Naked Justice

by William Bernhardt

  She couldn’t risk it. So after much deliberation, she had said that Martha could continue to see Buck, but only during certain hours, and only when they were chaperoned. That way, she hoped, the romance would run its natural course. Eventually Martha would become disenchanted with his ignorant insolence; she would realize that his half-grown goatee was really pretty ugly; and she wouldn’t think it was funny anymore when he belched in her face.

  So Deanna had hoped, anyway. But the relationship had been raging on for three months now, with no sign of abating. And now he was in their house when he wasn’t supposed to be, when Deanna wasn’t home.

  Buck. Jesus Christ, what kind of a name was that for a human being, anyway?

  Martha and Buck were sitting at the kitchen table playing a card game, that strange one with the special illustrated cards. Magic: The Gathering, they called it. All Deanna knew was that the game was ungodly complicated and it cost a fortune to collect enough cards to have a good deck.

  Martha laid a red card in the center of the table. “I’m going to use my red mana to summon a Fireball and do nine damage to you.”

  Buck’s eyebrows knitted together. “Against me? Why me, woman?”

  Deanna winced.

  “Don’t attack me,” he said. “Go after my Juggernaut.”

  “I don’t want your Juggernaut. I want you, handsome.”

  “But I’ve only got ten life points left.”

  “And now you’ve got one. I’ve already done it.”

  His voice acquired an edge. “And I’m telling you not to, woman.”

  “C’mon, Buck. Play the game. You have one life point.”

  “But I told you—”

  “Buck, take your turn!”

  “You stupid bitch!”

  Deanna felt the air rush out of her lungs.

  “Calm down,” Martha said.

  “Don’t you tell me what to do, woman. You stupid, stupid bitch!” He threw all the cards in his hand at her. “You screwed up my whole game.”

  “I tried to win, if that’s what you mean. Aren’t you supposed to try to win? Isn’t that the point?”

  “Yeah, well, fuck you. Bitch,” he added again, as an afterthought.

  Deanna clutched at her chest. Omigod, omigod, omigod. How did I let this happen?

  “Same to you,” Martha snarled back at him, and for added emphasis, she shot him the finger.

  Buck’s lips pressed together. “Don’t you point that finger at me, woman.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” The finger remained.

  “I told you not to do that!” He jumped out of his seat, reached across the table, and swung at her. He might have been aiming at her hand, but the blow passed barely an inch from her face.

  Deanna had seen enough. Too much, actually. She bolted into the house and ran into the kitchen. “What the hell is going on in here?”

  Both Martha and Buck jumped out of their seats. “Mom! How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough. Buck, I want you out of my house.”

  “Mo-om!”

  “Now!” She pointed toward the door. “Out!”

  Buck settled into the kitchen chair. “Like, isn’t it Martha’s house, too? Doesn’t she have any say in this?”

  “No.” Deanna marched forward till she was standing right over him. “Get out! Or I’ll throw you out!”

  A small smile crossed Buck’s lips. He looked Deanna up and down, as if conducting a smug appraisal. “You’re going to throw me out?”

  “Damn straight.” She picked up the kitchen phone and punched 911.

  “Mo-om! Stop this! Buck is my guest.”

  “You’re not allowed to have guests anymore.” Deanna spoke into the phone receiver. “Yes, I’m calling about a trespasser. Housebreaker. Whatever. An unwanted person who won’t leave. Can you send out a patrol car? We may be in danger.”

  “Christ, all right already.” Buck stood up and pressed the interrupt button. “I’m going, I’m going.”

  “Good.” She pushed him toward the door. “And don’t come back!”

  “Look, woman, Martha and I are going steady.”

  “Not anymore. Your relationship is over.” She pressed a finger against his chest. “And don’t you ever—ever—call me woman!”

  He ambled toward the door, smirking. “Martha, your old lady is crackers.” He winked. “I’ll call you.”

  “Don’t even think about it!” Deanna shouted.

  Buck sauntered out the door. A few moments later, she heard his motorcycle rev up and saw him zoom down the street.

  Martha ran into the living room and flung herself onto the sofa. “I am never speaking to you ever again. Never! Never!”

  “Honey, it was for your own—”

  “I have never been so humiliated in my whole life! My life is ruined!” Deanna saw tears trickling in the corners of Martha’s eyes. “I can’t believe you made him leave.”

  Deanna flopped down at the foot of the sofa. “Honey … he’s a jerk.”

  “I happen to love him, Mother, for your information.”

  “Oh, you do not. You just think you do.”

  “Who are you to tell me whether I love someone?” She pounded her fist into a sofa pillow. “What’s so bad about Buck, anyway?”

  Deanna stared at her, flabbergasted. “Are you kidding? I saw the way he talked to you, the way he treated you.”

  “He didn’t mean it.”

  “He called you—the b-word. I won’t stand for that.”

  “He can’t help it. He grew up around his dad, a dumb metalworker who can barely read. It’s what he learned. You always said we shouldn’t treat underprivileged people like they were worse than us. Right?”

  “Honey … he tried to hit you.”

  “He did not.”

