Point of Law Read Free

circumstances to pull a trigger, especially if he or she manages to put a bullet in someone, there is a mandatory period of suspension during which the shooting is investigated by the office’s version of Internal Affairs and ruled either justifiable or not. These bureaucratic inquiries take a long, long time. During the investigation the officer is supposed to seek counseling in order to alleviate the guilt and grief of having shot some scumbag who’d been trying to kill him. I hadn’t felt the need for any counseling, but then, I didn’t kill anyone. I just winged the bastard. And the only thing I felt even a little guilty about was my lousy aim and the terrific amount of climbing I’d gotten in during the prolonged period of suspension-with-pay.
    My current suspension is for three months without pay. It’s part of a negotiated plea agreement to avoid having criminal charges pressed against me for assaulting a fellow peace officer. The charges would have embarrassed both my office and the local sheriff’s department the so-called “victim” was a member of. I’ve accepted three months without pay, an official reprimand, and been forced to make a half-assed apology. Kind of like with the prior suspension, the only guilt I feel is for not having hit the deputy harder.
    Instead of continuing our usual subtle but tense banter in which my father will attempt to degrade my career choice and voice his preference for something more “professional,” I’m surprised when he tries a new tack, mentioning Roberto for the first time himself.
    “Do your bosses know about your brother,
Agent
Burns?”
    “They know I’ve got one, but they don’t know about any of the trouble. It probably wouldn’t do my career much good if they found out.”
    This is something my father knows about firsthand. Just a few years ago he’d been on the verge of becoming one of the youngest generals in the Air Force. Then the crimes of his eldest son had come to the attention of the military. Dad ended up being denied further advancement. You don’t become a general, the ultimate leader of men, when you’ve sired a felon. Fortunately for me, though, the Wyoming AG’s Office doesn’t concern itself much with background checks on family members prior to promotion. I make a mental note to mention this additional benefit the next time we argue on the career subject, but don’t want to bring it up now that we’re finally talking about Roberto.
    “Do you know what he’s using these days?”
    “Not for sure. He’s banging—injecting—I know that much.”
    My father nods. Even in magazine photographs, the tracks of scabby pinpricks on my brother’s arms are hard to miss.
    “So that leads me to guess it’s either crank or heroin,” I say. After a moment I add quietly, “There’s not much out there that’s worse, Dad. At least we don’t have to worry anymore about him turning to harder drugs.”
    My father doesn’t say anything for a while. He just takes a few short pulls from my water bottle and stares up the canyon.
    The ledge is narrow where I’m slumped next to him. My feet and calves dangle over more than two hundred feet of space. I lean over and look down for the large black shape of my dog. Oso lays under the shade of a green-leafed cottonwood, staring straight up at us with his red tongue parting sharp white teeth. The dog is the cause of my current suspension—the deputy I supposedly assaulted had been trying to spear him with a shovel. I wave my hand at him and see the ears twitch forward.
    Taking back the water bottle from my father, I notice that one of his thick fists still holds the rope locked tight through his belay device.
    “By the way, Dad, I tied in. I’m off belay.”
    He nods. “Waiting for you to say it, son. Belay off.” Finally he releases his grip. I’m annoyed and embarrassed. I’ve violated one of his cardinal rules by failing to announce my status, but at least he’s too preoccupied to comment