Naked Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Don’t underestimate Wallace. He’s a very smart man. He knows how to … stifle dissent.”

  “Come on, this is almost as paranoid as—” Ben stopped himself. Almost as paranoid as Wallace Barrett talking about how the city council was out to get him. What was wrong with these people? “What was the second incident?”

  “Barely a month ago,” Cynthia replied. “This time he was in a jealous rage because she’d had the audacity to talk to some man she met at a party he dragged her to. He went out of control, screamed about how she was having an affair, sleeping around. Called her a whore, a bitch. Then he socked her right in the eye. She had to wear sunglasses for weeks.”

  “Were you present during this incident?”

  “No. But I saw the black eye.”

  “She could’ve gotten that any number of ways.”

  “Bullshit. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s no jury in the room, so spare me this crap.”

  “You understand, I have to consider all possible explanations.”

  “I know exactly what you’re trying to do.” She drew in her breath. “I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”

  “If Caroline Barrett was being battered, as you claim, it’s difficult for me to believe she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “She did tell someone. She told me.”

  “You know what I mean. The district attorney. The media.”

  Cynthia fell back in her chair. “How much do you know about battered women, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “Not that much,” he admitted.

  “It’s a recognized syndrome. A disease, really. It stems from our inherent genetic fight-or-flight response. When a woman is frightened or in danger, she goes through a series of emotional reactions. Avoidance mechanisms. Unconsciously she finds ways of dealing with the threat, like denial, repression, minimization. It’s all been documented.”

  “Excuse me,” Ben said. “Are you a psychologist?”

  “I’m working on my degree at TU,” she answered.

  Ben made a note.

  “Some women go through a sort of seesaw effect—anxiety rises until avoidance and numbing set in. Other women experience both symptoms simultaneously, creating conflicting emotions that make it almost impossible to act.”

  “Still, Caroline Barrett was rich, pretty, smart. She doesn’t fit the image of a battered woman.”

  “That’s not an image you’re talking about. It’s a stereotype. And it’s wrong. Many battered women have successful careers and are perfectly capable of expressing anger when they don’t believe they’re in danger. Some are even aggressive, or are perceived by friends as domineering. Abuse occurs in every race, ethnic background, educational level, and socioeconomic group. And don’t believe that right-wing hogwash that domestic violence is exaggerated. If anything, it’s underexaggerated, because it’s underreported. And when it finally comes to the surface, the response is almost always the same. They avoid, they deny, they pretend it didn’t happen. And they don’t report the son of a bitch who beat them.”

  “Yes, but getting back to this case—why didn’t Caroline just leave?”

  “They don’t leave because leaving doesn’t stop the violence. Often it intensifies it. These creeps are terrified of separation; the woman walks out and they become stalkers, harassing her at every opportunity. Studies have shown that a woman’s life may actually be in more danger after she leaves. And if you have two small children in your care, that may be a risk you simply cannot take.”

  “I gather this will be the gist of your testimony?”

  “That’s up to the district attorney. I’ll answer whatever he asks.”

  “Are you a member of any organizations, Ms. Taylor? Any women’s groups, perhaps?”

  “I’m the president of the local chapter of DVIS—the Domestic Violence Intervention Services.”

  Ben nodded. “DVIS would probably love to have a high-profile case that would dramatize its cause, wouldn’t it?”

  Cynthia glared at him. “So that’ll be your pitch. You’re a great human being, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “I was just asking a question. Look, my client tells me he didn’t beat his wife. He says the city council is out to get him. I have to believe him until the evidence proves otherwise.”

  “The evidence is all around you. You’re just not seeing it.”

  “That’s what everyone says. You’re all so anxious to convict you don’t consider the alternatives. I’m not going to fall into that trap.”

  “My sister was the one in the trap!” There was a stuttering noise, a catch in her throat. “I—tried to talk to her. I tried to get her out of there, to get her somewhere safe. But she wouldn’t listen.” Her voice flattened, as if all the air went out of her. “And I didn’t insist. I thought there was still time. If only I had known …” Her steely eyes became soft and watery.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Taylor,” Ben said quietly.

  Her chin rose. “Don’t be sorry. Give up the legal shenanigans and let them give Wallace Barrett the lethal injection he deserves.”

  Ben folded his notepad. “You really want to see him convicted, don’t you?”

  “Do I want the man who beat and killed my sister to pay for his crimes? You’re damn right I do.”

  “You’d be willing to do almost anything to see him punished, wouldn’t you? Or say anything?”

  Cynthia’s eyes burned across the desk to Ben’s. “Was there anything else, Mr. Kincaid? I have a class to teach.”

  “No. Thank you for your time.” Ben led Christina outside to the weight-lifting area.

  “Ben,” Christina whispered once they were outside, “I have some real problems—”

  “We’ll work it out later.”

  “But—”

  “We’ll work it out, Christina. I promise. But later.”

  I’ll work it out for you later, he thought to himself, because first I have to work it out for myself.

