Naked Justice bk-6

by William Bernhardt

  “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not accusing anybody of anything. But I know very well, from the work I’ve done on previous cases, that some people harbor less than charitable feelings about members of other races. Maybe you had a bad experience when you were young. Maybe your parents told you things that you accepted without questioning. It doesn’t matter how it happens, but sometimes it does happen. It’s nothing we like to admit. But it’s there.”

  There was a long pause. Ben walked to the opposite end of the jury box. “I’m not going to put anyone on the spot. I’m not going to try to trick you into confessing your sins in public. I’m just going to do this. I’m going to ask you all to close your eyes.”

  Out the corner of his eye, Ben saw Bullock twitch and half rise to his feet. Then he stopped. Ben could imagine the thoughts racing through his head. Yes, this was certainly irregular. But what exactly would your objection be? Bullock settled back into his chair.

  Ben returned his attention to the jury box. “All right, all eyes closed? Fine. Now I want anyone who thinks they may have some biases or prejudices that might prevent them from being absolutely fair in this trial to raise their hand. No one will know. Just raise your hand. I won’t identify you. I will see that you’re removed from the jury, but I won’t say why. You’ll just be one of many who end up not serving. Okay? Look deep into your heart. Be honest with me. Be honest with yourself. If you can’t be a fair and impartial juror, raise your hand. Please.”

  Ben waited a full ten seconds. No one raised a hand. Well, it was a nice try.

  And then, to his astonishment, a hand inched into the air. Mrs. Applebee, an older woman in the middle row, slowly hoisted her hand.

  “All right,” Ben said, “all hands down. And you may open your eyes. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  After that, Ben ran through a myriad of questions on a myriad of topics, trying to learn more about the jurors, trying to unearth random bits of information that might be more telling than anything he could discover through direct questioning.

  The responses he got were straightforward, reflective, and occasionally surprising. Christina jotted down some of the highlights:

  “Criminals have too many rights. What about the victims?”

  “I like to unwind at night with a frozen margarita, The New York Times crossword puzzle, and Regis and Kathie Lee. I tape the show every day. I love that man.”

  “I just don’t understand people today. Sex, sex, sex—it seems like that’s all anyone cares about. Personally, I don’t see what the big fuss is.”

  “Corporations control America. Everyone’s just in it for a buck.”

  “Did you ever wonder—when you’re smelling a flower, is it smelling you?”

  “I believe that key personnel in our government have been abducted and replaced by alien beings.”

  “My brother-in-law Harold was the second gunman on the grassy knoll.”

  “Counsel, do you mind if I ask where you got that tie?”

  “I can’t stand lawyers. Nothing personal.”

  After voir dire was finally completed, Ben huddled in a side room with his client, Christina, and of course, Harold Sacks, the juror consultant.

  “All right,” Ben said, “let’s start with the foregone conclusions. Mrs. McKensie is removed, preferably to another county. Torres obviously can’t stand you, Wallace.”

  “Agreed,” Barrett said.

  “So he’s out. What else?”

  “I think the alien abduction lady has to go,” Christina offered.

  “Really?” Ben raised an eyebrow. “I figured you’d want to make her the foreperson.”

  Christina offered an extremely thin smile.

  “All right, enough fun. Now let’s do the serious work.” Sacks shoved his way into the middle of the huddle. He was holding a clipboard with charts and diagrams showing the position of each prospective juror. He had also worked up brief Jungian personality profiles of each, indicating whether they were an ESTJ personality type, or INFP, or whatever. Finally he had rated their likely compatability to Wallace Barrett on a scale from one to one hundred. “One thing is obvious. That old woman in the back, Donnelly, has to go.”

  Ben’s head tilted to one side. “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s exactly our worst statistical, demographic and personality type.”

  “I thought she seemed sympathetic when I hammered on the ‘presumed innocent’ standard.”

  “She was just being polite.”

  “And I thought she seemed skeptical of some of the stuff Bullock was trying to ram down their throats.”

