Hate Crime

by William Bernhardt

  “Objection!” Ben said, rising.

  Judge Lacayo craned his neck. “The man’s an expert, and he’s entitled to his opinion.”

  “But that had nothing to do with psychiatry. I hardly think that’s common jargon in his field!”

  “Overruled,” Lacayo said. “Please continue, Mr. Drabble.”

  Ben sat down beside Christina and whispered into her ear. “I’m not going to cross this guy.”

  “Agreed. Just get him out of the jury’s face as soon as possible.”

  Drabble continued his direct. “And you’re sure about this conclusion, Doctor?”

  Pitney paused, gathering his thoughts. “Remember that the beating is acknowledged to have taken something like half an hour. Now imagine being beaten, knifed, hammered for that long a period of time. You know that poor boy cried out for mercy. The defendant has acknowledged that he did. Probably offered to do anything if his assailants would only stop hurting him.”

  Pitney wiped his brow, visibly shaken. “Frankly, most people, even if they started, couldn’t have gone on after that. Even most deranged psychopaths couldn’t have continued. John Christensen wasn’t fueled by insanity in any way, shape, or form. He was driven by his selectively sociopathic hatred. Even now he believes what he did was justified. Maybe even believes it was some sort of divine intervention. Someone like that isn’t crazy. But he is absolutely without question the most dangerous element in any society. The one capable of unspeakable evil. The one most important to stop.”

  37

  JOURNAL OF TONY BAROVICK

  Roger changed my life. He really did. I can’t claim that he was my first lover, or even my first male lover. But he was the one who mattered. He always will be.

  He came in on Friday night with a bunch of other guys from a drag racing strip. Most of them grabbed one of the video consoles and started scanning the pictures, not so much looking for love as entertaining themselves. But Roger held back. I saw him, sitting at the table, quietly sipping a margarita. And the more I watched him, the more I had a sense that although he was part of the gang, he wasn’t. That he didn’t belong. And that started me thinking…

  As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t have perfect radar, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that he was gay. I waited on his table attentively, made a few casual remarks, dropped the names of a few gay haunts, felt him out. When the rest of his buddies left, he stayed. I went off duty, had Shelly make us another round, sat down with him and talked. And talked and talked and talked. It was easy-we had so many of the same interests and preoccupations. We agreed on almost everything. And made a date to meet the next Thursday for lunch. So we could talk some more.

  The first time Roger spent the night, I thought that might feel strange, but I was wrong. It felt terrific, calming, thrilling. Not just sexually, although that was certainly part of it. But it was more. It was feeling, for the first time in my life, that I didn’t have to hide anything, that I didn’t have to put on a show. That I could just be who I really was, without repercussions. That’s a wonderful, freeing feeling.

  Roger wants to meet my parents. Well, I have to be honest-I’m not ready for that. And what would be the point? My father wouldn’t speak to him any more than he will speak to me. I’m not sure my mother would be much better, no matter how hard she tried. Roger isn’t just gay, he’s black. Not that that should have anything to do with anything. But I lived with those folks for seventeen years. I know how they think, and I’m very afraid of what they might say. It’s sad that I can’t share the most glorious thing that has ever happened to me with my parents, but that’s the way it is. You can take the hard line with your kids and feel very self-righteous about it, but it always results in a division. A lack of closeness. And a lack of trust. And things are so good with me and Roger right now, I just don’t want that intruding upon our happiness.

  Knowing Roger has been such a transforming, liberating experience for me. I don’t know if I can possibly explain it to someone who hasn’t been there. But before Roger, no matter where I went, no matter what I did, indeed, no matter how happy I might have been, I always felt… apart. Alone.

  But not now. With Roger, I know I’ve made a connection, one that matters. I know we are together, that we will always be together. No matter what happens. How can I not? I’m in love. For the first time in my life, I am truly head over heels in love. And it feels great.

