Naked Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “So what do you say, Kincaid?” He held out his hand. “Wanna work with me?”

  “Yes,” Ben answered, clasping his hand. “Very much.”

  Bullock shook vigorously and smiled. “Mr. Kincaid, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  And it was. For a while.

  Chapter 15

  ON HIS WAY TO the office the next morning, Ben checked the newspapers in the stand at the corner. The Wallace Barrett case took the headline and filled the top half of the page in the Tulsa and Oklahoma City papers. It was respectably featured on page one in The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal and got a nice blue-lined box in USA Today. No doubt about it—the eyes of the world were upon them.

  Ben bought one of the local papers and carried it back to his office. The banner headline read: MAYOR SICK AT HEART ABOUT MURDERS. Beneath that, a smaller headline read: DA REP SAYS AIRTIGHT CASE READY FOR TRIAL. In the center of the page, a photo showed Barrett in his baggy orange coveralls, hands cuffed behind his back, looking away from the camera, out the corner of narrowed eyes. No doubt about it; he looked like a criminal. Correction: they made him look like a criminal. It was clear to Ben that, despite the fact that there must’ve been hundreds of photos of Barrett in their morgue, the paper intentionally chose the one that made him look the most unsavory. The most guilty.

  At the office, Jones was dealing with the news reporters that had been calling the office night and day. He was juggling two different phones, one in each ear. He was talking into one with another of his seemingly endless array of accents.

  “Kincaid? No one by that name here, mate. No, we’re wallaby breeders. Cute furry things. Can I sign you up? You’re sure? Well, put another shrimp on the barbie for me.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. At least as authentic as your average Crocodile Dundee movie. Before he could interrupt, Jones had started in on the other phone.

  “Ahh, no, no, sahib. No Kincaid here. Pakistani Embassy. Yes, quite, quite certain. Can we perhaps be issuing a visa for your humble self?”

  Ben sighed. When did dramatic arts become a secretarial skill?

  After Jones hung up the phone, Ben collected Christina and Loving and started his pretrial strategy session and pep talk.

  “I think Christina has already told you that I’ve decided to take the Wallace Barrett case. Now I know you might have misgivings about this, but it’s important that we work together as a team—everyone pulling in the same direction. Still, I’m not going to force you to do anything that twists your conscience. So if you want out, I understand, but you need to tell me now.”

  Christina, Jones, and Loving remained stone-faced. No one spoke.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Ben said. “Jones, what about you?”

  Jones tapped the side of his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Boss. This dilemma raises serious moral and ethical issues. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is he paying us up front?”

  “He’s giving us a sizable retainer, yes.”

  Jones nodded. “I’m in.”

  “Well, that was easy. Loving, what about you? I know you may not believe Barrett is innocent—”

  “I do.”

  “You do?”

  “Oh, yeah. This whole thing stinks. It’s got government cover-up written all over it.”

  “Well …”

  “Are you sure Barrett is safe?”

  “Safe? He’s in the county jail.”

  “That may not be good enough.”

  Ben folded his arms across his chest. “I’m … not quite sure I follow you.”

  “This is just like what they did to Marilyn.”

  “Uh, Marilyn?”

  “Sure. First they discredited her, then they bumped her off.”

  “I thought Marilyn died of a drug overdose.”

  Loving guffawed. “Oh, right. You probably think Jim Morrison died of a heart attack.”

  Ben decided not to respond. “Christina?”

  “Oui,” she chirped.

  Ben smiled, pleased and relieved. “All right, then, here’s what I want everyone to do. Jones, get on the Net and start digging up everything you can find on this case. I’d like complete backgrounds on our client, his wife, his kids, his immediate family. See if you can get me a breakdown on the most important political issues he’s supported, proposals, legislation, whatever. And especially anything that relates to his relationship with the city council or any other political enemies. I want to know anyone who might’ve had a motive for killing Barrett’s family, including the possibility that it was done to discredit Barrett himself. Remember, for once we have an actual honest-to-God paying client, so be thorough. Don’t leave any stone unturned.”

  “Got it, Boss. Does Barrett have an e-mail address?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I know the Tulsa city offices have computers and are wired for e-mail. If I could read all the messages Barrett has received over the last few months, I might find some clues.”

  Christina frowned. “But wouldn’t they be deleted by now?”

  Jones raised a finger. “Actually, no. See, this is the mistake everyone makes. They think that once they’ve deleted an e-mail message from their computer, it’s gone. But it isn’t. The central computer system makes backup copies of all messages, and the copies remain in the system until they are physically erased and written over.”

  “But could we use that?”

  “Federal law allows employers to monitor employees’ e-mail, and e-mail can be used as evidence in civil lawsuits. I don’t see why this should be any different.”

  “All right, see what you can do.” Ben turned toward his investigator. “Loving, I’d like you to focus on the city council angle. Get members’ names and run them by all your friends with connections to, um, not necessarily legal activities. If you get my drift.”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “And see if anybody knows anything about the possibility of a hit man coming to town. Someone who might’ve been hired to kill Barrett or his family or both, or who might’ve been lurking around Barrett’s neighborhood.”

