Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Joey quieted, but he still wasn’t asleep. Ben tried several quiet songs he knew, a few half-remembered Disney tunes, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, for no reason he could fathom, he began singing the theme from The Flintstones. Hardly a nursery standard. It was a wacky idea, but …

  It worked. A sweet contented smile emerged the instant Joey heard “Flintstones … meet the Flintstones …” Halfway through the song, his eyelids fluttered closed.

  At long last, he had drifted to sleep. Of course, once he was asleep, Ben worried about whether he was breathing. Ben pressed his ear up to Joey’s mouth until he heard the soft intake of baby breath. He couldn’t remember what the latest was—were babies supposed to sleep on their backs or their tummies? Or maybe their sides? Were they allowed to have pillows? Why did Joey keep kicking off the blankets?

  Ben finally tore himself away from baby watching and plopped down, thoroughly exhausted, on the sofa in the front room of his apartment As soon as he was situated, Giselle, Ben’s cat, pounced into his lap. Giselle was obviously not pleased about this interloper who had invaded their apartment and occupied Ben’s attention, not to mention his lap, all night long.

  Christina had given Giselle to Ben as a present a few birthdays back, and the cat seemed to have been eating continuously ever since. Of course, she would eat nothing but the most expensive gourmet cat food. Ben had never had a pet before and never particularly wanted one either, but since Christina was a dear friend and tended to drop by his apartment fairly frequently, the animal shelter was out of the question. He had never quite determined what breed of cat Giselle was; all he knew was that she was black and she was large. Huge, really. The dinosaur of cats.

  Giselle rubbed her wet nose into Ben’s face. Charming. Her nuzzle felt scratchier than usual, though. Ben glanced down casually, then shot off the sofa.

  Giselle had a dead bird clutched in her teeth.

  “Giselle!” He started to shout, then remembered the sleeping babe in the next room. “What have I told you about dragging carcasses into the living room?”

  Ben paused, breathing rapidly, almost as if he expected Giselle to answer. Instead, she clenched the tattered remains of the unfortunate blue jay in her mouth and purred.

  “If you must act upon your biological imperative and kill living creatures, at least don’t drag them inside!” Ben tried to keep Giselle indoors, but about two weeks earlier she had discovered the trapdoor in the ceiling of his bedroom closet. The trapdoor permitted access to the roof. Ben crawled up there sometimes to gaze at the stars and remind himself that he wasn’t afraid of heights anymore.

  Giselle went up there to hunt.

  Ben continued scolding to no avail. Finally, he ran into the kitchen and opened a can of Feline’s Fancy. As soon as Giselle heard the motor of the can opener, she dropped her treasure and bolted toward her food dish. Ben then circled back to the living room, scooped up the lifeless remains, and dropped them out his bedroom window into the open trash bins in the back alley.

  Once his domestic chores were completed, he sat down to review the videotape of the Leeman Hayes confession. He watched it three times, front to back, without intermission.

  And each time he got more depressed.

  Small wonder they were going forward with the prosecution of Leeman Hayes. The effect of that videotape on an Oklahoma jury would be devastating.

  The first half hour was an exercise in sheer frustration. Leeman was represented by his first attorney, an old-school lawyer now deceased. The DA was present, as was a physician who had been assigned to the case. Ben also recognized Ernie Hayes—a ten-years-younger version of the one he had met.

  The DA began asking questions, trying to get Leeman to tell what he knew about the murder of Maria Alvarez.

  They got absolutely nowhere. Leeman was not uncooperative; on the contrary, he seemed willing to do anything for these nice men in white shirts and ties. He just couldn’t. He didn’t possess even the most rudimentary communication skills that would allow him to answer their questions.

  The interrogators tried using different approaches, simpler terms. They spoke loud; they spoke soft. They acted friendly; they acted angry. Friend, foe; good cop, bad cop. It made no difference.

  Finally, someone had the brilliant idea of showing Leeman a picture. They gave him the only known premortem photo of Maria Alvarez, taken about three years before.

