Bad start. Ben tried again. “I see The Daily Oklahoman is running frontpage editorials on the case.”
“Yeah, well, they do that sort of thing.”
“The trial isn’t going too well, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. That should make you very happy.” He turned away. “Maybe your client will give you a raise.”
Ben cursed silently. He struggled for words, struggled for air. “Look, I don’t know how to do this or say this, so I’m just going to spit it out. You wanted to know about Perkins?”
Dr. Kincaid lifted an eyebrow.
“An Andrew Perkins. You wanted to know whether the prosecution knew about some guy named Andrew Perkins? Well, they do. He’s going to testify, probably as their last witness, about”—Ben averted his eyes—“that report he wrote on the EKCV before it was implemented. Apparently he feels he made it clear to, um, those concerned, that the device was not safe.” Ben cleared his throat awkwardly. “Report shows your name on the distribution list.”
Dr. Kincaid’s lips thinned. “Are you actually trying to help me?”
“Well, I just heard something in the hallway and I thought—”
“You’re trying to help me. You finally decided maybe it would be all right to do something for your dear old dad, right?”
Ben’s eyes searched unsuccessfully for his father’s. “Yes, I’m trying to help you.”
“Well, it’s too goddamn late!” His hand came around so fast, Ben barely had a chance to register it, much less prevent it. He slapped him hard with the full power of his considerable weight, with such force that it left an immediately visible mark.
“You stupid lazy little toad. Don’t you think I know that already? Do you think I’ve spent these weeks idly twiddling my thumbs while your prosecutor friends tried to crucify me? Do you think I just sat on my hands while you wrestled with your dainty little conscience? I needed to know about Perkins weeks ago, for the grand jury hearing. That’s when you could have helped me. We could’ve undercut his credibility early, when it counted for something. Now the secret is out. Hell, Perkins is on their witness list.”
“I’m sorry,” Ben said. His jaw ached when he moved it. “I didn’t know. I just … wanted to help.”
“Well, you fucked it up, Ben. Like always. You’re a stupid, stupid fuck-up. You always have been and you always will be.”
“I know you don’t mean that. You’re just upset, worried—”
“Worried? Damn straight I’m worried. Do you know what they want to do to me? They want to lock me up and throw away the key. They want to tell people that I’m a murderer. Do you understand that? I’m a doctor. I save people’s lives! Can you imagine how it feels to have people saying that you’re a murderer!”
“I’m sure it must be difficult—”
His teeth were clenched so tightly he could barely speak. “No, it isn’t just difficult, you stupid pansy prick. It’s impossible! It’s more than I—than anyone—” His whole body began to tremble, energy radiating from every inch of his person. “It isn’t fair!”
It was as if the previous Dr. Edward Kincaid had disappeared, had been replaced by some entirely new version, like a snake that had shed his skin. He crossed the tiny cell with such speed, such ferocious anger, that Ben had no chance to respond, much less protect himself. His father struck him again, this time with a clenched fist, dead center on his face. Ben fell forward, losing his balance and his legs all at once.
“My nose,” he gasped. He wrapped his arms around his father, trying to prevent his fall.
“Let … go of me!”
His father tried to push him away, but Ben held tight. “Stop it. You’re not in control!”
“You’re … damn … right!” Dr. Kincaid raised his knee into Ben’s stomach, breaking his armlock. Ben teetered back and forth, trying to stay on his feet.
Ben swung his arm around, trying to protect himself, but his father easily avoided it. Dr. Kincaid raised his fist and delivered another blow to the pulpy part of Ben’s face.
This one knocked Ben to his knees. “Stop,” he murmured breathlessly. “Don’t …” The room was swimming around him. “I think my nose is broken.”
“Good.” The rage boiled up and out of his father’s face, his eyes. He was shaking violently and tight as a drum. “Stupid … pansy … prick.” His father reared back his foot and kicked Ben dead in the gut. Ben fell flat on the floor of the cell.
“Wrestle with your conscience. I’ll give you something to wrestle!” His foot reared back again. Ben was beyond speaking, beyond any reaction other than feeling the rending deep inside him, the excruciating pain being delivered again and again and again.
“Please … stop.” Ben barely managed to get the words out. His head lay limply on the cell floor.
And then it passed. Almost as suddenly and violently as the rage had arisen, it passed. Dr. Kincaid collapsed on the cot in the corner of the cell, his head pressed against the pillow, staring at the gray stone wall.
With great effort, feeling the agony caused by each movement of his muscles, Ben pushed himself up on his hands and knees. “Dad?”
To his astonishment, he realized that his father was crying.
“Get … out,” his father said, not looking at him.
Ben wiped the blood from his face and slowly crawled to the cell door. By the time the guard arrived, he had managed to pull himself to his feet, although it was painfully obvious what had occurred. Ben didn’t say a word.
Sometime after Ben’s departure and before the next time the guards checked on their prisoner, Dr. Edward Kincaid suffered a massive heart failure. According to the surgeons who treated him, stress-related hormones had saturated his blood, causing enormous damage to the arterial walls. Obstructed arteries hampered the heart’s ability to pump, choking off the flow of blood to his heart. They emphasized that this was the fourth heart attack the man had suffered, that uncontrolled anger had plagued his entire life, that Ben shouldn’t blame himself.
