Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  He glanced again at the man. The pale gray eyes were fixed on Jack’s face. Didn’t the guy know it was rude to stare?

  “Do you ever worry that someone you sent to prison might get out and come after you?”

  This guy was asking all the typical cocktail-party questions thrown at a prosecutor. Jack decided to give his standard answer. It happened to be the truth.

  “I suppose that’s a risk of my job. I’ve had a couple of threats over the years. But very few of the people I prosecute are truly evil. Most committed their crimes because of temporary weakness, greed, or lust, or because they were drugged out or mentally imbalanced at the time. Once they’re caught and get their heads screwed on straight, they realize they did wrong and deserve some punishment. They don’t hold it against the prosecutor.”

  “You ever prosecuted a truly evil man?”

  “Oh, sure. I get a few sociopaths every year: the sexual predators, the murderers who stalk their victims. They usually get such long sentences you don’t have to worry about them getting out.”

  They sat in silence for a full minute, watching the gymnasts. Jack was beginning to think he might be able to get back to his closing-argument rehearsal, but the next question drove away all thoughts of the impending Porterfield trial.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Jack’s attention ratcheted up to red alert. He turned and studied the man’s face with renewed interest. He was supposed to know this guy? What was he, about fifty years old? Six feet tall? Maybe one hundred and seventy pounds? He was fit, with a torso that seemed almost too big for the rest of his slender frame. His hair was the boring gray color of a steel frying pan. His nose had clearly been broken once upon a time.

  “Have we met?” Jack asked.

  The man laughed. It was an unpleasant sound, loud and jarring. Jack glanced at the other parents on the far side of the room, but no one was paying any attention to them.

  “Have we met! That’s funny, Mr. Prosecutor. Look at me again. Closer. Surely you recognize me.”

  Although the man had laughed, he was not smiling. His gray eyes glittered with something, either excitement or rage. A faint scar ran from the left eyebrow up a jagged course across the man’s forehead and disappeared into his hairline at the left temple. Nothing sparked a memory for Jack. For all he knew, this man was a complete stranger.

  “I’m sorry, but as far as I can tell, I’ve never seen you before in my life,” Jack said. “Keep in mind, I meet lots of people in my job—witnesses, defendants, cops, lawyers, judges, jurors. I’m just not remembering you.”

  The gray eyes were cold and shiny, glittering like a metal railing sheathed in winter ice.

  “I sure remember you, Counselor. For fourteen years I’ve thought about you every single night. I’d lie in that prison bed, remembering the way spittle flew from your mouth during your closing argument, and especially that smug, self-satisfied look on your face when the judge read the jury’s guilty verdict out loud. I’d recognize you anywhere, anytime, Jack Hogan.”

  Jack felt his heart pounding. Okay, the flight-or-fight adrenaline jolt had apparently kicked in. Well, he wasn’t going to run away. He’d just have to deal with whatever this guy had in mind. He was glad there were witnesses.

  “You really don’t remember me, do you?”

  The voice was rough and gravelly. Its tone was incredulous.

  “No, I don’t. But you have to remember, my office prosecutes twenty-five hundred cases a year, divided among six prosecutors. Maybe it’s a good thing your prosecutor doesn’t remember you. The really bad ones tend to stand out.”

  Jack offered a halfhearted smile.

  The man laughed again, a mirthless, harsh sound.

  “Surely you remember your murder cases.”

  Murder? Well, that significantly narrowed down the list of former defendants. Still, he did not recognize the man.

  “I’ve had sixty-six homicide cases,” Jack said. “Are you saying I prosecuted you for murder?”

  “Look at me!” the man hissed. “You not only prosecuted me, you convicted me. You sent an innocent man to prison!”

  Jack stared hard at the angry face. A glimmer of recognition tugged at his memory. Make the hair dark brown, but much thicker. Unbreak the nose. Take away the scar. Thin down the face and restore its lost youth. Yes, the man looked familiar, especially the eyes. But still, Jack could not place the guy.