  Leeman recognized her. That much was clear. Even Leeman’s stoutest defender could no longer doubt that he had seen her before.

  Next, over Ernie’s vigorous objection, the interrogating officer showed Leeman a photo of Maria taken at the crime scene. Her face and chest were soaked with blood; the shaft of the broken golf club still protruded from her neck.

  Leeman turned away almost instantly. But again there was little doubt—he had seen this before.

  The lead interrogating officer asked Leeman to tell him what had happened that night, and when that didn’t work, he pantomimed the act of clubbing someone over the head. That turned the trick. Leeman began not to talk, but to act out the murder.

  Leeman’s face was transformed. The eager, friendly, puppy-dog expression disappeared. He stood on his tiptoes and crept across the expanse of the room, then made a shoving gesture.

  “That’s how he got the woman’s attention,” one of the detectives on the tape said.

  Amazingly enough, Leeman then switched characters. He became Maria, and enacted her reaction. She was startled, then angry. It was impossible to discern why she was upset, as Leeman used no words. But something was definitely the matter.

  In the next few moments Leeman shifted back and forth between characters so many times it was difficult to tell who did what to whom. Somehow, a fight broke out, and Maria got the worst of it.

  Then, in what was by far the most horrifying part of the performance, Leeman’s face contorted with rage. Hatred boiled forth from every pore. This was more than mere mortal anger; this was the fury of the gods. His body trembled; his hands shook. Ben had read about Leeman’s supposed violent temper, but had never truly believed it possible.

  Until now.

  Ben saw Leeman mime picking up a golf club and swinging it down onto Maria’s head. The club apparently broke upon impact. Leeman picked up the broken shaft and rammed it through Maria’s neck.

  His face still transfixed with rage, Leeman withdrew slowly, wiping his hands and face. He looked all around, then bolted away.

  When he reached the far wall, he stopped. The reenactment was over. Leeman closed his eyes and, like some primitive Method actor, stepped out of character.

  Leeman returned to his chair. Everyone else in the room was staring at him with blank faces, with wide eyes. It was a long time before anyone spoke.

  Finally the DA said, “I don’t believe any more questions will be necessary. Thank you for your time.” He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  Twenty minutes later Leeman Hayes was charged with murder in the first degree.

  After Ben had watched the tape three times, he became convinced that Leeman’s case was hopeless. He saw no opening, or ambiguity, or anything else he could use to convince a jury this was anything other than what it appeared to be—a pantomimic confession of guilt.

  Ben hit the rewind button and watched Leeman run through the performance backward. Giselle jumped back into his lap. Sweet kitty—and no dead bird in her mouth, he was relieved to see. He stroked the back of her neck. She purred and looked up at him, peering intently with those big green cat eyes

  Wait a minute. Ben grabbed the remote and stopped the tape just as Leeman was beginning his performance.

  It was so quick he almost missed it. In fact, he had missed it during each previous viewing. Leeman did not move directly from unresponsiveness to the performance. First, in a gesture that took less than a second, he held his right hand over his eyes, as if shading off an imaginary sun.

  See.

  It was the same gestur
e he had used to tell Ben he had seen him getting out of his Honda. There were no words attached—Leeman was still preverbal—but the gesture was absolutely the same.

  See.

  Leeman wasn’t telling the police officers what he did. He was telling them what he saw.

  See.

  It wasn’t a confession. It was an eyewitness account. Ben was certain of it.

  But how would he convince a jury? Regardless of what he told them, Ben knew most jurors, most anybody, would view that taped performance as a confession. Ben’s explanation about the gesture would be written off as a desperate ploy by a desperate defense attorney.

  And Leeman Hayes would be convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. And sentenced. In addition to the ten years of institutionalization to which he had already been condemned, even though he had never been convicted of a crime, he would spend the rest of his life a prisoner.

  Or he would be sentenced to death.

  It would be hard to say which penalty would be worse for Leeman.

