Naked Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Ben shrugged. “It’s impossible to predict these things with certainty. Maybe tomorrow, although Judge Hart isn’t resuming the trial till afternoon. So probably the day after.”

  Loving looked as if he might be sick. “Tomorrow? Or the day after?”

  Ben tried to be reassuring. “Relax, Loving. Christina and I will prepare you. By the time you’re on the stand, you’ll be able to do it in your sleep.”

  “You know,” Loving said, “I was supposed to testify once before. I … kinda sorta didn’t show up.”

  Loving was supposed to testify? Of course, Ben remembered. During his divorce. Ben had represented his ex-wife and Loving didn’t show up for the trial. And now he knew why. Loving wasn’t the first person who’d tanked a lawsuit because he couldn’t cope with cross-ex. “There’s no need to worry, Loving. I know everything Bullock will ask, and we’ll think out all your responses in advance. Christina will help. She’s the best witness preparer I’ve ever known. She thinks of everything. Seriously. You have nothing to worry about.”

  It was amazing to see such a tiny voice come out of that hulking frame. “If you say so.”

  “I do. You’ll see. You’ll come out smelling like a rose.”

  Loving nodded, but it wasn’t hard to detect that he was somewhat less than convinced.

  “The truth is,” Ben said, “the trial isn’t going very well for us just at the moment. The jury has heard a truckload of damaging evidence against our client. More than enough to convict him, frankly. If we’re going to prevent that, to prevent an innocent man from going to prison or being executed for a hideous crime he didn’t commit—we’re going to have to pull out all the stops. I need everyone to do everything they can to make our part of the case as good as it can possibly be. Understood?”

  All heads nodded. Understood.

  “By the way, Mike, any luck catching the creep who blew our office to smithereens?”

  “Not yet. Sorry.”

  Christina jumped in. “What’s taking so long?” The concern in her face was evident. “We can’t just sit around on our hands until this creep kills Ben.”

  “The psych guys say he doesn’t want to kill Ben, at least not right away. He wants Ben to suffer.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Based on the facts. Think about it. Most of the bomber’s hijinks have been designed to torment, not to exterminate. Even when he blew up your office, he used a bomb with a detectable—and, I might add, totally unnecessary—ticking noise that could tip Ben off just in the nick of time. There are plenty of silent bomb trigger mechanisms around these days. Plenty of instantaneous, radio-signal remote-control detonators. He didn’t have to tip you off. But he did.”

  “If I’d been half a minute slower,” Ben said, “we would’ve all died.”

  Mike held up his hands. “Look, I’m not saying he’s a nice guy. And I’m not saying killing you wouldn’t necessarily make his day. I’m just saying it hasn’t been his immediate goal.” He paused. “Yet.”

  “Yet?”

  Mike’s teeth set together in a grim expression. “That’s the typical psychological profile. Eventually they get tired of toying with you.”

  “And then?”

  “And then they try to kill you.”

  “Oh.” Ben sank back into his chair. “Any new leads? Any hope of finding this maniac?”

  “The bomb ingredients were so common they were impossible to trace. We’ve got video experts going over and over the tapes he sent, but so far they haven’t uncovered any identifying features. We’re also cataloging all the nuts who have sent hate mail about the Barrett case to the courts or any of the participants. I’m hoping they’ll lead us to something.”

  “What if this particular nut isn’t the letter writing type? What if he’s just the bombing-killing type?”

  “We’re doing everything we can, kemo sabe.”

  Ben nodded. He knew they were. It was just too frustrating, trying to conduct a murder trial while some maniac was determined to make your life a misery. Or end it.

  Ben glanced at his watch. “Well, Christina and I need to head back to the jailhouse.”

  “Can you give me a lift?” Mike asked. “I need to go back to my office and do some paperwork.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow. “Trans Am in the shop again?”

  “No, I walked over here. Thought I needed some exercise.”

  “You? Why?”

