Capitol Offense

by William Bernhardt

  “How many of you are married?”

  Most were.

  “How would you feel if your spouse or significant other were in danger—or in pain—and there was someone who could help, but they refused to do so?”

  He had hoped this question might stir up some strong feelings, but he was disappointed. Of course they cared about their partners, but it all seemed very abstract. No one would admit they might be moved to extreme action. They’d go through proper channels, they said. Friends and family first. Then police. Perhaps the media. But nothing else. Certainly no recourse to violence.

  “I know that for many of you, your faith, or religion, is very important. Do any of you believe that your faith might make it impossible for you to view the case fairly?”

  Predictably, the initial response was, No way, dude. All but two of them said that faith was an important part of their lives, but their faith made them stronger and smarter, better able to serve on a jury. Ben continued to press. He knew Guillerman would remove anyone opposed to the death penalty, so he didn’t bother asking questions down that line. He did find three who believed that “an eye for an eye” was God’s law, and that most likely spelled trouble. Ben used the Good Samaritan story to suggest that the police were lousy Samaritans and didn’t help when they could, but it wasn’t working. He was pleased to see that many said forgiveness was important. Jesus came to forgive us and wanted us to forgive each other as well, et cetera. But when it came time for them to retire to the jury room, would the Old Testament trump the New Testament? Or the other way around? How could he possibly know?

  By the end of the third day of questioning, Ben felt he had targeted the most dangerous ones, the people who absolutely had to be removed. But he had no sense of who the good ones were, which jurors might actually help his case. And he had no idea how to find them.

  He was almost prepared to sit down and flip a coin when Christina passed him a scrap of paper.

  He glanced down. Ask if they have a cat.

  Huh? He gave her a puzzled look. And she returned a look that he recognized as meaning: Just do it.

  “I was wondering,” Ben said, clearing his throat, “how many of you have a pet?”

  Almost all did. And even though he knew that, statistically, dog owners outnumbered cat owners, he found that was not true in this jury pool. Almost 70 percent of them had at least one cat at home.

  He started with the woman in Chair #1. She was in her mid-sixties, widowed, retired from school teaching.

  “How long have you had your cat, Mrs. Gregory?”

  “Almost ten years now. Since my sweet Henry died.”

  Interesting juxtaposition of facts. “Do you spend a lot of time with …?”

  “Percy.”

  “Yes. Do you spend a lot of time with Percy?”

  “Oh, land sakes. As if I have any choice. That little rascal follows me everywhere I go. When I do my crocheting, he drapes himself across my wrists and just lies there. Doesn’t seem like a comfortable place to be, what with my constant movement and such. But he never seems to mind.”

  “I gather you’re pretty fond of your kitty.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And I’ll bet Percy is fond of you.”

  “Well, you know cats. I feed him. That gives me an edge.” She chuckled a little at her own joke.

  “How would you feel if someone tried to take Percy away from you?”

  “Mercy’s sakes. Why would anyone do that?”

  “Just imagine. Maybe something happened to him. Maybe he was hurt. And someone prevented you from helping him.”

  “Well … I wouldn’t like that one bit.”

  “What if someone knew where he was, or knew how to find him, but they wouldn’t help you? What if Percy was suffering because someone else could help but refused? Would that make you angry?”

  “I should say so. I don’t know what I’d do. I—I don’t think I could keep my head together.”

  Exactly. “And if you lost Percy, if he died, because that someone wouldn’t help you, what do you think you’d do to them?”

  Her chest swelled. “I wouldn’t let anyone get away with hurting my Percy. I’d—I’d run them through with my crochet needles if I had to!”

  Ben glanced at Christina. She winked back. This was what they needed. People might not be willing to admit to extreme, even uncontrollable emotions with regard to their spouses. But a kitty was a different thing altogether.

  By the end of the fourth day, the jury was finalized. They had two African Americans, two Hispanics, one Asian, and seven Caucasians. One chiropractor, two teachers, two retirees (including Mrs. Gregory), a software programmer, an oil firm office secretary, and five housewives. Plus six alternates. For better or worse, the jury had been selected. The die was cast. The trial was ready to begin.

  After Judge McPartland dismissed them, DA Guillerman pulled Ben to one side.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this, because I think we’ve got a great jury and we’re going to bury you at trial, but I’ve got an offer.”

  “Go on.”

  “I mean, I’d love trying this, but it comes at a bad time. I need to focus on getting reelected. Fund-raising. It takes a lot of money to mount a campaign these days.”

  “You mentioned that before. So what have you got for me, David?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “My client isn’t interested.”

  “In twenty years? Which means he could be out in ten. On a cop killing? That’s as good as it’s going to get.”

  “Thanks. Not interested.”

  “I can get him transferred out of state. Someplace cushier than McAlester. I know he’s not a hardened criminal. There’s no reason he should be hanging out with them. He can spend his time playing tennis and reading Proust. Maybe crank out some scholarly articles in his spare time.”