  Ben pushed the stop button on the remote. He couldn’t let that happen. Could he?

  Are you going to spend the rest of your life representing every petty felon and hard-luck story that slithers into your office?

  The words thundered in Ben’s brain. He would never be able to convince the jury Leeman’s taped performance wasn’t a confession, and Leeman himself would be absolutely worthless at trial. The file had virtually no exculpatory evidence in Leeman’s favor. Ben would have to start his investigation from scratch. He would have to unearth witnesses and evidence on a ten-year-old crime.

  An extremely difficult task.

  Difficult? Try impossible.

  Don’t be such a sucker.

  One thing was certain. If Ben took this case, he could kiss goodbye any chance of regaining Jack Bullock’s respect.

  I’m so disappointed, Ben. You were like a son to me.

  But other images from the day flashed through Ben’s mind. Leeman’s face on the videotape—scared, helpless, alone. Leeman Hayes ten years later—bloated, locked away in dirty, ill-fitting clothes, his whole life passing him by. The eager, desperate look in Ernie Hayes’s eyes. What was it he had said? I knew you were the one who was finally going to help my boy.

  I knew it.

  At least one thing Ernie had said was true. If Ben didn’t take the case, who would?

  Ten years. Ten long years.

  Ben turned off the television. His deliberation was over. Despite all the dangers, all the difficulties, and all common sense, he was representing Leeman Hayes.

  He had no choice.

  They didn’t have much of a chance. But that was better than no chance at all. That was better than condemning Leeman to more wasted days. More isolation and fear. And suffering.

  Even more than he had already suffered.

  At the hands of justice.

  TWO

  Tales of Two Cities

  15

  “BUT YOU PROMISED!”

  “I did nothing of the sort.”

  “Did so. You said you’d come home early and we’d go to the ball game.”

  “I said I would try. That’s all.”

  “I shoulda known better. You never wanna do anything with me. You hate me.”

  “I do not. Now listen to me, son.”

  The man in the red wig listened carefully to Abie and his father’s argument. Nice of them to squabble on the front porch. He was safely tucked away behind the eight-foot-high hedge surrounding the Rutherford estate, but he could hear every word. He could see them, too, but they would never notice him. The estates were spaced so generously that none of the neighbors were likely to see him either.

  “Listen to me, son,” Rutherford continued. He was much fairer than his son; it heightened the contrast between them. Family relations in chiaroscuro. “Your father has many important business affairs that have to be managed. I wish I could spend all day playing with you, but I can’t.”

  Abie folded his arms across his chest. “You could if you wanted to.”

  Rutherford’s lips tightened. “Abie, sometimes I have to work. Look around you. Look at this house. Look at those cars in the garage. Not everybody lives like you do. Who do you think paid for that? Where do you think all that money came from?”

  “Mommy says you got it all from your daddy.”

  “That’s—beside the point. Someone has to manage the money. Protect our investments. That’s what your daddy does—”

  “Mommy says you spend all day at that stupid country club.”

  “Your mother—” He muttered something under his breath. “That isn’t true, and it isn’t—”

  Abie pushed away. “You play all the time. You just don’t wanna play with me!”

  “Abie. Abie!” Rutherford reached for his son, but Abie slipped out of his grasp. “I go to the country club to maintain business relationships. Those club members are my partners. They’re movers and shakers. Some of the wealthiest men in the state. I know you’re only ten, but try to understand.”

  “I understand. You’d rather swing a stupid golf club than take me to a baseball game.”

  The man in the red wig grinned. The dysfunctional family was a beautiful thing, at least from his point of view. If it weren’t for fathers who couldn’t find time for their sons, or who treated their sons badly when they were around, he’d never find an opening. But rich, pompous asses like Rutherford made his job almost too easy.

  “Look, son.” Rutherford’s face was flushed with exasperation. “I have some meetings tomorrow, but … what time is the game?”

  “Two o’clock. Like always.”

  “All right. Let me see what I can do. …”

  “Is that a promise?”

