Chapter Twenty-Three
In spite of the road fight I was thankful to be living at Robinson Bar. In the spring I loved watching the “reveal” as melting snow uncovered new life pushing from every inch of ground and from every branch and bush. In the fall I reveled in the golden glory of the aspens and the orange shimmer of kokanee salmon in the rivers and creeks. I took pleasure in seeing the stars reflected in the pool as twinkles of light that scattered in patterns with every ripple. I was reassured by the rhythm of the seasons that I experienced with all my senses. I felt renewed by all the living things that grew, grazed, flew, swam, and hibernated at different times of the year. When the negativity of the road fight threatened to engulf me, I could always find comfort in some small gift proffered by nature, almost as if in consolation.
After the quiet title decision in our favor, I was eager to get back to a more positive frame of mind. Before the trials I had always believed that people were inherently good. Now that the battle was over, I longed to rediscover my faith in human nature. But Rick seemed unable to let go of his belief that justice had not been sufficiently served. He turned his attention to the Forest Service official who had encouraged the commissioners to declare our road public. I agreed with his assessment of the man’s wrongdoing, but I was weary of living in an adversarial atmosphere. Wasn’t it enough that we had won? Apparently it wasn’t. Rick obtained a transcript of the official’s testimony and pored over it. Then he called me over, held up the papers triumphantly, and pointed out at least eight instances of what he viewed as perjury. I could see that he was excited about the possibility of retribution, but I didn’t relish the prospect of yet another battle. I was excited about life after litigation. When Rick asked me to go to Challis with him to file charges and request that the new county attorney prosecute the official for perjury, I balked.
“You don’t have to be a party to the case,” Rick said. “The People will be the plaintiff. All you have to do is be a witness.”
He kept after me until I agreed.
“All right,” I said, climbing into his truck. “But this is absolutely the last time I’ll testify in this matter.”
As it turned out, neither of us would testify in this matter. I was about to learn Lesson 4 in my hopefully soon-to-be-ended legal education: prosecutorial discretion can trump justice. You and three witnesses can apprehend a killer standing over a bleeding dead body with a smoking gun in his hand and the bullet holes in the body a perfect ballistic match to the aforementioned gun. If the prosecuting attorney chooses not to prosecute, the killer walks.
The Custer County magistrate went as far as issuing a subpoena for the official to respond to the allegations, but the county prosecutor declared a conflict, and the Idaho attorney general ultimately declined to prosecute.
Hearing that the official had been transferred to another state was good enough for me, but it wasn’t good enough for Rick. He spent a substantial part of each day in his rocking chair staring out the window, tamping and refilling his pipe, and complaining about the unfairness of prosecutorial discretion. I understood his frustration with the capricious nature of the judicial system, but we had prevailed in that very judicial system. Why couldn’t he be happy with our victory and move on?
I didn’t know enough at the time to diagnose it, but it’s possible that Rick was suffering from depression, and that my attempts to be cheerful and encourage him to move on at my pace made him feel even more frustrated. What I did know was that Rick’s state of mind was casting a pall over everything I had loved and appreciated about him. I began to turn in the direction of seeing my children more often, songwriting, recording, and other activities that I hoped would restore peace and joy to the forefront of my life.