  “If you must know, since I quit smoking, I’ve put on a pound or two. So I try to get some exercise whenever this impossible job of mine allows.”

  “I see.” Ben smiled. “Well, I’d be happy to give you a ride back. I think my Honda can still carry three people. Can’t it, Christina?”

  Christina wavered her hand in the air. “Close call.”

  Ben led Mike and Christina out to the street where he had parked his Honda Accord. Mike grimaced when he saw the dented, rust-encrusted silver frame, the dragging muffler, the crushed grille. Mike took the front seat; Christina took the back.

  Mike crawled into the bucket seat and slammed the door closed. The entire frame seemed to shudder and shake. “Good grief, Ben. When are you going to get a new car?”

  “When I’m rich and famous.”

  “Hell, you’re already famous, thanks to this case. And I assume Barrett is paying you.”

  “True. But holing up in the Adam’s Mark isn’t exactly cheap. Neither is finding new office space.”

  “Well, whatever it takes, do it. Riding around in this bucket of bolts is embarrassing.”

  Christina piped up from the back. “Agreed.”

  Mike continued. “You don’t see me driving a heap like this, do you?”

  “No, I see you driving a Trans Am, like some teenager on his way to peel out at the drag races with Betty Lou.”

  “A Trans Am is not a teenager car. It’s for all ages. Cool people of all ages, that is.”

  “Look,” Ben said, “I don’t have my ego wrapped up in my car. It’s not a status symbol. It’s a way to get from Point A to Point B.” lf you say so.

  Ben turned the key and started the engine.

  Mike grimaced. “Listen to that. That’s pathetic.” He paused for a moment so they could all appreciate the clanging and rattling. “Sounds like your carburetor is gasping for air. And I can hear the brakes grinding. Your pads are probably worn down to nothing. And listen to that exhaust! And—”

  He paused. There was something else, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “What’s that other noise? The high-pitched one.”

  “Don’t ask me,” Ben said. “I don’t know beans about cars.”

  “Well, I do, and I’ve never heard—”

  He quieted again, tried to block everything else out and focus on the mysterious noise. It was high-pitched and rhythmic, a back-and-forth sound, a sort of sonic—

  Ticktock. Ticktock. Ticktock.

  A cold chill gripped everyone in the car.

  “Get out!” Mike shouted.

  Christina leaned forward. “Our stuff is in the trunk—”

  “I said, get out!” Mike dove out his side door, then whipped around and hauled Christina out of the back. Ben opened his door and hit the pavement. All three scrambled to their feet and ran.

  They had barely made it to the other side of the street when the bomb detonated. The force of the explosion knocked Ben facedown onto the sidewalk. The hood of his car flew up and a red fireball leapt out of the charred engine. Safety glass flew everywhere. The sound of the explosion reverberated off the buildings on either side of the street. It was earsplitting, Ben thought. And disturbingly familiar.

  The frame of the car disintegrated, like a clown car in the circus, falling outward onto the concrete.

  Ben scrambled back onto his feet, then looked frantically for Christina and Mike.

  They, too, were a safe distance from the car. As far as he could tell, they were fine. Ben cautiously made his way to them.

  “Like I sai
d,” Mike offered, “I think you should consider getting a new car.

  “Everyone okay?” Ben asked.

  Christina and Mike nodded. “Just a little shaken up,” Christina said weakly. “This is becoming monotonous.”

  “Right. My thought exactly.”

  “Fact is, Ben,” Mike said, “you’re becoming a pretty damn dangerous guy to know.”

  “Yeah.” Ben steered them down the street, away from the smoke clouds. “Well, maybe now that this sadist has had his fun, he’ll lay off.”

  “If you think that, you’re kidding yourself,” Mike said. “It’s obvious this creep enjoys tormenting you, and it’s obvious he wants you to suffer. But he’s not going to be happy with that. He’s not going to be happy until you’re dead.”

  Ben continued walking down the street, eyes straight ahead, not saying a word.

