Naked Justice bk-6

by William Bernhardt

  “Ben, I’m the mayor, okay? I know.” He stretched out his arms. “Now my sources at the courthouse tell me there are a lot of good attorneys, and a lot of attorneys that Judge Hart likes. But, they say, you’re a particular favorite.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do. It’s a fact.”

  “Even if that were true, it wouldn’t matter. Judge Hart is a smart, professional judge. She’s not going to give you any breaks just because she likes me.”

  “I’m sure she would never intentionally show any favoritism. But when all is said and done, all other things being equal, wouldn’t you rather be represented by the guy the judge likes than the guy she doesn’t?”

  Ben couldn’t argue with that logic.

  “Look, I’ll give you whatever you want. How about a ten-thousand-buck retainer up front? You can charge me a hundred and fifty an hour, even though I know you normally don’t get half that much, when your clients pay at all, which from what I hear isn’t that often. So when can you start?”

  Ben fidgeted with his briefcase. “I haven’t decided—”

  “What’s to decide?”

  “Well … it’s very complicated …”

  Barrett’s eyes slowly narrowed. “You think I did it, don’t you?”

  Ben averted his eyes.

  “You think I killed my wife. You think I killed my two little girls.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what the jury thinks—”

  “Yeah, but that’s why you won’t take the case. Right?”

  Ben met him eye to eye. “If I don’t believe your story myself, how can I make a jury believe it?”

  “What is it you don’t believe?”

  “Everything. Leaving at just the wrong moment and coming back to find them all dead.”

  “That’s how it happened!”

  “Well, whether it did or didn’t, a jury will certainly have difficulty believing it.”

  Barrett folded his arms. “All right. So that’s one problem. What else?”

  “The crime itself is a problem. Forgive me. I know you must be upset about all this, but I have to speak honestly. Everyone in your family was killed except you. The public hates survivors; they always assume there must be a reason why one survives when others don’t. And who can blame them? They can believe a father—an athlete—in the heat of passion loses his head and kills his family. But if you didn’t kill them, who did? Who else could possibly have a motive to eliminate your entire family?”

  “Ben,” Barrett said, after a long pause, “how much do you know about politics?”

  “Very little.”

  “Well, it’s a dirty game.”

  “What are you saying—that your political enemies did this?”

  “I just announced I was running for reelection.”

  “I can’t believe anyone would commit such a horrible crime for political reasons.”

  “That’s only because, as you just admitted, you know very little about politics.”

  “Why would anyone kill your family?”

  “To put me right where I am now.” He spread his arms wide. “Look at me. I’m in jail, not likely to get out any time soon. My reputation is shot. Even if I’m acquitted, most people will assume I was probably guilty. My political career is ended. Over. Hell, if they’d killed me, they’d just get my chosen successor. This way, they’ve rubbed the Barrett administration right off the map.”

  “I can’t believe anyone would do that.”

  “You can’t believe someone would commit murder to make millions of dollars?”

  “Millions? But you said—”

  “I’m talking about kickbacks, Ben. Municipal construction contracts that always seemed to end up in the same hands. Until I came on board and cleaned things up. Believe me, there are some heavy hitters in this town who want me gone, erased, and the sooner and more thoroughly the better. They don’t like having their hand taken out of the cookie jar. Especially,” he added, “not by a black man.”

  “But a crime like this.” Ben shook his head. “Three murders …”

  “Oh, hell, the creeps I’m talking about wouldn’t do the murders themselves.”

  “Then—”

  “Ben, you’re not really this naive, are you? These days you can hire a hit man for a thousand bucks. Hell, you can find their advertisements in the backs of magazines.”

  “You’re saying a professional hit man did this?”

  “Is that so incredible?”

  “Frankly, yes.”

  Barrett was quiet for a moment. “Ben,” he said finally, “did you read the description of the murders in the police report?”

  “I did.”

  “So did I. You remember what it said about my little”—his voice trembled, then cracked—“my little Annie?” He clenched his jaw and steadied himself, fighting back the tears. “She was killed by a single incision. A thin blade inserted at exactly the right point through her ribs and at the base of the heart. Caused immediate death. Now I ask you, could I do that? In the heat of passion, no less?” He paused. “Or did that require … a professional touch?”

  “But that was just one of the murders. The other two—”

  “I know. Something must’ve gone wrong after the killer got Annie. But the point remains—I could not have committed that murder.”

  “The jury will assume that you could. Or that you just got lucky.”

  “Lucky? That I got lucky?”

  Ben wished he could will those stupid words back into his mouth, but it was too late.

  Barrett’s whole body shook with anger. “I … did … not … get … lucky. I lost my family. I’m a victim!” He took several deep breaths till he had steadied himself. “I could not have committed these crimes. They were done by a professional.”

  “Well—”

  “Let me tell you something else. I think I’ve seen him. I’ve seen someone prowling around our neighborhood. An oily-looking creep in green fatigues. Nasty. Usually hanging around with a younger woman. A girl, really. Wears a headband. I saw this guy wandering around several times, but I didn’t know what to make of it. Now I do. Now I realize he was casing the neighborhood, waiting for just the right moment. As soon as he saw me run out of the house yesterday, he made his move.”