  38

  It wasn’t as bad as visiting the scene of a homicide, Mike told himself, trying to bolster a sunnier outlook. It wasn’t as bad as a trip to the coroner’s office. It wasn’t as bad as root canal surgery.

  But who was kidding whom? It was pretty damn bad.

  “Contents of a dead man’s apartment. If you can call it that,” Baxter said, dictating into an imaginary recording device. “Two half-eaten pizzas. Sour milk. Tacky shag carpet. The pungent aroma of human waste. Cockroaches. Lots of dirty-make that stale and crunchy-underwear. And here in the cupboard, more sex toys than can be found in most adult bookstores.” She slammed the cupboard shut. “Charlie the Chicken was one class act, wasn’t he?”

  Mike tilted his head. “He was working with a limited income, I think.”

  “That,” Baxter said, “plus he was slime. Bad combination.” She got too close to the sofa and the smell of-she didn’t want to know-almost gagged her. “Thank goodness he had a rent invoice in his bag. Otherwise, we would’ve never found this hellhole. Although at the moment, I’m thinking it’s a dubious blessing.”

  Special Agent Swift entered from the rear bedroom. “Hey, kids! Back here! Water bed.”

  Mike winced. “Too trite.”

  “How could this guy afford a water bed?” Baxter wondered aloud.

  “Maybe he got it from an old lady as a tip.”

  “It’s the only thing I could call actual furniture,” Swift said. “All indications are that he hadn’t been here long.”

  “And didn’t plan to stay long, either,” Mike added, “judging from the bus ticket in his pocket. He knew someone was after him.”

  “You’re sure of that, Sherlock?”

  “Sure enough. See the muddy footprints beneath the front window? The wear on the floorboards? He knew his killer was after him. He was watching for him. Probably scared to death.”

  “Hey!” Baxter shouted. “Over here!” From an open drawer on a spindly end table that looked as if it would collapse if you blew on it hard, she withdrew a framed photo. “I think we have a shot of our victim.”

  Mike scrutinized the photograph. He was a young man, probably early twenties, if that. He had dark hair and slightly chubby chipmunk cheeks. It conformed in all respects with the face they’d found in the bus station men’s room. What was left of it.

  “This is excellent,” Swift enthused. “It may not be all that current. But it beats running around with another one of those computer-enhanced jobs.”

  Baxter nodded. “Pretty unlucky that both our victims had half their faces erased.”

  “It’s not luck,” Mike said firmly. “It’s design. Our killer is smart-probably experienced. He’s trying to hide the trail. Prevent us from identifying the victims. So we don’t recognize the connection.”

  “Which is?” Baxter said, eyebrow arched.

  Mike didn’t answer. He stared at the photo. It gave him a much better picture of what the deceased looked like than he had gotten from the shattered remains in the men’s room. “You know, I’ve seen this face before. But I can’t quite place where.”

  “Ever work vice?” Swift asked.

  “Not for any length of time.”

  “Drugs? DEA files?”

  Mike batted his fingertip against his lips. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’ll come to me. I hope.”

  “Maybe you should see the department hypnotist,” Baxter suggested.

  Mike shook his head. “Memories recalled under hypnosis aren’t reliable. You can almost never get them admitted in court. Judges are really down on it.�
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  “Where do they stand on massage therapy?” Swift asked, her full-lipped grin spreading. “I’ve heard mine is very stimulating.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Baxter said, “given how much practice you must’ve had.”

  “R-r-r-r-ar.” Swift made a cat claw in the air. “So whaddaya say, handsome? Haven’t you held me at bay long enough?”

  “Not that I’m not tempted,” Mike said, “but I’m heading back to your office. Give me enough time, and possibly enough beer, and I’ll remember.” He tucked the photo under his arm. “This could be the break we’ve been waiting for.”

  39

  After the disastrous testimony from the psychiatrist, Ben comforted himself thinking that it couldn’t get any worse, not with the innocuous list of witnesses left to the prosecution. Once again, he was dead wrong.