  “How would you know what she’s thinking?”

  “I used my eyes.”

  “Look, Kincaid, have you done a statistical workup?”

  “No.”

  “Then shut up and let me do my job.” He flipped a page on his clipboard. “Now, needless to say, both of the black men stay.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ben said. “One of them, Jeffers, has a daughter who works at the sheriff’s office.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So?” Ben stared at the man. “So, first, he’s probably got a huge law enforcement bias. And second, he’s probably sitting there stewing about how Wallace Barrett ruined his daughter’s pension, especially now that Torres has reminded him about it.”

  “True, but—”

  “What I have here are facts. Data. Analysis. You can guess all you want about what he’s thinking, but I know for a fact that he’s black, and that gives us an edge.”

  “You don’t know that. You’re just guessing, too. You stick an equation on top of it to make it seem more reliable, but you’re still just guessing.”

  “It’s not a guess, it’s a fact.” He nudged Barrett in the side. “All you black boys stick together, right?”

  Barrett stared at him wordlessly.

  “Your statistics don’t mean a damn thing,” Ben said. “All that matters is what those twelve people in the box think. They might be a demographically representative group, or then again, they might not be.”

  “I’ve already made up my mind, Kincaid. He stays.”

  Ben imagined he could feel the steam rising off the top of his head. He gave Barrett a sharp look. “Wallace, I think it’s fairly clear at this point that the two of us cannot work together. So make a decision. Is he picking this jury, or am I?”

  Barrett was still staring at Sacks. His eyes narrowed. Finally he spoke. “You are, Ben.”

  Sacks threw his hands into the air. “You stupid—” He pounded his fist on his clipboard. “Do you know what you’re doing? You’re throwing sixty thousand dollars down the drain.”

  “Actually,” Barrett said, “I think I already did that. Now I’m trying to prevent that mistake from costing me my life.”

  Sacks’s face turned a vivid red. He threw his clipboard down on the floor and stomped out of the room.

  “Thank you,” Ben said.

  Barrett nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Okay,” Ben said, “let’s get on with this. Christina, what do you think of the woman on the end of the second row?”

  “The anti-sex maniac?”

  “Right …”

  Chapter 36

  “I’M AFRAID WE HAVEN’T made much progress,” Mike explained. He was sitting on the edge of the desk in his office, thumbing through the contents of a tan file folder. “Your mad bomber didn’t leave us much to go on.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” After the jury had been selected and Judge Hart recessed the trial for the day, Ben had stopped in at Mike’s office to check the progress of the investigation into the bombing of his office. So far he hadn’t heard much he liked. “No clues in the wreckage?”

  “Clues to how it was done, yes. Clues to the identity of the culprit, no.”

  Ben pressed his hand against his forehead. He had been hoping for better news. “Are you sure they’ve tried everything?”

  “Ben, I’ve been involved in this investigation p
ersonally. As you know, I worked arson cases for several years. I know how to roll up my sleeves and root around in the ashes. There just wasn’t anything there.”

  Ben nodded grimly. “Say, while you were rooting around in the ashes, you didn’t happen to see my opening statement, did you? In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten what I was planning to say.”

  Mike smirked. “I expect you’ll think of something. Lawyers always do.” Mike walked behind his desk where he kept a small compact refrigerator, opened it, and pulled out a Red Dog. “Care for a beer?”

  “Thanks, no. Have to deal with Joey.”

  “And I’m on duty. But why be a stickler about details?” He screwed off the top and took a long draw. “Are you sure you don’t have any idea who’s gunning for you, Ben?”

  “I’m sure. Who would do something like this?”

  “I don’t know.” He paused. “Unless he’s someone you really pissed off.”

  “I don’t think so. I think it’s someone who’s been drinking in the endless press coverage of this trial. Someone who believes this really is the trial of the century.”

  Mike smiled. “Have you noticed how one of those comes along about every two or three years?”

