meet his captain's best friend, the Marine officer named Samuel Solveig Sparkman, and tell him just what in the hell happened—the whole truth—and not sugar coated either.

* * *

After lunch, Elizabeth presented the people's final case to the jury, then resumed her seat at the prosecutor's table and surveyed the courtroom. She was surprised to see the three Chisholm brothers sitting in the first row right behind Rhino. Maynard the roofer and hair puller. Darrell the drunk. How many stitches did it take to sew up his buns after Harley sliced them open? And the meanest one—the ex-con Norbert—better known as Gobbler the Poacher. The most recent visitor to Dolly's dumpster.

Elizabeth suppressed a laugh at the sight of the latter brother because Gobbler's two purple-black eyes were separated by a bandage across his broken nose. His temples protruded like a matched pair of pink water balloons. He looked like a circus clown who'd been beaten up by a gang of Hell's Angels.

Seeing her looking at him, Gobbler raised his callused right hand and fired his imaginary pistol directly at her heart.

Elizabeth took the make-believe bullet without flinching on the outside, but inside a blunt fist punched deep into her queasy solar plexus.

To recover, Elizabeth set her jaw and glanced over to see if Lumpkin Erikson had seen Gobbler's threatening gesture.

But, of course, the bailiff had gone to get his nibs.

Damn my luck! Where's my Uncle Harley when I need him? Better send for him.

Elizabeth dashed off a quick note and passed it to Devorah Cohen who was still covering the trial for the Clarion.

Elizabeth dismissed the Chisholm death threat from her mind.

She would do her legal duty. The law was on her side. More compelling—the case cried out for justice for all victims of spousal abuse in Tecumseh County. Women and men. After all, she was the first female prosecutor in the history of Tecumseh County. Based on dynamo Dev's research driven by her reporter's probing intellect, she just might be the first in the entire state of West Virginia.

Elizabeth half listened as Clarence commenced to make his desperate closing argument.

Oh, Clarence, she wanted to say, go on down to the Powhatan Valley River and pound rocks because on the legal profession's ladder, you're a lowest rung loser.

Elizabeth yawned and looked over her shoulder.

The three Chisholm brothers were still staring at her. Maynard, Darrell, and Gobbler. A mangy trio of feral dogs at the county dump would more attractive than those bastards. For sure, for sure. Wonder what their women folk look like?

She turned away and began to review her notes for her closing statement, the burden of proof still upon her slim shoulders.

Elizabeth realized her moment was at hand. Now, she said to herself, is the opportunity for you to help settle the score for all the battered women in Tecumseh County's history. For yesterday's pioneer women in log cabins who endured beatings from their moonshining mates dressed in rancid buckskin. For today's teenyboppers in rundown house trailers who are being molested by their stoned redneck stepfathers dressed in rank black leather. Make this lying creep Rhino pay for beating the crap out of Ida Mae. Make him pay for the verbal abuse he heaped on you, too.

Clarence closed with obvious relief, Your Honor, the defense rests its case.

What case? Okay, folks, buckle your seatbelts. Now I am the evangelist, the avenging angel. Rhino is the sinner, the Devil. There will be no MacLaine forgiveness, no compassion, and no mercy for this evil incarnate. The time has come for me to take him down—and hard. For all to see—including his three cross-burning KKK brothers. Go for his jugular!

Elizabeth closed her legal portfolio and stalked over to the jury box like a hunting tigress on the loose. She made prolonged eye contact with each and everyone of the jurors. Without the aid of notes, she launched into her closing statement with the vengeance of a female MacLaine with an attitude—a bad attitude toward a badass KKK bubba.

Ladies and gentlemen of Tecumseh County, Elizabeth began, "this case is, in fact, a simple one. A brutal bully of a husband assaults his wife and admits