  “His academic career is over if he goes to prison and you know it as well as I do. It’s probably already in danger.”

  He grabbed Ben’s arm. “Your boy is not going to like the penitentiary. He seems pretty straight, bookish. Not in great shape. He won’t last long. Especially not once word gets out what he did. You may think cop killers are popular in prison. They’re not. Not with the guards or the inmates.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Frankly, I’m taking a risk here. You know the folks out in the sticks aren’t going to think ten years is enough. But I’m willing to take that risk to get this thing out of my hair.”

  “Because it comes at an inconvenient time.”

  “Exactly.”

  And so marches the American justice system. “I’m sorry, but my client already told me to say no.”

  “Talk some sense into him, Ben. Do you know what a long shot temporary insanity is? Especially given the facts. He’d rather go to trial and almost certainly get death when he could be out by his forty-fifth birthday? That’s insane!”

  “Well, he’s been insane before.”

  Ben returned to Dennis and Christina and reported.

  “All right, my friends, that’s it, then. No turning back. He won’t make that offer a second time.”

  “Good,” Dennis replied. “I don’t want to be tempted.”

  “And you understand what this means?”

  “We’re going to trial. Monday morning. On temporary insanity.”

  “Exactly.” Ben took each by the arm and steered them toward the door. He knew there would be a throng of reporters waiting for them outside. “God help us all.”

  11

  Ben sat upright with a start, gasping, covered with sweat.

  He was in bed. The sheets were a tangled mess around his feet. He had totally pulled the covers off Christina, probably hours ago. Fortunately, she was an extremely sound sleeper. Nothing bothered her. He could vacuum while she was snoozing and it wouldn’t disturb her. Him, not so much.

  He was having the weirdest dream, and not the usual one where he appeared before the jury and sud
denly realized he was in his underwear. This time, he was driving and something appeared in front of him, causing him to swerve off the road and go over an enormous cliff. He plummeted and there was nothing he could do about it because he was trapped and he couldn’t get the seat belt loose, not that plummeting outside a car was necessarily better than plummeting inside a car. He could see the craggy surface rapidly approaching and he screamed in terror, but the impact never seemed to come—he just fell and fell and fell, seemingly forever …

  Or at least for seven days?

  He rolled out of bed, trying to make as little ripple as possible, went to the sink, and splashed water on his face. That felt better. The cool rivulets trickled down the sides, easing the tensions, slowing his breathing.

  He hated trials. And the worst part of any trial was the sleepless night before it started.

  He checked the clock on the front of the cable box. It was late. He had to get back to sleep. The first day of a trial, a thousand things happened at once and he had to be ready for all of them, including the ones he hadn’t anticipated. Although the jurors had seen him during the selection process, it was still important to make a strong impression on the first day of evidence. When the real action began. The prosecution would undoubtedly have a flurry of surprise motions. The reporters would be everywhere. Just his luck that it happened to be a slow news week. They had been covering the pretrial motions as if they were royal weddings. He could just imagine what it would be like once the trial was actually under way. Buzzards circling about looking for any tabloid tidbit to turn into a lead story and boost ratings. Judge McPartland had said he didn’t want any comments on the content of the trial made to the press, but Ben knew there was much that could be done in the realm of characterization and innuendo without actually discussing the evidence. Normally Ben ignored the press during a trial, but he knew Dennis wouldn’t like that. Dennis thought it was important to court the media, even now, after the jury had been chosen. And, sad to say, he was probably right.

  He slid back into bed as quietly as possible, hugging his pillow tightly. He was wide awake. Did it sometimes seem as if the more desperately you needed sleep, the less likely it was to come?

  He flipped from side to side for a few minutes, then finally sat up. He thought he felt Christina stir a little.

  “Are you awake?” he asked quietly.

  “I am now, Insomnia Boy.”

  “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I know. Got the pretrial jitters?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  She pounded her pillow, rolled over, and smiled. “Just a crazy whim. Sure, you were nervous before the last fifty trials, but for this capital murder case, you’re fine.”

  “I would hate to see Dennis go to prison. Even if … well, you know.”

  “Yeah. Someday we’re going to come up with another way to deal with criminals who aren’t evil and aren’t mean and aren’t going to hurt anyone. But it won’t be happening tonight, so why don’t you get some sleep?”

  “I don’t think I can. I keep running every aspect of the trial through my head, wondering if there’s something I’ve forgotten.”

  “I don’t want to raise your blood pressure, Ben, but the truth is, you probably have forgotten something. You know as well as I do how huge and complex trials are. It’s simply not possible to think of everything. You’ll deal with it when it comes up.”

  “If that’s supposed to be comforting, it isn’t working. An attorney has to be prepared.”

  “And you are. How many trial notebooks have you filled to the brim? About twenty?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Is that a new Ben record?”

  “Not quite. But you know, we had relatively little time before trial …”

  “You’re ready. Dennis has nothing to complain about.”

  “Maybe I should just start reviewing my notes.”