  “I saw it.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have given him the finger.”

  “True, but that’s no excuse for him trying to hit you.”

  “Where do you get off telling me what I can and can’t do, anyway?” Martha leaped to her feet. “It’s not like you’ve made your life such a giant success.”

  Deanna mentally counted to ten. “Martha, I’m only doing this because I love you.”

  “Bull. I think you do it because you’re jealous. Jealous!”

  “Sweetheart, please calm down.”

  “That’s why you were spying on us through that window. Is that how you get your cheap thrills? Are you that hard up?”

  “Honey, I looked through the window because I heard Buck, who as you know perfectly well is not supposed to be over here when I’m not around.”

  “You said he could come over after dinner.”

  “Right. And we haven’t had dinner.”

  “Wrong. I have. You haven’t, because you’re late.”

  “I had to work late.”

  “You always have to work late. You care about your job more than you care about me. You don’t even like me. You only got custody to spite Daddy.”

  “Martha!”

  “I hate you!” she shrieked. “I hate you!” Martha ran across the living room toward her bedroom. “And I’m never speaking to you again!” She disappeared inside the interior hallway.

  Well, Deanna told herself, you certainly handled that well. God, why didn’t anyone ever tell me parenting would be so hard? And thankless. And why can’t I ever, just for once, handle something right?

  Best to let Martha cool off, she decided, before she tried to talk to her again. She’d listen to reason later. Perhaps Deanna was overreacting, but she didn’t think so. That kid was a potential abuser. Potential—hell, he was there already. She’d seen the look in his eye when he talked to her. Contemptuous, superior. Violent. It was a look Deanna had seen before.

  She would not let Martha have her life ruined by some abusive son of a bitch.

  One time in this family was enough. Two was too damn many. This was a vicious cycle she was not going to allow to repeat.

  She
walked outside to recover the groceries. She thought she was handling this right, she really did. She had to be tough. Still, something about Martha, something about the look in het eye when she tan out of the room, chilled her to the bone. What if she did something stupid?

  She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. Please, God. Please, no. Take care of my little girl. Because I’m not sure I can do it alone.

  And if she spends any more time with that bastard Buck—anything could happen.

  Chapter 11

  BEN WAS LATE GETTING to his office the next morning, not that that was unusual. What was unusual was that his entire office staff—Christina, Jones, and Loving—were standing shoulder to shoulder just inside the front door waiting for him.

  “Let me guess,” Ben said. “You’re on strike. Look, I don’t blame you, but until some of our clients pay their bills—”

  He stopped. The huge ear-to-ear grins on their faces told him that wasn’t it. “Okay, what, then? Is today my birthday or something?”

  “Where have you been?” Christina said, wrapping her arm around his shoulder and pulling him into the office.

  “At Forestview. I had to take Joey to school, and then there was this big sign-up for the spring bake sale—”

  “Never mind that.” Christina pushed him into a chair while the other two huddled around. “We’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning.”

  “Why?”

  Jones leaned forward. “I got a call the minute I came into the office, Boss.”

  “And?”

  “The mayor wants you!”

  Ben fell deep into thought. Was this about that incident with his daughter at Forestview last Friday? It was just a little bump. And she ran into him …

  “Can you believe it, Skipper?” Loving grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “The mayor wants you!”

  “That’s nice … I guess.”

  Christina cut in. “Ben, do you even know what we’re talking about?”

  “Well, actually … no.”

  “The biggest cause célèbre to hit Tulsa in years, and you’re totally clueless. What were you doing last night?”

  “Well, let me see. I had soup for dinner, then I read Goodnight Moon to Joey about eight thousand times. After he went to sleep, I finished my Trollope novel …”

  She slapped her forehead. “I can’t believe it. Everyone in the state watched the chase last night. Except, of course, you.”

  “Chase? What are you talking about?”

  “Ben, the mayor has been charged with murder.”

  “Murder!” The light slowly dawned. “And he wants me to get him off?”

  Christina and Jones and Loving all exchanged a glance. “Well,” Christina said, “he wants you to represent him, anyway. Entre nous, I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high on the outcome.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Christina grabbed his arm. “I’ll brief you while we drive to the jailhouse.”

  Because Mayor Barrett had specified that he wanted to see Ben alone, Christina (after considerable protest) agreed to cool her heels outside while Ben went into his cell to talk to him.

  “Don’t worry about me, Christina,” he told her. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about us.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll do something idiotic like not agree to represent him.”

  “In fact, I do have some reservations …”

  “See! It’s starting already. You’re going to veer off on some wacky ethical tangent, and we’re going to go hungry.”

  “Just let me talk to him. Then we’ll see.”

  She grabbed him by the lapels. “Ben, promise me you’ll take this case.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Ben!”

  “We’ll see.”

  Ben allowed the guard to lead him down the long metallic corridor. Mayor Barrett had the cell at the far end, a private suite, such as it was. A five-by-seven cell, with a bunk bed, a sink, and an open-faced toilet. Not exactly the mayor’s mansion.

  He was lying on the bottom bunk, his hands covering his face. When he moved them, Ben saw black and red lacerations on his face, and a bandage wrapped around his jaw and the back of his head.