  “How many times have you seen this man?”

  “I’m not certain. At least four or five times. Other people in the neighborhood must have seen him, too. Ask around.”

  Ben batted his pencil against his lips. “I suppose I could do that.”

  “Don’t make up your mind whether to accept the case now. Take some time. Ask some questions. Go to a city council meeting.”

  “City council?”

  “Oh, hell, yes. They’re the ones behind this. They’ve been out to get me since day one.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions.” He turned toward the cell door.

  “But, Ben”—Barrett grabbed his arm—“get back to me as soon as possible, okay?” He peered deeply into Ben’s eyes. “I need you, Ben.”

  Ben tugged at his tie, not answering.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You don’t want to represent me because you think I’m some rich, fat-cat, ex-jock politician. You like the ones you consider tough cases. A man with no money. A retarded boy. A woman getting railroaded by the FBI. I’ll tell you something, Ben, and I hope you’ll hear what I’m saying. Those are the easy cases. You take those cases, you come out looking like a hero, win or lose. But, Ben, even if I’m not particularly underprivileged, I am a victim in this case. I’m the one who’s had his family taken from him, his career, his liberty. And now the police and the press are going to try to convince everyone that I’m a hideous baby-killing maniac. Well, I’m not! I’m not!” He placed his hands down on the thin mattress. “And I want you to prove it.”

  Ben broke away and moved awkwardly to the cell door. “I’ll get back to you.” He motioned for the guard and left, leaving
the mayor of the city and a million unanswered questions in his wake.

  Chapter 12

  WHEN BEN ARRIVED AT the mayor’s mansion, it bore all the unmistakable traces of a crime scene: yellow tape cordoning off the area, uniformed patrolmen posted at all entrances, professionals shuffling through their appointed duties with a somber deliberativeness. Perhaps the most distinctive characteristic, however, was a marked stillness, a stillness in the midst of the hustle-bustle, a stillness that seemed to distinguish the house from all the other houses where life continued without interruption.

  Ben nodded at Detective Tomlinson, who was just inside the front door. They knew each other well now, well enough that Tomlinson didn’t question whether his boss would allow Ben onto the crime scene. As he knew, Ben Kincaid and Mike Morelli had been college roommates and had played as a musical combo in college-town niteries—Ben on piano, Mike on guitar. He also knew that Mike had married Ben’s sister, then been divorced by her, a series of events that had put a distinct strain on his and Ben’s friendship.

  “Where—?” Ben didn’t have to finish the question. Tomlinson pointed to a hunched figure crawling around on the hardwood floor in the living room.

  Ben crossed the room, careful to remain on the protective sheets of butcher paper. Mike was crouched down on all fours, his nose to the floor, his rear end to the ceiling.

  “Lose a contact?” Ben asked.

  Mike cocked one eye to see who was there. “No.”

  “Trick back gave out again?”

  “If you must know, I’m applying luminol to a smear of dirt to see if I can raise a footprint.”

  “I see. I don’t suppose you’ve found anything?”

  Mike rested his weight on one elbow. “For your information, I’ve found dozens of footprints. Unfortunately, they all came from police officers’ boots.”

  “Didn’t you put down paper after you cordoned off the scene?”

  “Yes, of course, I did, but—” He stopped, then pushed up onto his knees and brushed off his hands. “What are you doing here, anyway, Ben? I chased off all the other thrill-seekers.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not mixed up in this case, are you?”

  “No. Not yet, anyway.”

  “What on earth does that mean?”

  “Mayor Barrett has asked me to represent him.”

  Mike’s eyes widened. “He asked you?”

  “Is that so incredible?”

  “I just thought he would want someone …”

  Ben drummed his fingers. “Yes?”

  “I mean, I thought he would want someone … someone …”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “I thought he would want someone … taller. Yeah, that’s it. Taller.”

  “Uh-huh, right. Let me clear up your obvious mystification. Someone seems to have given Mayor Barrett the misguided notion that I might have some influence with the judge he anticipates will be assigned to the case.”

  “Ah. Now that I can believe.”

  “That I have a lot of sway with the judge?”

  “No. That Barrett would hire someone he thought did.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Mike stood up and shrugged. “Barrett is a politician. You know how they are. Their entire world revolves around politics. For them, it’s more important to know the right people than to do the right thing. They’ll choose influence over talent every time.”

  Ben lowered his chin. “Gee, thanks.”

  Mike smiled. “My point is that politicians want someone they think has the inside track. And apparently, this time that means you. So, have you accepted the case?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Well, I was hoping you could give me some insight. The … inside track, so to speak. I have to admit I have a few concerns.”

  “Like the fact that Barrett is obviously guilty?”

  Ben looked away. “Of course, it would be inappropriate to discuss a potential client’s innocence or guilt …”

  “Yeah, that’s you, Ben. Always playing by the book.” He smirked. “I gather Barrett isn’t confessing?”

  “Far from it.”