  “The state calls Gary Scholes.”

  Ben whispered to his client. “You sure this is going to be okay?”

  “I’m tellin’ ya-nothing to worry about,” Johnny insisted. He seemed more upbeat than he had since the trial began. “Gary and I are brothers. We took a pledge of loyalty. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”

  “Then why is he testifying against you?”

  “He was subpoenaed, man. He can’t help it. But he’ll make ’em sorry, once he’s up there. We Betas stick together.”

  Ben watched as the gangly college student ambled to the front of the courtroom. All witnesses were nervous, but he seemed particularly unhappy to be where he was. And Ben noticed that the man did not look at his pal Johnny as he passed by their table.

  In the first few minutes, Drabble established that his witness knew Johnny Christensen, that he was a member of the same fraternity, and that he had attended some of the meetings of the Christian Minutemen. “Were you a member of that organization?”

  “Yes. Have been for years.”

  “Even though it’s an antigay group?”

  “The Christian Minutemen aren’t anti-anything.” Scholes ran a hand through his hair. He was wearing a suit and tie-standard courtroom attire-but looked ferociously uncomfortable in them. “We are opposed to homosexuality. Homosexuality is a sin, as the Bible makes explicitly clear. But we embrace all people. We try to help gay people find the way. We help them find a cure for their problem.”

  Drabble tilted his head. “A cure?”

  “Yes. The Christian Minutemen believe that homosexuality is a disease, possibly a mental disorder, and I might add that many well-known and respected authorities support our position. We believe that with therapy and conditioning and spiritual counseling, people can overcome this disease and lead wholesome, natural lives.”

  Ben tapped the end of his pencil on the table. He never liked it when he was unsure where the prosecutor was going. Why was Drabble going to such pains to establish his witness’s position on gay issues?

  “So you bear no enmity toward the homosexual community.”

  “No. I may not approve, but I bear them no malice. I believe in counseling, therapy. I do not believe in violence. The Minutemen do not officially promote violence, and we’ve done our best to squash the rumors that some of our members were involved in… gay-bashing.”

  “How long have you known the defendant, Jonathan Christensen?”

  “Since he joined the fraternity.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “I’d say so. We spent a lot of time with each other, along with the other frat guys.”

  “Did you ever hear him express his opinions regarding gay men?”

  “Oh yeah. He-”

  “Objection,” Ben said, approaching the bench. Drabble followed. “Hearsay. Not relevant. More prejudicial than probative.”

  “Goes to motive,” Drabble replied. “Obviously.”

  “My client’s position regarding homosexuals is well established,” Ben rejoined. “Anything more on this subject is just cumulative. Worse, the prosecutor is implying that Johnny’s disapproval of homosexuality proves he committed murder.”

  “It does seem to me as if we could skip this part,” Judge Lacayo said. “Let’s move on to the heart of the man’s testimony.”

  Drabble grudgingly complied. “Mr. Scholes, were you with Johnny Christensen on the night in question?”

  “Part of the time, yeah.”

  “Which part?”

  “I saw him around eleven P.M. in a club near campus called Remote Control.”

  “And not before?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why were you at Remote Control?”

  “It was a regular hangout for the guys in our frat house. You could probably find some of us there any night of the week. An e-mail had gone around inviting members to meet there after a sorority function taking place earlier that night.”

  “Did you know Johnny Christensen would be there?”

  “Not till I arrived, with three others. We saw Johnny and Brett, so we joined them.”

  “How long were you with them?”

  “Until the police arrested Johnny and Brett.”

  “What were the topics of conversation?”

  “There was only one.” His lips puckered, as if he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “Johnny and Brett were describing how they’d just beaten up some… homosexual.”

  “Were they bragging about it?”

  Scholes took a deep breath. “Yes. They were very proud of themselves. Played it all out for us, practically in real time. Made a big joke of it.”