  Chapter 56

  DEANNA COLLAPSED INTO HER hotel room, kicked off her heels, threw herself down on the bed, and cried.

  My God, my God—what was she doing here? She had never meant to mislead anyone, never meant to be a fraud. And now, here she was on the jury of the Wallace Barrett case, probably the most publicized murder trial in the history of the state. The cameras were rolling, the prosecution was piling on evidence, and all she could think about was her daughter. Her own daughter.

  My God, Martha. What have you done?

  Voir dire turned out to be a breeze. She hadn’t even had to lie, not really. No one ever came close to the truth. True, she had blanched a bit at the end of the jury examination when that young attorney, the one representing the mayor, asked if anyone knew of any other reason not already discussed that might prevent anyone from serving as an impartial juror. It was a vague, broad question. Easily ignored. And yet she knew why he had asked it. He had asked it in an attempt to root out people like her, people who might be biased one way or another by factors he couldn’t even imagine, much less ask about.

  But she had not raised her hand. She had remained painfully silent.

  After that, she had become a full-fledged member of the Wallace Barrett jury. She’d had to get her friend Suzanne to stay with Martha while the jury was sequestered at the Downtown Doubletree Hotel. Sequestered—that was a laugh. It felt more like they’d been indicted. The whole juror compound, as they called it, was run like a prison camp. The jurors had had to meet in secret, at the fairgrounds, before the trial started. They were searched, first by hand, then by metal detectors. Their luggage was searched as well. Then they were herded onto a bus and, escorted by six men from the sheriff’s office, taken to their hotel.

  Security was no less tight at the hotel. Everyone had their own room, but none of the rooms had locks on the doors. Officers from the sheriff’s office were posted in the hallway outside, not to keep them safe, but to keep them from meeting and talking about the case. No one said that the rooms would be searched while the jurors were out, but it was obvious to Deanna that they were. When she returned to her room each evening, personal belongings had been moved slightly from where they had been left that morning.

  No juror was allowed to go to any other juror’s room—ever. There was one communal meeting room, which was the only place two or more jurors were allowed to gather. Again, deputies were posted in the room at all times, to make sure no one talked about the case. Meals were served in the same room, and under the same scrutiny.

  The jurors were getting along well enough for the most part, but there was no denying the fact that tempers were fraying. The isolation was causing irritation, and irritation was always dangerous when people were in such close quarters. If for nothing else, Deanna was grateful that the lawyers and the judge seemed to be moving the trial along in an expeditious fashion. She couldn’t imagine living in these subhuman conditions for months on end. She was sure it would drive her mad. It would drive anyone mad.

  The jurors had all sworn not to expose themselves to media accounts of the trial or to discuss the case amongst themselves before the time for deliberation. They had given their word. You would think that would be enough. But instead, the jurors were restricted and monitored constantly. They were treated like children, children who had to be surrounded at all times by hall monitors to prevent them from talking. It was insulting and degrading. Clearly the judicial system did not trust them. A woman giving up her time, separated from her loved ones, ought to be entitled to better treatment.

  And in the midst of all these miserable living conditions, all Deanna could think about was her Martha. She felt certain that Martha would not intentionally participate in any murders. But Martha had a huge blind spot where Buck was concerned; she had proven that many times over. She might have done something unwittingly, might’ve helped in the tiniest way. Tiny, but still enough to get her a felony conviction. And jail time. Enough to ruin her life.

  If Wallace Barrett went free.

  That was the rub. She was convinced that Barrett was innocent. Maybe no one else on the jury believed it, but she did. She had believed it from the instant she’d heard his neighbor describe the strangers he’d seen casing Barrett’s home. The tall man with the goatee wearing fatigues. The shorter, younger, dark-haired girl with the blue headband.

  How could she doubt that Buck was involved? She had seen his camera; she had developed the pictures herself. Pictures of Barrett’s house taken from every possible angle. The work of a hit man planning his crime. Indeed, she could believe a monster like Buck could commit this crime a good deal more easily than she could believe Wallace Barrett did it.