  Rutherford laid his hands on his son’s shoulders. “All right, then. It’s a promise.”

  “We’ll have to leave by one-thirty to be there for the opening pitch.”

  “All right. To save time, why don’t I pick you up on the corner of Peoria and Twenty-sixth, all right? At one-thirty.”

  “You won’t forget?”

  “Of course not.” He hesitated. “I promise.”

  The man behind the hedge could see the change in Rutherford’s expression, could see his arms tentatively extended. He had undoubtedly hoped his son might give him a hug. The first step on the road to reconciliation. But it was not to be. Having extracted his promise, Abie turned away and ran inside the house.

  It would take more than a stupid half-baked promise to fix problems that ran so deep.

  Quietly, the man moved away from the hedge, back to the street. What a splendid idea this impromptu visit had been. What a gold mine of information. Now he knew everything he needed to make his dream a reality. To claim another conquest.

  He took a ballpoint pen and wrote himself a note on his wrist. Peoria and Twenty-sixth. One-thirty.

  He’d be there.

  16

  JUST ABOUT THE TIME Ben had finally managed to fall asleep, he was awakened by the bristly sensation of whiskers on stubbled cheek.

  Giselle, natch.

  “Giselle,” he mumbled, eyelids closed, “do me a favor and … go away.” Nothing personal, Ben thought, but that kid of Julia’s kept me up almost all night. Whoever invented the phrase slept like a baby obviously never had one.

  He rolled over and pulled the pillow on top of his head. It was no use. Giselle was insistent. It was breakfast time, and she would not take go away for an answer. She insinuated her wet nose between the pillow and Ben’s face.

  She’s awfully scratchy this morning, Ben thought. And then it hit him.

  He shot bolt upright, bug-eyed. “Giselle!”

  Her mouth was empty. He ripped the covers off his bed and searched.

  Thankfully, there did not appear to be any mangled remains of wildlife foolish enough to come near Giselle’s piece of the roof. Giselle wasn’t bringing him another victim. She was just hungry.

  Relieved, Ben stumbled to hi
s closet and threw on a robe. He opened his back window and inhaled the fresh morning air. Well, he inhaled the air, anyway. It was a pity they kept those trash bins just below his window.

  Out the window, pressed up against the building, Ben saw Joni Singleton in a romantic clinch with a tall black teenager about her age. Joni and her twin sister, Jami, lived with their parents, and their two-year-old brothers, also twins, in one of the other apartments in the building. How they all managed to coexist in a space barely bigger than Ben’s he did not understand.

  Overcoming a mild pang of guilt, he watched the two smooch for a while. They talked and kissed, talked and kissed. Mostly kissed. They appeared very comfortable with one another. Probably not a first date.

  Ben closed the window and left them alone. He hadn’t heard anything about this new boyfriend; he suspected it was a closely guarded secret. An interracial romance—bet Joni’s parents will be thrilled about that.

  He made a quick stop in the bathroom, humming his way down the hallway. “A country dance was being held in a garden. …” “Polka Dots and Moonbeams” was an old tune from the 1920s. Ben couldn’t remember where he had learned it, but somewhere along the line it had become his favorite song. “Suddenly I saw … polka dots and moonbeams … all around a pug-nosed dream. …”

  He wandered into the kitchen and opened a can of Feline’s Fancy. He was just reaching for the Cap’n Crunch when he heard the door buzzer.

  He checked the clock over the oven. It was barely seven. This could only be Mrs. Marmelstein.

  Mrs. Marmelstein owned the boardinghouse. She and her husband had moved to Tulsa decades ago and made a fortune in the oil business. They traveled the world, bought and sold ritzy Utica Hills real estate, and generally lived high off the hog. A little too high, as it turned out. In the mid-Seventies, Mr. Marmelstein passed away, and in the early Eighties, the oil business imploded. When the dust had settled, Mrs. Marmelstein had almost no money left, and her only remaining property was this third-rate house in one of the least desirable neighborhoods in Tulsa.