  “No!” She sat up, and even in the darkness, he could tell she was giving him a stern look. “I absolutely forbid it.”

  “I didn’t know you had that power.”

  “It’s time you did. The honeymoon is over, pal.” She sniffed. “Well, technically, the honeymoon never happened.”

  “Christina …”

  “I know. Cheap shot.”

  “What will I do if they ask a question and I don’t know the answer?”

  “What you always do. Deal.”

  He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “I’m a total mess.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and gently pulled him to her side. “Yes, you are, but I find that endearing. And you know what? I think the juries do, too. We have this post-Perry Mason idea that lawyers have to be perfectly slick bastions of badinage all the time. But sometimes I think that actually turns jurors off. People like human beings. With flaws. Someone they can relate to. And you’ve got that. Big-time.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  She hugged him tighter. She smelled extremely nice. Christina was one of those special women who seemed immune to morning breath or any other slumber-related unpleasantness. She was always appealing.

  “So, Ben. Is there anything I can do to help you sleep?”

  “Well …”

  “Anything that’s likely to happen.”

  He smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Give me a minute.” She jumped out of bed, put on her robe, and walked into the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later carrying a steaming mug. “Drink this.”

  Ben took it cautiously. “This isn’t drugged, is it? Because I have to be up at six, ready to rock and roll.”

  “Relax. It’s just chamomile tea.”

  He looked into the cup and frowned. “You’re giving me hot leafy water? Doesn’t it have caffeine?”

  “No. It’s not really even tea. But it will help you sleep.”

  Ben took a sip. “That’s not bad.” He drank a little more. “Nice, actually.”

  She smiled. “I’m glad you’re getting some benefit out of the marriage. Now, finish it off, then cuddle up close to me and go to sleep.”

  “Oh … I don’t want to keep you awake.”

  “Who are we kidding? You’ll fall right back to sleep. Men always do. Me, it will take a while.”

  He put down the empty mug and snuggled in. “Thanks for being so nice about it.”

  She kissed him gently on the forehead. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  12

  Loving parked his pickup a few blocks down Brady so he wouldn’t be observed. It probably wouldn’t matter, but he didn’t want anyone to see him coming. He liked to drink in the environment on his own time.

  Sunday night was a surprisingly good time to be checking out a cop bar. Might be more crowded on a Friday night, but a lot of the boys were still working and didn’t have the luxury of getting plastered. Sunday night, however, most were off-duty, more than at any other time. There was usually a game on, it was guaranteed to be more exciting on the big screen, and it was a fair bet that no one living off a cop’s salary had a ninety-inch screen like the one inside this joint. And it was no small factor that Oklahoma still operated under the barely post-prohibition liquor laws that barred the sale of anything other than 3.2 beer anywhere but in liquor stores—which were required to be closed on Sunday. For the heavy drinker who failed to plan ahead, a trip to the local bar was mandated.

  Loving heard the singing before he saw the people. Three big burly sorts, arms around each other, standing on the street corner, waiting for a taxi. The guys who regularly pulled people over for DUIs had the sense not to drive themselves home.

  “Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are playin’ …”

  Loving winced. After a few too many brewskis, the Irish buried deep inside anyone with Irish ancestry within the last forty-seven generations always seemed to emerge. He knew the lead vocalist. His name was Ginsberg. But there must be some Irish in there somewhere.

  His two buddies joined in. “The su
mmer’s gone, and all the leaves are fallin’ …”

  Loving doubted they were in any condition to be interrogated. He passed them by, giving them a nod as he did, and entered Scene of the Crime.

  This had been the top cop bar for some while. Back in the day, it had been Harry’s over on 41st and Peoria, but nowadays this place saw most of the boys-in-blue action. It was low-key enough, and with a reasonably restricted clientele, no one had to worry about what might be reported back the next day. Loving was not much of a drinker, but he could appreciate the need for a swig every now and again, or perhaps even more importantly, the need for a safe, friendly place to hang. It was easy to forget, given how arrogant some could be and how negative most of their encounters with the populace were, that police officers had a tough job, and at the end of the day, as they approached that car they had just pulled over, they had no way of knowing what they were going to face. Loving would not begrudge them the occasional opportunity to unwind.

  As he passed through the front door, his senses were assaulted by so many different sensations they were hard to catalog. The strongest was the smell—pungent beer, mixed with stale breath and pretzels. Smoke thicker than oxygen. The clink and rattle of mugs and ashtrays. Loud music from the juke and the blast of the television even more deafening, especially every time the right team scored. A century of police paraphernalia hanging on the wall, some of it dating back to the Victorian era—billy clubs, truncheons, caps, badges, bullets. A huge television screen, bigger than some movie theaters he’d visited. And way too many people crammed into too little space, lubricated with hops and barley.

  Actually, Loving loved it here.

  He nodded at the owner, Jake Bradley, a retired cop he had known for probably twenty-five years. Bradley acknowledged him but did not smile. A bad indication, Loving thought. He must realize that Loving hadn’t dropped by just for a tall cold one.