  As soon as Ben and Christina left the office, Cynthia Taylor picked up the receiver to her, a large office desktop phone with a million buttons and an LED readout. After the line connected, she gave the receptionist an extension number. A few minutes later, she reached the party on the other end of the line.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Cynthia.” Slight pause. “I don’t care what you told me, I need to talk to you now, and this is where you are.”

  A loud and angry voice grated on the other end. “Yeah?” she answered. “Well, it is an emergency. Guess who was in my office? … Wrong. The creep who’s representing Wallace … Right. In my office.”

  There was a burst of static. “Of course I didn’t invite him here. I didn’t even know who he was. He huffed and puffed his way through one of my classes, then came to my office during the counseling period and started asking questions.” Pause. “Yeah, well, I thought you’d want to know.”

  She listened patiently while the voice on the other end of the line spewed forth for more than a minute.

  “Well, whatever you’re planning to do, you’d better do it fast and do it well. I think he knows a lot more than you think he does.” She slammed the receiver down, grabbed her towel, and headed back to her class.

  As soon as Cynthia Taylor was out of sight, Ben and Christina stepped out from behind a tall stack of plastic mats.

  “And you accuse me of having wacky ideas,” Christina groused. “Why are we still here?”

  “There’s something she wasn’t telling me,” Ben said. He led her toward the now-empty office.

  “I thought the same thing,” Christina replied. “But it doesn’t explain why we were crouched behind the gym equipment.”

  “It’s hard for me to believe she could be part of this purported conspiracy,” Ben explained, “especially if it culminated in the death of her sister. Still, there was something odd about the way she acted. If she is involved or feels guilty for any other reason, then our visit might’ve shaken her up. If we shook her up, she might report in to whoever she’s working with.
And did you notice what she did the second she thought we were gone?”

  Christina nodded. “She made a phone call.”

  “Right.” He checked both ways down the corridors. They were empty. He grabbed the doorknob to Cynthia’s office and ducked inside. “Come on.”

  Christina followed, closing the door behind him. “Do you know what will happen if we get caught?”

  “So don’t get caught.” Ben scanned the desktop. “We’ll only be in here for a minute. I just wanted to see if we could figure out who she called.”

  “Well, Sherlock, if I were you—”

  “Don’t try to talk me out of it. We won’t be in here long.”

  “Fine, but—”

  “Shh. I’m thinking.”

  Christina folded her arms and arched an eyebrow.

  “I know.” Ben picked up a pad of paper on the desktop. “Maybe she scribbled down the number.”

  “But why would she—”

  “Shh.” Ben picked up a pencil and lightly drew across the sheet. “Maybe we can pick up an imprint.”

  “Ben, this is pathetic.”

  “Don’t be so negative.” He continued scribbling. Nothing appeared. “Rats. Didn’t work.”

  “Ben, if you want to know—”

  “Would you stop already? I’m detecting.”

  Christina tapped her foot.

  “I’ve got it.” Ben grabbed an open phone book on the corner of the desk. “Maybe she looked the number up. Maybe she left an imprint or smudge next to the number.”

  “Ben, you’ve been watching too many late movies.”

  “Always the skeptic.” He held the book up to his nose and scanned the pages. “Blast. I don’t see anything.”

  “Ben, if you want to know—”

  “Shh. I’m working.”

  She threw up her hands in disgust. “I can’t stand this any longer.” She walked up to the phone console and pressed the Redial button. Half a second later, a seven-digit number appeared on the LED readout. The phone began dialing. “There’s your number, Sherlock. Hope I didn’t waste too much of your valuable detecting time.”

  Ben stared at the readout. “I was going to try that next.”

  “No doubt. Shall we see who it is?” She pushed the Hands-free button for the speakerphone. A few seconds later they both heard the line answered.

  “Good afternoon. You’ve reached City Hall. The city council is now in session. How may I direct your call?”

  Chapter 21

  THE PRELIMINARY HEARING TOOK less than a day, and probably wouldn’t have lasted that long if the press hadn’t been there in force. Ben had known all along there was no question about whether Barrett would be bound over for trial; there was more than enough evidence to take him to trial, and even if there hadn’t been, a judge would have had to be suicidal to set him free in the midst of the constant barrage of media attention and scrutiny, almost all of which had at least implicitly assumed Barrett was guilty. Judge Hawkins bound Barrett over for trial and set a court date barely three weeks away.

  “So this is it,” Barrett murmured to Ben under his breath. “Now it really begins.”

  Ben nodded somberly. Barrett had not seemed his usual self today. Even when the TV cameras began rolling, he remained reserved, even cool.

  Ben wondered what had happened. Was the inherent stress of being charged with murder getting to him? Had he moved beyond the denial stage and realized that his life was actually in danger? Or was there something more?

  “What now?” Barrett asked.

  “Now we get ready for trial. No holds barred.”

  “The judge thinks I did it.”

  “No, the judge simply ruled that there was sufficient evidence to make you stand trial. And frankly, there is. Don’t let that worry you. The standard for conviction is much higher. You can’t be convicted unless the jury finds you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “I can’t believe all these people think I could do such a horrible thing.” His eyes seemed tired, almost beaten. “That I could hold my own precious little girls’ lives in my hands and take them away. It’s just… inconceivable.”