  “If it was a hit man, someone in town would know. The trick is findin’ the one who knows.”

  “I have faith in you, Loving. If he’s out there, you’ll find him. And while you’re at it, check on Barrett’s wife. I understand she was originally from Crescent, Oklahoma. Do you know where that is?”

  Loving smirked. “Of course I do, Skipper. What do you think, I live in a cave? Crescent is where Karen Silkwood lived. Before the Feds ran her off the road.”

  “Ri-ight.”

  “And what about me?” Christina asked. “I assume you have an assignment that will make full use of my numerous and varied talents.”

  “Christina, I need you to help me get ready for trial. The preliminary hearing is a foregone conclusion; we know perfectly well Barrett will be bound over for trial. There’s more than sufficient evidence, and even if there wasn’t, given the current atmosphere in this town, a judge would have to be crazy to set him free. So we gear ourselves toward the trial.”

  Ben stepped back and addressed all three of them. “We have to be ready for anything and everything. We’re going to be scrutinized like never before. We’re going to be under a gigantic media magnifying glass, with millions of people watching every move we make. I want you to hassle the prosecution mercilessly till they turn over all their files, all their evidence, all the potentially exculpatory evidence. Don’t let them get away with anything. I know this is going to be hard. We’re going to be under constant pressure. We’ve got to ignore all that and pull together and win this case. All right?”

  Loving thrust his fist in the air. “All right! Let’s go, team!”

  Christina and Jones followed his lead. “Go, team, go! Win, team, win!”

  “Wait a minute,” Ben said. “This is serious.”

  They didn’t stop. “Go, go, go! Win,
win, win!”

  “Hey!”

  Christina laid a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “It’s no use. You know how stirred up Loving gets when you do these Knute Rocknesque pep talks.” Jones and Loving continued chanting in the background.

  Ben grabbed his briefcase. “While you clowns finish your pep rally, I’m going to visit Mike.”

  They continued unabated. “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Be-e-e-e-n!”

  By the time they got to “Rah-rah, sish-boom-bah,” Ben was halfway to police headquarters.

  Chapter 16

  BEN PUSHED OPEN THE door bearing the M. MORELLI nameplate and found his friend barking commands into the phone. “And I want it now, which means you’re already late!”

  Ben took a seat and waited for Mike to complete his latest effort to increase efficiency through intimidation. At last Mike threw the receiver into the cradle with disgust. “Incompetents!” Mike bellowed. “Be glad you got out of government work, Ben. It doesn’t matter what department you’re in. It’s all just one big miasma of bureaucrats and bullshit. You know what Balzac said.”

  “I do?”

  “Bureaucracy is a giant mechanism operated by pygmies.”

  “Right. I knew that.” Ben took the nearest seat. “You don’t seem very jolly this morning. Barrett case giving you headaches?”

  “Like you wouldn’t—” Mike paused. “You’re taking his case, aren’t you?”

  “Yup. Filed my entry of appearance and everything. How did you guess?”

  “Oh, hell, I knew you would the minute you mentioned it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I did. After all, it’s stupid, irrational, fruitless, and almost certain to do you more harm than good. In other words, a case you couldn’t resist.”

  Ben smiled wryly. “How’s the investigation going?”

  Mike opened his desk drawer and jammed a toothpick in his mouth. He’d been off tobacco for six months, but he still needed the oral security of a wood sliver in his mouth from time to time. “There’s no investigation. We have our man. The evidence says he’s guilty. We’re taking him to trial.”

  “And no one is considering any other angles?”

  “What other angles?” Mike spread his arms across the desk. “Ben, you know me. I don’t jump to conclusions or try to take the easy way out. There is simply no evidence indicating anything other than the obvious: Wallace Barrett killed his wife and kids.”

  “Okay. Tell me about this evidence.”

  Mike shook his head. “You’re in the wrong office. Bullock is upstairs.”

  “C’mon, Mike, you know how Bullock is. He’s not going to give me anything without making me refight World War Two. We’ll have motions and hearings and it will take days.”

  Mike rolled the toothpick to the other side of his face. “Maybe you should sweet-talk him.”

  “It wouldn’t help. He seems to be a bit angry with me.”

  “He’s angry at you?” Mike’s eyes widened. “I’m surprised you’ll even speak to him, after what he did to you.”

  Ben shrugged. “We need to put the past behind us.” Ben scooted his chair closer to Mike’s desk. “So anyway, old buddy old pal, what can you tell me about this case?”

  Mike glanced at the open door. “What do you want to know?”

  “What about the victims? How were they killed?”

  “Dr. Koregai can give you more details, but basically, they all suffered fatal knife wounds.”

  Ben nodded grimly. Knives would not be the typical weapon of choice for a professional hit man. Of course, that might well be why it was chosen. “Were the bodies moved?”

  “Nope. D.R.T.” As Ben knew, that meant they were Dead Right There.

  “Have you found the knife? Or knives?”

  Mike shook his head no. “And frankly, we don’t expect to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, Ben, there’s a lot of ground between here and that tollbooth he smashed into on the Indian Nation Turnpike.”

  “When I was in the Barrett house, I didn’t notice all that many signs of struggle.”