  “Wait a minute,” Johnny whispered, back at the defendant’s table. “What’s going on here?”

  Ben didn’t answer. Seemed the fraternity of brothers wasn’t as tight as Johnny thought.

  Drabble continued. “It was a joke?”

  “Yes, they thought it was very amusing. They were particularly delighted by their victim’s pleas for mercy, his begging for his life. Johnny would kind of imitate the boy’s voice, you know, real high and effeminate-sounding. ‘Please don’t kill me. Please. I’ll do anything.’ ” Scholes licked his lips. “He thought that was hilarious.”

  The courtroom fell silent. All eyes were on the defendant, not the witness.

  “Did Johnny reenact the beating?”

  “Oh yeah. He was high as a kite, you know? Irrepressible. Showed us his mean right, his uppercut. ‘This is the swing I used to break his jaw,’ he said. And he showed us all his tools-the knife, the Taser. Brett told us about the hammer.” He shook his head. “They were so proud of themselves.”

  “What was the reaction from the rest of the group? Did they laugh?”

  Scholes shrugged. “Some of them did. A little. Especially after they’d had a few beers. But mostly Johnny and Brett were entertaining themselves. They were oblivious to the rest of the world.”

  “And what was your reaction?”

  “I was sick. I stayed because I didn’t want to create a scene, but the whole thing repulsed me. Bad enough to torture another human being like that-but then to take so much pleasure in it. To laugh and brag about it. I thought I was going to vomit.”

  Back at the defendant’s table, Johnny held his head in his hands. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Shhh,” Ben whispered. “The jury is watching.”

  “But-he’s a brother! Why would he turn on me like this?”

  Because he has a conscience? Ben thought. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, either, but for entirely different reasons. Why would Drabble risk putting one of Johnny’s friends on the stand, just for this? All this grotesque braggadocio had been related by the police witnesses. Another version wasn’t necessary. There had to be something more.

  “How long were you at the bar?” Drabble continued.

  “About an hour. Maybe a little more. By that time, Johnny and Brett were starting to wind down, and I thought I could leave without taking any grief from anyone. I started to go and others followed my lead-and that’s when the police moved in.”

  “Were you questioned?”
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  “For a time. They eventually let me go. Johnny and Brett were the only ones they arrested.”

  Drabble closed his notebook, gripped the corners of the podium, and leaned forward, an earnest expression on his face. “Now, Mr. Scholes, I’m going to ask you another question, and this is very important, so please take your time before answering. During this entire sordid conversation-the bragging, the reenacting, the laughing and joking-did Johnny ever say that he had killed his victim?”

  “No. He never used that word.”

  “Did Brett?”

  “No. They talked about how bad they hurt him, but never said they killed him. In fact, early on, I remember specifically hearing Brett saying, ‘We shoulda just killed him.’ Which of course suggests that they didn’t.”

  Ben and Christina looked at each other, eyes widening. What was going on here? Why was Drabble making their defense for them? Christina seemed faintly pleased, but Ben knew Drabble would never intentionally have his witness buttress a defense theory, even if it was the truth. There had to be more to this. And whatever it was, he felt certain he wasn’t going to like it.

  “Was there any reaction when Brett made that statement?” Drabble asked.

  “Yes. Johnny fell strangely silent, for the first time. He seemed to kind of withdraw inside himself. His head drooped.”

  “What did you make of that?”

  “Well, at first I just thought the booze was wearing off. You know-he was coming down from the buzz. Then, out of nowhere, I heard him say, real quiet like, ‘Brett is right.’ ”

  A buzz rose from the gallery of the courtroom, a mixture of whispers and scratched pencils and shuffling and craning. All eyes were fixed on the witness stand.

  “He said that?”

  “Yeah. And I said, ‘What are you talking about?’ He answered right away. He said, ‘We should’ve killed that filthy faggot. I should take care of that myself. I should go back and finish what we started.’ ”