  “What’s his explanation? Unless that’s privileged.”

  Ben shrugged. “I can’t go into the details. But he contends he may have been framed by enemies on the city council.”

  Mike brushed the dirt off his unseasonably heavy trenchcoat. “And his much-publicized joyride down the Indian Nation Turnpike?”

  “Panicked. Didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “Ri-ight.” He laid a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Have fun in court.”

  “I gather you think he’s guilty.”

  “I pride myself on not jumping to conclusions about someone’s guilt, even when the evidence against him is overwhelming. Which it is.”

  Ben nodded. This was not exactly what he wanted to hear.

  “Win or lose, this is going to be a high-profile case. Local reporters have already started swarming, and it’s just a matter of time till the nationals hit the scene. This case has star quality, plus all the lurid details the press loves. City’s first black mayor, inner-city kid who made good, college athlete, accused of murdering his entire family in a gruesome manner.” He whistled. “This is going to be one major media circus.”

  “And this business about the city council?”

  “Well, Barrett does have enemies on the council. You know, even after the city government was restructured a few years ago, the council is still dominated by well-to-do whites. Some weren’t too keen on taking their lead from a poor kid from the North Side.”

  Ben nodded. “Anyway, appreciate your help. If I do take the case, I’ll cut you some slack on cross.”

  “Oh, it won’t be me up there.”

  “Aren’t you in charge of the crime scene?”

  “Now, yes. But the first detective on the scene was Lieutenant Prescott.”

  “Prescott!” Ben had heard all about Prescott over beer and pizza. He knew Prescott’s reputation well enough to avoid him. “Why on earth would you assign Prescott to such a big case?”

  “I didn’t. I was out of the office on another case.”

  “Chief Blackwell? I thought he didn’t like the man any better than you did.”

  “Actually, according to Prescott, he was sent to the crime scene by”— Mike stopped short—“by friends on the city council.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow. “No kidding.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “How did Prescott do?”

  “Oh, he—” Once again Mike stopped himself. “Well, I needn’t go into the details.”

  “Uh-huh. He botched it, didn’t he? That’s why the footprints are screwed up.”

  “Ben.” Mike looked supremely uncomfortable. “I am a member of the police department, you know. I report to the DA.”

  “This is more important than what team we’re on, Mike. A man has been charged with murder.”

  “I know. But I can’t endanger a pending case by criticizing a fellow member of my department. Not even …” His lips curled as if he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

  “Mike, if it becomes important to the case—”

  “I’m not saying I won’t answer your questions. Just don’t ask me to criticize a fellow officer, okay?”

  “All right.” Ben sensed he had already pushed his friend far enough. Better to wait for another time, another place. “If I take the case, I’ll send word.”

  “Ben.” Mike stepped closer to him and lowered his voice. “This is off the record, just buddy to buddy. I know it’s tempting to take a high-profile case. But honestly, this one’s a loser. The press is already acting as if Barrett’s guilt is a foregone conclusion, and people believe what they hear on television. You remember the line from Lewis Carroll?”

  “Which?”

  “ ‘I’ll be judge, I’ll be jury,’ said cunning old Fury / ‘I’ll try the whole cause and condemn you to death.’ ”
<
br />   “Well …”

  “That’s what’s going on now, Ben, with the police, with the press, and with however many millions of spectators out there who have already made up their minds. You’re going to be taking heat from all sides—the media, the black community, the white community—and the end result will be the same. You could come out of it looking ridiculous.”

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I know better than to try to tell you what to do, Ben … but I can tell you what you should do. It’s not as if Barrett couldn’t get another lawyer. He can buy anyone he wants.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” Ben started for the door.

  “Hey,” Mike called after him, “have you located your wayward sister?”

  “ ’Fraid not.”

  Mike nodded. “She’s pretty good at staying out of sight when she doesn’t want to be found. When she dumped me and took off for Montana with that schmuck professor, it took me months to track her down. And I’m a detective.”

  “I’m sure she’ll turn up in time.”

  “Yeah. How’s Joey?”

  “Oh, he’s … fine.”

  “He’s a cute kid. As kids go. I like that little squirt.”

  You should, Ben thought. Blood will tell. Despite the story Julia had told when she first appeared with the baby, Ben was almost certain Mike was Joey’s father. He had considered telling Mike a million times, but before he took that major step he wanted to be certain, and he couldn’t be certain until he had tracked Julia down and gotten her to confirm his suspicions.

  “Give him a hug for me, okay?” Mike said.

  “I will,” Ben answered as he walked outside. The sudden glare of sunlight made him squint.

  I’ll give him a hug, he thought. But when will Joey hug back?

  Chapter 13

  THE INSTANT BEN OPENED his apartment door, he was assaulted by the distinctive and unusual smell of seafood. Ben hated seafood. It made him break out in hives.

  “Hi, Joni,” Ben said as he laid his briefcase on the kitchen table. Joey was in his playpen fiddling with a busy box. “Thanks for picking Joey up at school.”

  “No problemo.”

  “I had to run down some information on a possible new case—”