But of course he did.
The next day Ben resigned from the district attorney’s office. Six weeks later, two weeks after his father died and the day after the doctors removed the bandage from Ben’s nose, he moved to Tulsa to take a job with a large law firm. He was starting fresh, putting all that unhappiness and failure behind him.
Or so he thought.
Ben pressed his hands against his forehead. Tears spattered into his hands. My God, Ben, he told himself. You’d think you’d be over it by now. It’s been years. Years. Your father is dead. There’s nothing you can do for him now. It’s over.
But it wasn’t, of course. It wasn’t over, and it seemed it never would be over, no matter how much time passed.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
Time kept marching on. Instead of leaving his baggage behind, Ben kept piling it up, stacking it on top of his head like some demented Sherpa. Years of unhappiness, years of guilt. All the I wish’s, all the if only’s. If only I had tried to get to know him better. If only I had told him how I felt. I wish …
Damn.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
He thought he was leaving it all behind when he ran down the turnpike and set himself up in Tulsa. What a joke. He ran to a big law firm. When that didn’t work out, he ran to a big corporation. Took him years before he believed he could make it on his own. If he believed it. Took him years before he realized he couldn’t run away far enough or fast enough because the one he was really trying to run away from was himself.
You loser.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
You killed your father.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
It was all your fault. He hated you.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
And another thing, Ben thought to himself. I hate that goddamn clock.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick …
Except … Ben shook his head and tried to clear away the bitter cobwebs.
Except, he repeated to himself. Except for one teensy-weensy problem.
He didn’t have a clock in his office.
Boom! the voice on the videotape had said. You’re next.
Ben jumped out of his chair and bolted into the lobby. “Everybody out. Now!”
Christina dropped a stack of papers. “What the—”
“No questions. Come on!” Ben turned her around manually and pushed her toward the door. “You, too, Jones. Out!”
Jones was staring at his computer screen. “Just give me five seconds to save.”
“No. Now!” Ben hauled him up by the lapel and herded both of them through the door. Arm in arm they raced across the street.
And not a second too soon. They were barely halfway across the street when the explosion burst through the office windows and ripped across downtown Tulsa. There was a sudden flash of white-hot light followed by a gust of hurricane-force winds so strong it slammed the three of them into the white brick building on the opposite side of the street. The sound was ear-shattering—painful and intense. The ground shook, knocking them to their knees. Wood and metal splinters flew through the air. Glass shattered, not just in Ben’s office but in every storefront up and down the street.
Ben turned his head and peered through the dense black cloud of smoke. An intense fire burned brightly in the hollowed shell of his office. The now-visible foundations began to creak, then crumble. Bent, molten steel dripped to the ground, bringing everything attached with it. A few aftershocks followed, of lesser, but still earsplitting, intensity. Then the walls collapsed; bricks tumbled inward into the inferno.
And then, finally, it was over. The explosive tumult was followed by a silence; an eerie, suspended silence. Only the crackling of the flames remained.
“Are you all right?” Ben whispered.
Christina nodded. Her face was red and bruised from being scraped against the brick building. Her forehead was bleeding in two places. But she was alive.
“Jones?”
He tried to smile. “I’ll live. But what the hell happened?”
Ben didn’t have an answer for him. All he could do was struggle to his feet and stare at the billowing cloud of smoke and fire that thirty seconds ago had been his office.
Boom! The message had said.
You’re next.
Three
The Family Trademark
Chapter 33
JUDGE HART’S BAILIFF REACHED into the hopper and withdrew the first name. “Elizabeth MacPherson.”
A young woman, probably in her mid-thirties, in the third row of the gallery, put down her paperback novel and walked to the jury box. As directed, she took the first seat on the far end of the back row.
“Harrison James Denton.” This one was more attentive, more eager, more wide-eyed. He jumped to his feet and hurried to the jury box, long hair flying behind him, an anxious grin on his face.
“He knows,” Harold Sacks whispered into Ben’s ear. Ben nodded his agreement.
And so the trial finally began. After all the legal wrangling was over, after all the motions were ruled upon and the countless heated arguments in chambers were done, it finally came down to this: the selection of the twelve persons (fourteen counting alternates) who would decide Wallace Barrett’s fate. Whether he lived or died; whether he became a free man or spent the rest of his life in prison.
The weekend had been an unmitigated nightmare for Ben, beginning with the destruction of his office and going downhill from there. Christina had some minor cuts and abrasions, and the docs had removed some glass slivers from Jones, but they were all alive and functioning. The worst part was the psychic aftershock; no one came away from a near-miss violent death like that without feeling some trauma.