  “This is freaking unbelievable,” the man said. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment for fourteen years and you don’t even remember me! I have to tell you, it takes a bit of the fun out of it. It makes me hate you even more, seeing how little ruining my life meant to you.”

  “I didn’t ruin your life,” Jack said. “You made your choices. If I prosecuted you for murder, it’s because you killed somebody. Don’t blame me for doing my job.”

  “Doing your job? You just told me your job is to strike fair blows, to only convict the guilty. You sent me to prison for shooting a man in self-defense. You knew it was self-defense, but you filed the charge anyway. You railroaded me, mister. You were like an evangelical preacher exhorting the jury to ship me off to prison to send a message to other would-be killers. Send a message! You must have said it ten times. Now do you remember me?”

  Jack flipped through his mental Rolodex of murder defendants, especially those who had raised the affirmative defense of self-defense. This wasn’t Pete Flamingo. Nor was it Barry Seltzer. This guy was definitely not Tom Barkley.

  “You know,” Jack said, “I use that send-a-message closing argument a lot. You haven’t really narrowed it down too much for me.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’ve got this vivid image of you, Hogan. You’re telling the jury that the chain of justice is only as strong as its weakest link. You’re claiming the chain is composed of witnesses who report the crime and have the courage to testify in court, policemen who investigate the case, prosecutors who present the evidence, jurors who use their common sense to reach the right result, and the judge who rules on evidentiary issues and imposes an appropriate sentence. You urged the jury to use its common sense to send me to prison. You begged the jurors not to be the weak link in the chain. Now tell me you don’t remember who I am!”

  Jack raised his hands apologetically.

  “Sorry. I use that chain-of-justice analogy in most of my closing arguments. Actually, I stole it from Vincent Bugliosi, the prosecutor of Charles Manson. I picked it up from one of his books. I figured if it worked for him, it would work for me.”

  For the first time, Jack noticed the man’s right hand resting inside the side pocket of his St. Louis Cardinals jacket. It occurred to Jack that the man might well have a gun in his hand. This was bad. Jack never carried a gun. He was unarmed. He owned a six-shot Smith & Wesson revolver, but he always kept it in a drawer in the nightstand next to his bed.

  “What’s your favorite movie, Hogan?”

  “What?”

  “Your favorite movie. I figure you for a chick-flick kind of guy. What is it, Sleepless in Seattle?”

  Jack felt a twinge of optimism. Maybe if they talked movies, this encounter would end more pleasantly than he expected. Perhaps this convicted murderer just wanted to air his grievances and tongue-lash Jack with insults.

  “To Kill a Mockingbird,” Jack answered. “Gregory Peck plays a lawyer who represents an accused rapist. I’d have to say it’s my favorite.”

  “What a coincidence, Counselor. Gregory Peck stars in my favorite movie too. Maybe you’ve seen it—Cape Fear. I’ve watched it at least twenty times. It’s about a guy who gets out of prison. The ex-con is played by Robert Mitchum. He stalks a lawyer who was a key witness against him in his rape trial. He blames him for landing him behind bars. It’s an old black-and-white movie. The lawyer, Gregory Peck, is a condescending, arrogant type, sort of like you. He thinks he’s a real big shot. I’ll tell you, though, he gets plenty scared when the ex-con starts sniffin
g around his daughter.”

  Jack felt alarm bells ringing in his head as the man’s gaze shifted to Amber. She was doing a handstand on the parallel bars. A boiling rage began churning Jack’s gut.

  “They did a remake of Cape Fear in 1991,” the man continued. “Robert De Niro played the convict. Nick Nolte was the guy he was after. Nolte was De Niro’s former lawyer, who’d screwed up De Niro’s case. De Niro was a real badass, man, absolutely covered with tattoos. One said, Vengeance is mine. Seen those movies, Hogan?”

  “No.”

