Naked Justice bk-6

by William Bernhardt

  “Where were you going?”

  “I didn’t know. Nowhere, really. Just driving. Just putting as much distance as I could between myself and that … atrocity. I couldn’t deal with it. I think I thought that maybe if I could put enough distance between myself and all that blood, then it wouldn’t be real. It would all disappear and everything would be normal again.”

  “You were headed south.”

  “Yeah, I know. I don’t know why. I have a sister in Dallas—she’s my only living relative. I think maybe some part of me was trying to get to her, trying to find the comfort and easy acceptance that only a family member can provide.”

  “You did not call the police.”

  “No. I should have, I know that. But they couldn’t have helped. They couldn’t have given my family back to me. I can’t explain how I felt. I just … wasn’t thinking in any sane, logical manner. I had just witnessed the most hellish nightmare that I could ever imagine. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “And what happened after that?”

  Barrett shrugged wearily. “You’ve seen the tape. The police cars and copters found me. I knew they were there, but some part of me just wasn’t processing information properly. I felt like I had to keep on driving, that if I stopped, it would be like admitting they were dead, that my whole family had been taken away from me. I just couldn’t make myself do it.” He wiped the tears from his eyes. “Then I got the searchlight from one of those helicopters in my eyes. It blinded me, I lost control, and I hit that tollbooth. I woke up in the hospital, and I’ve been in police custody ever since.”

  “Have you cooperated with the police?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve told them everything I know, tried to help them in every way possible. You got to understand—I thought the police would try to find the monster who committed these crimes. Imagine my shock and”—his teeth clenched together—“anger when I realized they were trying to pin it on me! Trying to accuse me of killing my own wife and children!”

  “How did you respond when you heard the charges?”

  “With outrage. But even then I didn’t understand the truth. I thought they’d follow up all the leads, whether they thought I did it or not. But they didn’t. Once they had me behind bars, they called the case closed and stopped looking. Why hasn’t anyone found those strangers who were seen casing my home? I get death threats every month. Why hasn’t anyone followed up on any of those? Every time I turn around I find out my opponents on the city council have been butting into this investigation—illegally. Why hasn’t anyone investigated that? The police don’t care about the truth. They just wanted a scapegoat, someone to save their butts and make it look like they’d done their jobs. I was the easiest scapegoat available, so they’ve tried to pin it on me and never even considered any other possibilities. Hell, they botched the evidence collection and let thrill-seekers trample through my house. People I don’t even know were barging through my home hoping to get a cheap thrill by seeing the dead bodies of my family!”

  “Your honor, I must object,” Bullock said. “The witness is no longer being responsive.”

  “Overruled,” she said curtly.

  “All my life,” Barrett continued, “I’ve tried to work with the system, tried to do things the right way. That was true when I was growing up in the ghettos of North Tulsa, and it was still true when I was elected mayor. But I must tell you, this case shames me. This case has exposed our system for how fallible, how prejudiced it really is. How easily it can be manipulated. How much evil there is in the world. First they took my family away from me, then my freedom, then my dignity, then my good name. And as if that wasn’t enough, now they’re trying to take everything else.”

  “Wallace,” Ben said evenly, “did you kill your wife?”

  Barrett looked him straight in the eyes. “No, sir.”

  “Did you kill your daughter Alysha Barrett?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you kill your other daughter, Annabelle Barrett?”

  “No, sir. I did not.” He turned to face the jury. “I did not kill any of them. I would not—I could not commit these horrible crimes.”

  “Thank you, Wallace. That’s all.”

  Judge Hart, to the relief of everyone, called for a blissful thirty-minute recess.

  Chapter 58

  AFTER THE BREAK, A refreshed jury retook its seats and Bullock began his cross-examination. His jaw was set; his eyes had a steely cast to them. Ben knew he had spent the whole recess staring at his legal pad, furiously scribbling notes. Obviously, he planned to give this cross his best. Bullock, no less than Ben, had to be aware of the impact Barrett had made on the jury. Now Bullock would try to undo that good, to reestablish his portrait of Barrett as a cold-blooded killer.

  “Mr. Barrett,” Bullock began, pointedly not calling him “Mayor,” “do you feel able to proceed now?”

  “Sure,” Barrett replied. The break had done him some good, too. He’d regained his equilibrium; his voice had refound its strength. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thank you. If you feel you need another break at any time, just let me know, okay?”

  “Okay,” Barrett said. “Thanks.”

  Bullock’s lips turned up into a smile more enigmatic than the Mona Lisa’s. “That was quite a performance you just gave.”

  Barrett blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Quite a performance. But, I’m sure, no great trick for an old media hound like you.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Of course you’re used to being grilled. Press conferences, debates. You’re used to being sent out to pitch a story to the audience.”

  “Your honor, I object,” Ben said. He preferred to let Barrett take care of himself; it would look better to the jury than having Ben come to his rescue. But this was beyond the pale. “This is offensive and argumentative, and as far as I can tell, Mr. Bullock hasn’t even asked a question yet.”