The explosion had obliterated his office and done serious damage to the pawnshop and the diner on either side. According to the preliminary reports from the Tulsa Metro Bomb Squad, the explosion was triggered by a device that was probably in that package Ben had received in the mail but had never opened—thank God. The principal ingredients in the bomb were two common chemical liquids that could be found in virtually every kitchen or laundry room in Tulsa. Separate, they were harmless. But the bomb allowed one to trickle into the other, a slow-burn mixture that would eventually and inevitably result in a terrific explosion. Mike had taken a personal interest in the case and had assured Ben the police would investigate to the best of their abilities, but the simple truth was, they had no significant clues. No one had the slightest idea who had planted the bomb. And given the enormity of the pretrial press attention given the Barrett case, the bomber could be almost anyone.
Ben would have liked to have indulged in an extended recuperative period, maybe a few weeks on a Mexican beach, but he didn’t have time. He had a case going to trial. He couldn’t count on Judge Hart giving him an extension, especially not with the eyes of the world upon her and Bullock breathing down her neck and already accusing her of being biased in Ben’s favor. No, he had to be ready.
Fortunately, for once in his life, Ben was representing a client who actually had some money. They had set up shop in a suite in the Adam’s Mark Hotel near the courthouse. Of course, this expense would eat away at Ben’s fee, but under the circumstances, he had little choice.
There was one lucky break—Christina had taken most of the trial exhibits and notebooks to Kinko’s for copying, so they weren’t destroyed in the explosion. But all of Ben’s notes were. As well as all their office equipment. And all the information Jones had stored on his computer. They didn’t even have a working typewriter. Christina, resourceful as ever, had managed to rent the most critical equipment and had it delivered to the hotel suite. But Ben didn’t have tenant’s insurance and his landlord wasn’t sure his policy covered terrorist acts. So all of this simply magnified their ever-increasing expenses.
The worst part of the weekend, though, possibly even worse than the explosion, was dealing with Harold Sacks. Sacks was the jury consultant Barrett had insisted they hire. He was a short man from Boston—overbearing, overconfident, and apparently accustomed to having every word he said treated as if it had been handed down from Mount Sinai.
“The way I see it,” Sacks had said just after he’d swiped Ben’s last slice of toast from his room service breakfast, “we need black jurors. As many as possible. Make all twelve black if you can.”
“That isn’t going to happen,” Ben informed him. “We’re in Tulsa County. You’ll be lucky if we get two. Three, tops.”
“Well,” Sacks said, smiling the odious little smile Ben had come to detest, “that depends on how many white jurors you get dismissed, doesn’t it?”
“Judge Hart isn’t an idiot. She’s not going to dismiss anyone for cause unless there are bona fide reasons. And I’ll probably get six preemptories. Like I said, two, maybe three black jurors, tops.”
“Hmm.” Sacks tapped his forehead and engaged in thought processes Ben suspected were more reminiscent of Machiavelli than Clarence Darrow. “Maybe we can do something about that.”
“What’s this obsession with black jurors, anyway? Are you saying black jurors will be more sympathetic just because the defendant is black?”
“In a word, yes.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Look at these polls I’ve taken.” Sacks had spent the previous week polling, at the cost of a mere thirty thousand dollars of Barrett’s money. “African Americans who were polled showed significantly higher propensities for believing that Barrett either is or might be innocent. This shouldn’t come as any great surprise. Need I remind you of the O. J. Simpson experience?”
“Well, we’re still not going to get an all-black jury, no matter what your polls show.”
“My second-choice demographic category is young white women.”
Ben blinked. “I thought the stereotype was that women tended to be more likely to convict.”
“That’s true, particularly if the defendant is a woman, and particularly w
ith older women. But in this case, with young white women, we have a special appeal.”
“And what’s that?”
“Sex.”
Ben blinked twice. “Care to explain that?”
Sacks nudged him in the side. “Oh, come on, Ben. You’re not as naive as you pretend.”
“I’m not?”
“It’s obvious. We’ve got a very handsome man for a defendant. A media star. A husky, strapping athlete. A big black stud, basically. White women crave black lovers. You know what they say. Once you go black, you’ll never go back.”
“That’s the most offensive—”
“Even the ones who have never had a black lover probably fantasize about it. Probably two, three times a day.”
“How would you know?”
“I’ve done my research. Studies have proven this is all true. I’ve got statistics.” He winked. “Why do you think I get the big money?”
“Because rich defendants will try anything to keep themselves out of jail.”
Sacks folded his arms. “Well, I wasn’t aware that you were handling this case gratis yourself.”
Touché.
It only got worse on Sunday afternoon, when the sheriffs delivered the juror questionnaires that had been completed by all the people in the prospective jury pool. Each candidate had been required to complete a detailed forty-five-page list of questions about themselves.
“All right,” Sacks said to Ben, gripping several of the completed questionnaires in his hand. “Let’s try a mock voir dire.”
Ben thought his facial expression surely made any verbal response superfluous.
“Kincaid, let me help you. Please. Tomorrow, when you stand before the jury, you’ll be on your own.”
“You know, I’ve got a lot to do …”
“I’m not sure what to think about your attitude, Kincaid.” Some time during the course of the weekend, Ben had been demoted from Ben to Kincaid. “Don’t you know that voir dire is the most important part of the trial?”
Ben threw down his pencil. “Well, I know it’s one important part of the trial. But see, I, unlike you, have to prepare for all the other parts as well.”
Naked Justice Page 23