  “You should’ve, Mr. Prosecutor, what with your job and all. As good as the movies are, though, the book was even better. That’s usually the case, don’t you think, the book is better than the movie?”

  Jack did not respond. He was trying to decide what this man would do if he simply stood up and started walking away. Did he really have a gun in his pocket?

  “Yeah,” the man said, “the book was better. John D. MacDonald wrote it. It was called The Executioners when it came out in 1957. In the book the guy getting out of prison is seeking revenge against that key witness whose testimony put him in prison. He’s coming after the witness and his family, not his own defense lawyer. You read the book?”

  “No,” Jack said.

  “To me,” the man continued, “both the movies and the book would be more realistic if the ex-con was after the prosecutor. What do you think, Hogan?”

  Jack stared into the cold eyes. “In my experience, the defendants are usually madder at the judge and the cops than they are at the prosecutor. They seem to realize the prosecutor is just doing his job.”

  “Wishful thinking, Hogan. I don’t care how mad a man might be at his lawyer or the judge, he’s always gonna be madder at the prosecutor. The prosecutor’s the one who filed the charge, who could’ve dismissed it at any time, who could’ve plea-bargained it to something that didn’t involve prison time, who gave the impassioned closing argument urging the jury to send the guy to prison. No, the prosecutor’s always going to be number one on my hit list.”

  “I told you, I was just doing my job.”

  “Yeah, I heard you say that. But sending an innocent man to prison, that wasn’t in your job description, was it?”

  Jack glanced again at the side pocket of the Cardinals jacket. A gun barrel or a finger was poking against the fabric, pointing directly at Jack’s side. To Jack, it looked more like a gun barrel than a finger. He groped for something to say.

  “Which one’s your daughter?”

  It was the question he’d thought about asking at the very beginning of the encounter, the one he would have asked had he been interested in making polite conversation.

  “My daughter? She’s dead. Leukemia. Got it while I was in prison. I didn’t even get to go to her funeral.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, you’re sorry, Hogan. You’re a sorry piece of shit.”

  “Look,” Jack began.

  “No, you look! Not only did my little girl die, but my wife divorced me while I was doing my time—the time you gave me. She remarried a factory foreman. They’ve got five kids now. Five kids! He must bang her every night. Now she won’t even return my phone calls. Last time I talked to her, she said she’d get a restraining order if I ever tried to call her again.”

  “That’s a shame,” Jack said.

  “Ain’t it, though? Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, I got gang-raped behind the wall by a bunch of Blood Stone Villains who thought I was a snitch. I was innocent of that charge too, by the way. I’m no snitch. Never have been. I keep my mouth shut. But it happened just the same. That’s something else I blame you for, Hogan. In fact, it’s hard to put in words just how much I hate your guts.”

  “What do you propose to do about it?”

  The gray eyes shifted again to take in the beauty of young Amber Hogan.

  “For starters, there’s your daughter.”

  “If you touch her…”

  “If I touch her, what!What are you gonna do, Hogan, lock me up? Call me nasty names? Ask a jury to send a message for what I do to her? It’s gonna be worth it, Hogan. I mean, just look at her. She must be your pride and joy.”

  The unmistakable click of a revolver being cocked came from the depths of the Cardinals jacket.

  “I’ve got a message for you, Mr. Prosecutor. I’m gonna kill your daughter, right here today. I lost mine. It’s only fair that you lose yours. I brought a gun and a knife with me. Only question left is whether I’m gonna shoot her or carve her up with the blade. Truth is, I haven’t decided yet.”

  Jack glanced again at the gun barrel pressed against the jacket. If he lunged at the guy, he was sure to be shot. If he were shot, could he still protect Amber? Would the man kill her anyway, with Jack already dead? He tried to decide what to do, how to stop this man. What would be best for Amber?

  The convict smiled. Jack felt a chill shoot up his spine, cold dancing fingers of death.