  Judge Hart pushed her glasses up her nose. “I would prefer if you used your cross-examination time to ask questions, counsel. You can save the color commentary for closing argument.”

  “Very well, your honor. I’ll ask questions.” He stared back at Barrett. “You’re accustomed to handling yourself in front of an audience, aren’t you, sir?”

  “I suppose.”

  “In fact, you’ve done quite a bit of … acting, haven’t you?”

  Barrett’s teeth set together. “You mean, ever? Or here in the courtroom?”

  “You have a fairly extensive acting background, don’t you?”

  “I made a few films. Low-budget action pictures. After I got out of college.”

  “They didn’t do too well, did they, sir?”

  “Well, I didn’t give Denzel Washington anything to worry about, let’s put it that way.”

  “But people did compliment you on your ability to … play a part convincingly, didn’t they?”

  Barrett leaned forward. “Mr. Bullock, have you got some kind of point to make? ’Cause if you do, I’d rather you just made it, and stopped all this weaselly beating around the bush.”

  Judge Hart pounded her gavel. “I will direct the witness to restrain himself. Just answer the questions.” Then she looked at Ben. “Counsel, you’re responsible for your witness.”

  “Yes, your honor. I’m sure it won’t happen again.” Although if it did, he wouldn’t complain. Personally, he’d enjoyed it, and he hoped some of the jurors did as well.

  “My problem is this, Mr. Barrett,” Bullock continued. “How do we know whether you’re telling the truth now, or just giving another brilliant performance?”

  “I’m telling the truth.” Barrett’s voice was low and flat.

  “Are you? Are you really? You claim you never physically hurt your wife. Is that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Yes, and cleverly phrased, too. Your lawyer asked if you hurt her, and you said no. But I notice he never asked if you’ve ever h
it her.” There was a stir in the gallery. “What about it, Mr. Barrett. Did you ever hit your wife?”

  “I—” Barrett’s shoulders rose, then sank. “I—never meant to hit her.”

  “You’re very clever with words, aren’t you, Mr. Barrett? And very careful. I suppose your lawyer has taught you that. My question was whether you ever hit her, and I want an answer. Did you ever hit your wife?”

  The disparity between the bellowing by Bullock and Barrett’s quiet answer was jarring. “I—did hit her once. It was an accident.”

  “An accidental hitting?”

  Barrett shrugged. “We were arguing. I was talking with my hands, as usual. Flinging them around. Her face got in the way.”

  “Her face got in the way? Mr. Barrett, please.”

  Barrett almost rose out of his chair. “It’s what happened!”

  Ben’s brain raced, trying to come up with some objection, some excuse to interrupt.

  “Was that the time you blackened her eye,” Bullock asked, “or the time you pushed her down the stairs?”

  “That’s not true!”

  “We have witnesses who say it is.”

  “Your witnesses are full of—” Barrett caught himself just in time. His fists were clenched; veins were protruding in his neck.

  Ben tried to make eye contact, tried to send him mental messages. Stay calm, Wallace! Ride it out!

  “And what about your daughters?” Barrett continued, not missing a beat. “Did you ever hit them?”

  “I’ve already said I gave them spankings.”

  “How?”

  “How?” Barrett shrugged. “On their bottoms.”

  “Through their clothes. Or did you pull the clothes down?”

  Barrett frowned. “I pulled the clothes down.”

  “Of course. It hurts more that way, doesn’t it?”

  Ben jumped up. “Your honor!”

  Judge Hart didn’t wait for the objection. “Counsel, you will discontinue your comments and side remarks immediately, do you understand me? This is not a request.”

  Bullock bowed his head. “Yes, your honor.” He went right back at Barrett. “And what did you use to administer these punishments? A stick? A paddle?”

  “My hand.”

  “Your bare hand. I think we have the idea now, sir. You pulled down their little panties and applied your bare hand to their bare bottoms. Did you enjoy that?”

  Barrett boiled. “You son of a—”

  Judge Hart pounded her gavel. “Counsel, you are treading on very thin ice!”

  Bullock spread his hands. “Your honor, I’m demonstrating that the man has a propensity for violence.”

  “Then do it! And stop these offensive insinuations!”

  Bullock turned back to the witness. “Mr. Barrett, how often did you administer these punishments?”

  “I don’t know. Once or twice a month.”

  “Once or twice a month! Meaning, twenty or thirty times a year!”

  “If you say so.”

  “So. Twenty or thirty times a year, you applied your bare hand to your young daughters’ bare bottoms.”

  “If they needed it!”

  Bullock clamped up, letting Barrett’s words reverberate through the courtroom. Ben checked the jurors. Bullock’s cross was indeed beginning to have its intended effect.

  They were losing them.

  “Tell me,” Bullock continued in a soft, precise voice, “did they need punishment on the day they were murdered?”

  Barrett was so close to the explosion point Ben was afraid they would never make it. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m just wondering if you punished them on that day. Their last day.”

  Barrett’s head lowered. “I … did have to spank Annabelle. I don’t mean that little nothing at the ice-cream parlor. I mean later. I didn’t want to, but after the disappointment of not getting any ice cream, she started getting out of hand.” He raised his head. “Sometimes children need discipline. In fact, they want it. They expect it.”