  “I suppose if someone listened to that media crap long enough, and watched it often enough, defense attorney Ben Kincaid might start to seem like a celebrity worth stalking. I’ve been more visible on television during the last two weeks than Heather Locklear.”

  “Not in nearly as good shape, though.” Mike took another swallow. “You can’t fault the press for covering the story. It’s a matter of public interest.”

  “Bull. This is a private tragedy that the press has latched onto because a celebrity is involved. Worse crimes occur every day. But the press loves celebrity stories. They sell papers; they boost ratings.”

  “I think you’re wrong, Ben. This case raises a lot of serious issues.”

  “That’s the excuse the press always uses. If they want to publicize some lurid statutory rape, well, it’s a child-abuse issue. If they want to dig up trivial mistakes a candidate made thirty years ago, it’s a trust issue. If they want to pry into someone’s sex life, it’s a character issue. What it really is, is a tawdry effort to pander to our worst instincts by sensationalizing the news and turning reporters into gossip columnists.”

  “Well, if you went a little easier on the press, this case might go better for you.

  “True. And isn’t that a pathetic statement? If I play up to the media—not the jury, not the judge, but the media—my client might have a better shot at acquittal. Tell me who’s running the justice system now.”

  “Speaking of which.” Mike reached behind his desk and lifted a hardcover book with a glossy photo dust jacket. “Have you seen this?”

  Ben took the book from him. It was titled The Whole Truth, and Nothing But. It was written by Cynthia Taylor, Caroline’s sister. On the cover was a photo of Wallace Barrett, obviously taken during an off moment when he was not aware he was being photographed. His eyes were hooded; he seemed to be looking deviously out of their corners. He was wearing a tank top. His fists were pressed together in such a way that his biceps bulged. He looked like a thug. At the top left, about where his brain should be, were fuzzy, spectral images of the murder victims.

  “Cynthia probably snapped the main photo at that gym where she works,” Ben commented. “Of course, it presents Wallace in a distorted manner.”

  “Distorted or not, that book had an initial hardcover print run of three hundred thousand copies. She’s been on all the talk shows promoting it. Even Oprah!”

  “Why would television shows participate in this obvious attempt to influence—”

  “They don’t see it that way. It’s supposedly a serious discussion of a serious issue—domestic abuse. You need to get out more, Ben. This book is everywhere. It’s in bookstores, drugstores, groceries.” He paused. “Everywhere your jurors shop.”

  “Great.” He thumbed through the relatively short book. “Man, she must’ve written this practically overnight.”

  “I expect she had some help, don’t you?”

  Ben tossed the book back on Mike’s desk. “Surely no one will read this obviously biased crap.”

  “Obviously biased sells, Ben. People want the dirt. This is a very effective bit of propaganda. Nothing the prosecution has done or probably will do will influence as many people’s opinions as this book does.”

  “I can’t believe people would support such an unmitigated attempt to get rich quick on her sister’s murder.”

  “Ah, but you see, she’s donating all the profits to various women’s shelters across the country. At least that’s what she’s saying on the talk shows.”

  “Great.”

  “Don’t worry. I understand Barrett’s supporters are preparing an instant book for him. That’s going to be a fund-raiser, too. To help that multimillionaire cope with the backbreaking burden of paying your legal fees.”

  “Are you serious? He hasn’t mentioned this to me.”

  “Well, you’re not exactly likely to be supportive, are you? He’ll probably fill you in sometime after the Dove audiobook hits the stands.”

  Ben frowned. “He probably thinks a sympathetic book will improve his image. And he’s probably right. There are already four books on the market that paint him as some demented demon from hell, not counting Cynthia’s. So long before I can call witnesses to tell the jury what really happened, the media will be leaking the allegations from these books and treating them as fact. By the time I get a chance to tell people what really happened, no one will believe it. Another example of how the media distort the trial process.”

  Mike hoisted his bottle and polished off the rest of his beer. “Well, I’m not as concerned about the distorted trial process as I am about this distorted wacko who seems determined to distort you. I’ve already got a man at your apartment, and I’m posting one at your hotel, too. If you hear anything more from Sick Heart, I want to know about it immediately.”