  Ben wished there was some way he could alleviate Barrett’s distress, but he knew there was none. He’d seen this before. Being a criminal defendant was like going through the stages of grieving. First there was denial, which Ben had seen plainly enough when he’d visited Barrett in his cell. But he was past that now; Barrett was beginning to realize that he was actually going to be on trial—for his life. He was coming to grips with the fact that his entire family was gone, and that most people thought he was to blame. If they didn’t correct that misapprehension, Barrett would end up sentenced to death.

  “Is there anything else the court should take up before we adjourn?” Judge Hawkins asked.

  “Your honor.” Bullock rose to his feet. “The state would move that the parties be permitted to submit juror questionnaires prior to voir dire to obtain more detailed information about the prospective veniremen.”

  “I oppose that motion,” Ben said.

  Hawkins turned his way. “Why?”

  “That’s my question,” Ben answered. “Why? What does a questionnaire get us that voir dire can’t? I don’t think we have to blindly adopt every new judicial flavor of the month. Just because questionnaires are all the rage in California is no reason for us to follow suit.”

  “I think there is a reason,” Bullock interjected. “Time. I don’t want to waste it. Time-wasting may be part of the defense strategy, but it’s not mine.”

  “This won’t save time,” Ben argued. “It just adds one more very long step to the selection process.”

  “It will save time,” Bullock insisted. “If we cover a lot of questions in advance on paper, we won’t have to waste time on voir dire covering the same territory.”

  “It hasn’t saved time in California,” Ben said. “To the contrary, trials in California run twelve times as long as they do in Oklahoma.”

  “Your honor.” Bullock stepped closer to the bench and used his quieter, lower “sincere” voice. “We all know perfectly well how hotly contested jury selection will be in this case. We know that neither party will leave any stone unturned”—he glanced over at Ben—“especially the defense. Given that we’re going to cover a huge amount of material, why not get through some of it in advance on paper?”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Judge Hawkins said. “I think it will save time and eliminate repetition, especially in a case of this nature. Of course, the final decision will be up to the trial judge, but I see no reason why you can’t begin drafting your questionnaires.” He peered down through his glasses. “I might also remind all the attorneys in the room that this is not California, and it would be best not to forget it. None of the judges in this district have forgotten why trials have judges. We will take control of the courtroom. If you think we’re going to protract this trial with an endless parade of witnesses or interminable examinations, guess again. It won’t be permitted.” He pushed back his glasses and looked toward Bullock. “That being said, your motion is granted.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” Bullock said, bowing his head slightly. He turned to the cameras in the gallery and smiled, doing his best to provide a lovely Kodak moment.

  “All right, then,” Hawkins said, rapping his papers on the bench. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, your honor.” Ben stepped forward. “The defense has two motions in limine pending.”

  “Those are motions to suppress,” Bullock said, making sure the press understood what Ben was doing without having to translate the Latin. “More evidence that proves Mr. Kincaid’s client is guilty. So of course he doesn’t want the jury to see it.”

  “Objection,” Ben said.

  The judge nodded. “Sustained. Mr. Kincaid, why don’t you take your motion up with the trial court judge?”

  “A provisional ruling would be very helpful, your honor. We only have three weeks. I’d like to know w
hat we’re going to be up against.”

  Hawkins sighed. Ben knew he hated to make any ruling that was remotely difficult or controversial, but it seemed there was no escaping it. “Very well, counsel. Proceed.”

  “Thank you, your honor. My first motion concerns some blood traces taken at the scene of the crime that I would like kept out of the trial.”

  “Wouldn’t he, though?” Bullock said softly, but not so softly that everyone in the courtroom couldn’t hear it.

  “The blood traces in question were found inside Mr. Barrett’s home, near the front door. According to the prosecution’s exhibit list—and I phrase it this way because I still have not been permitted to examine the evidence myself—the blood traces outlined a footprint—shoe print, actually—pointing toward the door. The print corresponds roughly to the size of Mr. Barrett’s foot.”

  “Meaning?” Judge Barrett asked.

  “Meaning the man killed his family, tracked the blood on the floor, and fled,” Bullock said.

  “Let me thank the prosecutor for demonstrating the great prejudice which this misleading bit of evidence could create if it were admitted into evidence,” Ben said, not missing a beat. “In fact, the print proves nothing of the sort, but if the court allows it into evidence, Mr. Bullock will undoubtedly twist and contort reality to reach some such unwarranted conclusion.”

  Judge Hawkins frowned. “And can you please explain to me why this print doesn’t tell us exactly what it appears to tell us?”

  “Certainly, your honor.” Ben opened the folder that contained the product of several days of Loving’s hard work, tracking people down and getting their words on paper. “I’ve filed a number of motions pertaining to the manner in which the crime scene was preserved, or rather, wasn’t preserved. I’ve submitted nine different affadavits”—he pulled them out and passed them to the bailiff—“which are certified and on file. These are from neighbors, journalists, and even members of the police force. What becomes immediately apparent is that the crime scene was contaminated and not preserved because the police believed—wrongfully—that they had already apprehended the culprit.”