  Mike shifted his weight uncomfortably. “By the time you arrived, much of the evidence had been photographed and removed. But you’re right. There were a few overturned chairs, vases, a coffee table. But not much.”

  “Any prints?”

  “Yeah, lots. All family members. Barrett’s prints were all over the place, but I suppose we can’t hold that against him, since he lived there.” Mike paused. “Have you seen the video?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The video. It’s easy to get. There are three different versions on the market now. Wallace Barrett’s Flight from Justice. Horror in the Heartland. I forget the other one.”

  “No, I haven’t seen it.”

  “You’ll want to. It’s very exciting.”

  “Do you think the prosecution will use it?”

  “Would you?”

  Ben nodded. Stupid question. “Anything that suggests a possible motive?”

  “Motive might be too strong a word. Theory, I’d say.”

  “Okay, what’s your theory, Sherlock?”

  Mike paused. “Have you had any discussions with your client? Like about his relationship with his wife?”

  “A little. Not much. Why?”

  “You … might want to do that.”

  Ben leaned forward anxiously. “What are you getting at, Mike?”

  Mike hedged. “Again, the coroner can tell you more than I can. But some of the bruises we found on the wife’s face … don’t correlate to the knife wounds.”

  Ben felt a fluttering sensation in his gut.

  “We’ve had some reports from people who observed Barrett with his wife in public. Parties and such. And a rather detailed report from their neighbor.”

  “Mike, you know that any time someone famous is arrested, a thousand would-be talk-show guests crawl out of the woodwork claiming to know something about them.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Be realistic. Wallace Barrett was a celebrity. If he was a wife beater, word would’ve gotten out.”

  “I don’t know, Ben. Sometimes the darkest secrets stay hidden the longest. You know what Charles Churchill said.”

  “Intimately.”

  “Keep up appearances, there lies the test / The world will give thee credit for the rest. / Outward be fair, however foul within / Sin if thou wilt, but then in secret sin.”

  Ben frowned. “Do you stay up late memorizing these things just so you can make me feel inferior?”

  “Actually, yes.” Mike flashed a brilliant smile. “It’s my revenge for all those times you blew the intro to my big make-the-girls James Taylor number.”

  “Mike, I don’t believe the mayor of the city could keep a history of domestic abuse secret. And I don’t think a jury will, either.”

  “I don’t know, Ben. We’ve had 911 calls about alleged domestic disturbances sending us to Barrett’s place twice in the last three years. And then there’s the business about the picture.”

  “The picture? What picture?”

  “Didn’t you notice? The framed photo smashed against the wall in the living room.”

  “What?”

  “A picture of Caroline Barrett. And someone smashed it into a million pieces.”

  Ben tried not to react. “Anyone could’ve smashed a photo.”

  “Yes, anyone could, but why would they? Smashing a photo—that goes beyond rational motivation or murder for hire. That’s just mean. Hateful. It doesn’t make any sense. Unless you believe that Barrett lost control—”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “We’ve had a lot of reports. Apparently he was notorious for his temper.”

  “Everyone has a temper. But no one kills their daughters. That’s just— unthinkable.”

  “Wrong. Everyone’s thinking it. And every member of your jury will be thinking it. And you’re not going to sway them unless you have some damn conv
incing evidence.”

  Ben scooted forward. “Mike, I don’t want to tread on your toes, but apparently the crime scene investigation was pretty seriously botched. If that’s true, and the evidence is tainted, I need to know.”

  “That’s why God invented cross-examination.”

  “Mike, you know Bullock believes it’s his civic duty to get a conviction, no matter what. I can’t stand by and let him railroad an innocent man.” Ben leaned across the desk. “Will you help me?”

  Mike’s toothpick rolled to the other side of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Ben. I can t.

  “But—”

  “Ben, I’m a cop. I work with the DA.”

  “But—”

  “No.” He pressed his hands against the desk. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Ben said quietly. He grabbed his briefcase and headed toward the door.

  “Of course, every competent defense attorney knows to scrutinize the blood evidence very carefully.”

  Ben stopped.

  “Particularly with all this new DNA stuff that no one understands. You can’t be too careful.”

  Mike was staring out the window, not talking to anyone in particular.

  “And only a fool would pass up a chance to talk to Caroline Barrett’s sister. Man, what a looker. Almost as pretty as her sister. The DA loves her.”

  A smile crept across Ben’s face. “Thanks, Mike. You’re a good friend.”

  Mike turned suddenly. “Are you still here? I thought you left hours ago.”

  Ben nodded. “I did.”

  Chapter 17

  DEANNA WOULD HAVE BEEN lying to herself had she pretended she was anxious to get home that day. Not that work was any great delight, but home was bound to be worse.

  Last night had been sheer hell. Martha had locked herself up in her room and didn’t emerge until morning. Even then, she made a great point of ignoring Deanna, walking in wide circles around her, saying nothing, keeping a lofty and sullen expression plastered on her face. Social boycott, from your sixteen-year-old daughter. Ain’t life grand?

  Tonight would undoubtedly be worse. Mom and Martha alone together, all night long. What fun!

  She dropped her briefcase in the front hallway. “Martha. I’m home.”