  “Don’t worry. You will.”

  “And I mean anything, Ben. Don’t hold out on me.”

  Ben had to smile. The concern on Mike’s face was evident and genuine. It was comforting to think that even as a grumpy grown-up, he still had a few friends in the world. “Thanks, I won’t.”

  “And good luck at the trial tomorrow.” He propped his feet on his desk and pointed at the nine-inch television on the corner of his desk. “I’ll be watching.”

  Ben frowned. “I know. You and everyone else.”

  “I don’t mind staying,” Joni was saying as she scurried through Ben’s apartment gathering her belongings. “I know you’ve got that big trial tomorrow. I mean, who doesn’t, right? If you want me to hang around so you can prepare, that’s fine.”

  “Thanks, no.” He glanced down at Joey, who was silently playing with a set of dinosaur figures Joni had picked up at Imaginarium. “I want to spend some time with Joey. Then I want to hit the sack.”

  “Okay. Well, I fixed his dinner, it’s in the refrigerator—macaroni and cheese—so he should eat it. His crib has clean sheets and there’s a clean pair of pajamas draped across the sofa.”

  “Thanks.” He walked her to the door. “Good night.”

  A man who was obviously a plainclothes policeman sat at a small desk at the top of the stairs. He rose to his feet when Ben opened the door.

  “Tomlinson!” Ben said. “I thought you were working homicide now. What are you doing on this security detail?”

  Tomlinson grinned amiably. “Personal favor to Mike. He’s really worried about you, you know. I think he’d be here himself, except he knows you’d tell him to get lost.”

  “He’s right.” Ben stepped back inside the doorway. “Well, I suppose I’d better lock the door. But if you need anything, just holler.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ll make a duplicate key for you tomorrow. I’m going to put this kid to bed now and hit the sack
.”

  “That’ll be fine. You take care of yourself in that courtroom tomorrow.”

  Ben smiled. “I’ll be fine. ’Night.”

  Ben closed the door. I’ll be fine. That was what he kept saying, anyway. He wondered if he could possibly make anyone believe it.

  He swooped Joey up in the air and held him above his head. “Look, it’s Super-Joey! Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive …” He laughed, then brought the child down and gave him a tremendous bear hug. Did Joey laugh, too? Ben checked his face. There was definitely some sort of gurgling noise. Gas, perhaps? Or had he maybe decided being stuck with Uncle Ben wasn’t such a bad thing after all? Maybe he was going to say a few words, crack a few jokes.

  Well, no. Joey seemed as impassive as ever. There was no sign of a smile, much less a laugh. Just the same barren expression that told Ben nothing.

  “What’s going on in there?” Ben said, squeezing the boy gently. “I wish you would talk to me.”

  But he didn’t. Ben sighed, then lowered Joey to the ground. Joey crawled back to his dinosaur figures and began arranging them in a long orderly line,

  Ben knew he probably should prepare for trial, but he was too beat. Maybe just a song or two on the piano, or maybe he could spin that new Janis Ian CD. Then bed. He’d get up early tomorrow and do whatever needed to be done. Who knew? With any luck, by that time Christina might’ve already done it for him.

  Ben crawled across the carpet and peered into Joey’s eyes. “I wish you would talk to me,” he repeated. “Or just make a noise. A sound. Anything.”

  But there was no response. A wave of guilt and suppressed depression flooded over Ben. He’d been holding it back, trying not to think about it while he dealt with the more pressing crises. The trial. The maniac.

  He stared at his front door. The unknown monster lurking somewhere on the other side of that door. How had he let this happen?

  Ben closed his eyes. He couldn’t deal with it all at once. He hoisted Joey into the air. “What would you say to some macaroni and cheese, pal? Probably not much, huh?”

  He pushed the swinging door and entered the kitchen. Small wonder I do such a wretched job of taking care of you, Joey, he thought to himself. I can’t even take care of myself.