  But what if Barrett was acquitted? What if, in the jury room, she argued her heart out and convinced the rest of the jury to acquit? Barrett would go free, and the DA, feeling pressure from all sides, would start looking for a new suspect. He would follow the only other real lead they had—the tall stranger casing the neighborhood. If they worked hard enough at it, in time they would eventually find Buck.

  And Buck would lead them to Martha.

  Deanna couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t let her little girl’s life be ruined before it had really begun.

  But the alternative was watching an innocent man go to prison. Or worse.

  Even if he avoided the death penalty, Barrett would have to live the rest of his life with the shame and despair of knowing that the world believed he had killed his own wife. His own two small children.

  When he hadn’t.

  The defense case was not expected to take more than a day or two. If she hadn’t spoken up by then, it would be too late.

  Deanna buried her face in the pillow. There had to be some way out, some solution, some compromise. Some way to prevent this great injustice without destroying her little girl’s life.

  But she was damned if she could think of it.

  She rolled over onto her back, wiping the tears from her eyes. She was damned, all right. Either way she went, any way she turned, she was damned.

  Chapter 57

  THERE ARE MOMENTS IN every trial when time stands still. Even in the most ordinary exercises in judicial fact finding, there are unexpected moments, moments of upset or revelation or salvation or despair. A trial is simply too huge, too complicated; even the best attorney on earth cannot anticipate everything. It is during these breakthrough moments that the true character of the jury trial system is revealed.

  The trial of Wallace Barrett was far from ordinary. But its breakthrough moment was close at hand.

  “Your honor,” Ben said, “I call Wallace Barrett to the stand.”

  It was the announcement everyone had waited for, hoped for, speculated about. Everyone knew that a criminal defendant was not required to testify; the Fifth Amendment protects the innocent as well as the guilty. Everyone knew all the perfectly sound reasons why even the most innocent of defendants often opt not to take the stand. But at the same time, everyone hopes that they will. There’s no substitute for hearing the story from the defendant’s own lips. There’s nothing quite as telling as being able to look in
to the man’s eyes as he tells it.

  O. J. Simpson never took the stand. Lee Harvey Oswald never took the stand. James Earl Ray never took the stand.

  But on this day, Wallace Barrett did.

  Flashbulbs, supposedly barred from the courtroom, erupted like lightning. Minicam operators climbed onto seats and chairs, craning for a better view. The courtroom was pandemonium, a loud roar punctuated by the judge’s futile pounding of her gavel. Despite what Ben had said in opening statement, everyone had expected the defense to begin with its less important witnesses, evaluating as they went the need for placing Wallace Barrett in the witness stand, making him subject to scrutiny by God, his country, and cross-examination.

  But on this point, the defense had fooled them all.

  And for about the ten millionth time, Ben wondered if he had done the right thing.

  They had been over and over it, almost throughout the entire night. After the explosion, Mike had insisted that he and Christina go to the police station to file reports and provide any information that might possibly allow them to track down the bomber who was stalking Ben. It was after eleven before they got out of there. And then they had to return to Barrett’s jail cell and prepare him to testify.

  To his credit, Barrett had come through all the pretrial rehearsals with flying colors. And why not? He was a seasoned media veteran. Barrett had insisted on testifying, had demanded his chance to confront his accusers and to tell his faithful followers the truth. Given his insistence on testifying, the only decision left to Ben was when. And he had decided to put Wallace on first.

  There were a few other possibilities for lead witnesses. Jones had lined up a crime reconstructionist, a man who used computer graphic reenactments to show the jury how a crime was committed even when there were no eyewitnesses. His presentations suggested for a variety of reasons that it was unlikely (though not impossible) that one assailant committed all three murders. But his testimony was founded on a host of likely but unprovable assumptions, assumptions Ben knew Bullock would tear apart on cross. Besides, all the prosecution had to prove was that Barrett had committed one of the murders. Any one of them would be sufficient to strap him down on the lethal injection table.