  The guard let Ben into the cell, locked the door behind him, then disappeared.

  “How do you feel?” Ben asked.

  “Better than I have a right to feel.”

  “My legal assistant told me you were in a traffic accident.”

  Barrett tried to smile, although between the bruises and the bandages, his face didn’t have much give in it. “I crashed into a brick building with four cop cars, two television helicopters, and about half the world watching. Like I said, I’m better off than I have a right to be.”

  “Jeez. What were you doing?”

  “Trying to kill myself,” he said, with a matter-of-fact air that caught Ben by surprise. “As it was, I didn’t even break a bone. Goddamn air bags.”

  Ben paced nervously around the tiny cell. There was nowhere to sit, so he stood awkwardly by the cell door and contemplated the dominant question.

  This was a part of criminal defense work that Ben particularly hated. Most criminal defense lawyers never asked the question. Since defending a client you knew was guilty raised a million ethical difficulties, most lawyers preferred not to inquire.

  Ben, however, wanted to know the truth. He wanted to know where he stood. If he was going to put his name and reputation on the line, particularly in what was certain to be a high-profile case, he wanted to know he was doing the right thing. As his old mentor Jack Bullock used to say, he wanted to be on the side of the angels. But with such a horrible, heinous crime, how could he possibly ask?

  Barrett sat up suddenly, hands on his knees. “Ben, I want you to know something up front. I didn’t do it.”

  Ben gazed at him, his face, his eyes.

  “I did not kill my wife. I did not kill my two precious daughters. How could I?” His eyes began to water, but he fought it back. “I couldn’t do anything like that.” He stared down at his hands. “I couldn’t.”

  “I’ve read the preliminary police report. Neighbors say you and your wife had a disagreement yesterday afternoon.”

  Barrett nodded. “That’s right. We did. I’m not going to pretend we didn’t.” He spread his arms wide. “It was that kind of marriage. We fought sometimes, like cats and dogs. But we still loved each other.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  Barrett shrugged. “I hardly remember.”

  “The prosecutor will want to know.”

  “It was something about the kids. She thought I was spoiling them, giving them everything they wanted. Undermining her authority. And not paying enough attention to her. We’d had this argument before.”

  “How many times?”

  He shrugged again. “I don’t know. Many.”

  “Were these fights … violent?”

  He twisted his head around. “Violent? You mean, did I hit her? Absolutely not.

  “Well, I had to ask.”

  “Look, I don’t know what people are saying about me now, but I would never hurt my wife. Or my girls. They’re the most precious things in the world to me.” His voice choked. “Were. I couldn’t hurt them. Don’t you think that if the mayor of the city was a wife beater, it would’ve come out before now?”

  “I suppose.” Ben pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket and began taking notes. “So you had an argument. Then what?”

  “I can barely remember. It’s all such a blur. And smashing into a brick wall didn’t help.”

  “Just tell me what you recall. We don’t have to get everything today.”

  “Well, I got mad. That doesn’t happen often; most times I can just laugh it off. But this time she really got my goat, suggesting that I was hurting the girls and all. So I stomped out of the house.”

  “You left?”

 
“Right. Got in my car and drove away.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Not long. Maybe an hour. I got a Coke at a Sonic—you can check that if you want—and I started to feel bad. So what if we disagreed on a few minor points. I loved my wife, and I loved my family. I didn’t have any business running out like that. A strong man stands up straight and faces the music. So I headed back home.”

  “What happened when you got there?”

  “I was in such a hurry, I left my car on the street and ran into the house. And—”

  “Yes?”

  He hesitated. “And then … I found … them. What was left of them.”

  “They were already dead?”

  “Oh, yeah.” His eyes became wide and fixed. “My wife was spread out like … like some sick human sacrifice. And my little girls …” Tears rushed to his eyes. His hands covered his face.

  “I’m sorry,” Ben said quietly. “I know this is hard for you.”

  Barrett continued to cry. His whole upper body trembled.

  Ben took a deep breath. He hated this. He felt like a vulture of the worst order, intruding on this man’s grief with these incessant questions. Guilty or not, he was clearly grief-stricken. “Can you tell me what you did after you found the bodies?”

  “I freaked.” He wiped his nose and eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I just freaked. Ran out to my car and tore off. Without a word to anyone. Stupid, I know. But I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t thinking at all. I just knew I had to get away from all that awful, hideous—death. And that blood. I kept thinking, I gotta go, I gotta get away from all this. It was like a chant, an order, running through my brain. Like maybe, if they weren’t right there in front of me, it didn’t really happen.”

  “I can understand wanting to leave. But I can’t understand what you were doing on the Indian Nation Turnpike.”

  “I don’t know, man. I was just running scared. Trying to escape reality.”

  “Some people have suggested that you were running to Mexico to hide out from the police.”

  “Well, they’re wrong. I just had to get my head clear. Had to admit to myself that they were really”—he stopped short of the word, then spoke its euphemism—“gone.”

  Ben cleared his throat. “My office assistant told me you were seeking representation.”