  “After I kill your daughter, if I get out of this gym alive, my next stop will be your home. I’m gonna kill your wife, Wendy. You two still live on Oak Street, don’t you? That big house, the yellow brick job with the wrought-iron railing and the three-car garage? Of course you do, what am I saying? I was there this morning, watching your wife leave for work. She was wearing that nice conservative black pantsuit. I noticed she switched to a white coat once she got to the hospital.”

  “You followed my wife?”

  “I’ve been out of prison for over a month now, Hogan. I’ve devoted myself to learning all I can about your family. Your daughter, for instance. She doesn’t ride the bus, even though it comes right by your house. Her daddy drives her to school every morning. Same exact route. Same exact time. Like clockwork.”

  Jack glanced at the pocket containing the gun. The barrel was pointed right at Jack’s chest.

  “Once I kill your wife,” the man continued, “I’m gonna see if I can find four guys who could stomach the thought of raping the sanctimonious Jack Hogan, and you’ll get a taste of everything I went through these past fourteen years because of you. Everything except the bankruptcy. You know, I went from being a successful businessman to being a broke ex-con because I spent all my money on lawyers to fight the bogus charge you brought against me. I had to sell my dry-cleaning business to pay off my legal bills when I went to prison.”

  “Bart Thompson.”

  “Bingo. You remembered. I’m flattered, what with those thousands of cases you’ve prosecuted. How could I expect you to remember a simple case where a business owner shot the irate husband of an employee and claimed it was self-defense? I’m old news, aren’t I? Water under the bridge. A flyspeck of a case. Boy, you sure nailed me in cross-examination, didn’t you? How many times did you ask me if I shot him in the back?”

  “Three.”

  “Yeah, and I admitted it every time. I shot him in the back, damn right I did. The prick came to my office, accusing me of having an affair with his wife. He was yelling and screaming. He threatened to kill me. When he spun away from me toward my credenza, I thought he was going for a gun. I pulled my Beretta from my desk drawer and shot him. I was telling the truth. I honestly thought I was protecting myself. I didn’t know he was unarmed. But did you care? No!”

  “The jury didn’t believe you.”

  “You were leading them around by the nose, Counselor. I have to tell you, enlarging that photo of the dead man’s back with the entrance wound right between his shoulder blades, that was a good stroke. So was your stunt of making a poster of the medical examiner’s diagram. You were relentless in the way you drove home the point I shot the guy in the back.”

  Jack said nothing.

  “You were impressive in closing arguments too,” Bart Thompson continued. “I can see you now, pointing at me, thundering, ‘Send a message to the community, send a message to Bart Thompson, send a message to would-be killers out there—it is never justified self-defense to shoot a man in the back, to gun him down in c
old blood.’ That’s what you said, Hogan, isn’t it?”

  “Sounds pretty close.”

  Jack now remembered that particular closing argument well. He had spent countless hours working on it, honing it to perfection. The location of the bullet wound had been the strongest piece of evidence against Bart Thompson. The killer had shot his victim right in the middle of the back. Jack remembered heaping scornful ridicule on the defendant during summation: “What was the victim doing? Running away or backing toward his shooter? Either way it was not self-defense. Shooting a man in the back is a cowardly and criminal act. Don’t let Bart Thompson get away with murder!”

  Bart Thompson’s case had been Jack’s tenth murder trial. Since he spent most of the trial focusing upon the witnesses and the jurors, it was understandable that he did not recognize the defendant many years later. Besides, Bart Thompson had aged. Man, had he aged. Prison would do that to you.

  “You took everything from me,” Thompson said. “All by refusing to believe me when I told the truth that I really thought that wild-ass cuckold was trying to kill me. Hell, I wasn’t even sleeping with his wife.”

  “I was fair to you,” Jack said. “You told your version to the jury. You had your chance to convince them. They found you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “Hard blows, but fair ones, I get it.” Thompson sneered. “Charge them all and let God sort them out. Is that how it works?”