  “I don’t think your daughters wanted what they got that day, sir. Although I wonder if they didn’t expect it.”

  “Your honor!” Ben shouted across the courtroom.

  Judge Hart pounded her gavel. “That’s it, Mr. Bullock. This is over. I’m instructing the jury to disregard this entire cross-examination thus far. It will be stricken from the record. And I will be strongly considering disciplinary action when this case is completed. Now move on.”

  “Very well, your honor.” He flipped over another page of notes. The judge’s words, of course, had been utterly ineffective. Instructing the jury to disregard something was like cementing it into their memories. And Bullock could care less about the judge’s threats. Like always, he was playing to win. As long as he won, what did he care if she sanctioned him later? She would just be helping to make him a hero. A martyr, even.

  “Mr. Barrett, your performance—excuse me—your story is that you and your wife had a big fight on the day she was killed and you ran out of the house and missed all three murders, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How convenient. So you didn’t see anything. One minute, everyone’s fine, and the next, everyone’s dead.”

  “That’s … right.” His voice cracked slightly.

  Bullock’s voice boomed out. “Can you explain how traces of your blood were found on your wife’s body?”

  “No,” he whispered. “Unless, when I cut myself—”

  “Mr. Barrett, the forensic team found a significant quantity of your blood. How much did this cut bleed?”

  “I—I don’t really know …”

  “And what about the DNA test? How did your skin get under her fingernails?”

  “I—I don’t know … Unless maybe, when we were fighting earlier—”

  “Mr. Barrett, how much do you expect this jury to believe?”

  “I—I don’t know all the answers. I don’t remember everything—”

  “Mr. Barrett!” Bullock boomed out at the top of his lungs. “If you didn’t kill your family, who did?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Who had the opportunity? Who had the motive? Who could’ve done it?”

  “I—I just—”

  “I repeat, sir. If you didn’t kill them, who did?”

  Barrett held up his hands helplessly. “I don’t know.”

  Bullock turned away, shaking his head with disbelief and disgust. “I have no more questions for this witness.”

  “Any redirect?” Judge Hart asked.

  Ben shook his head no. He wanted Barrett off the stand, the sooner, the better.

  As Barrett returned to the table, Ben scanned the eyes of the jurors. If he had learned anything in the time he had been trying cases, it was to watch the jury. Their faces could usually tell you which way the wind was blowing.

  But not this time. This time Ben saw faces in turmoil, confusion. Barrett had made a good initial impression, but Bullock had put on an effective cross, raising all sorts of doubts with his insinuations and accusations. The jury didn’t know what to believe. They were troubled.

  And Ben knew what was troubling them, too. Bullock had hit the nail on the head, had known exactly how to finish. With the one question that no one could answer. The one question that cut the heart out of all Barrett’s protestations of innocence.

  If you didn’t kill them, who did?

  Ben knew that if he wanted to have any hope of winning this case, he would have to provide the jury with an answer to that question. And he would have to make them believe it.

  Chapter 59

  THERE WAS NO LONGER the slightest doubt in Deanna’s mind. Wallace Barrett was innocent.

  She knew it. She felt it in her head, her heart, and her gut.

  The question was: What was she going to do about it?

  She’d been dwelling on this ever since she left the courtroom and got back to her hotel room, retracing the same thoughts, running t
he same futile arguments over and over in her brain.

  Wallace Barrett’s reputation was already shot, she rationalized to herself. His life was irrevocably ruined. Even if he beat this rap, he could never again run for public office, could never again live in the public spotlight, and probably wouldn’t want to.

  But Martha still had her whole life before her. All her opportunities were still possible; all the doors were still open.

  Unless Deanna closed them.

  Could she do that? Could she do it to her own flesh and blood? Even to save an innocent man?

  It would be so much easier if she could just talk this out with Martha, discuss it, plan what to do together. But that was no longer a possibility. She was sequestered now, and there was no way the deputies were going to let her talk to Martha just so she could ease her conscience. Whatever decision she reached, she would have to reach on her own.

  She would have to shoulder all the responsibility.

  And all the blame.

  She rolled over on her hotel-room bed, cradling the pillow in her arms. How had she gotten into this situation? She’d been a fool to let herself be put on this jury. She should have told them something, anything, to make sure she would be removed. But she had thought she was doing what was best for her daughter, trying to protect her.

  What she’d forgotten was to protect herself. Now, as a result, she’d been forced to go into that courtroom every day. Been forced to stare out at that man sitting at the defense table, stricken, scared, on trial for his life. Been forced to harden her heart and to try not to think about what this must be doing to a man accused of committing a nightmarish crime she was almost certain he had not committed.

  Because she was almost certain she knew who had.

  It was just too much to be a coincidence. The camera, the photos. Buck’s constant flow of unearned wealth. His presence in the neighborhood at the time of the killings. He may not have acted alone; in fact he almost certainly was acting at the instruction of some other, richer person. But he was definitely involved.