“Shortly after the takeover, you ran for city council and were elected. True?”
“That’s true.”
“Of course, Wallace Barrett had leapfrogged right past the city council and become mayor.”
“Yes, he became the mayor. Of sorts.” Whitman’s patience seemed to be fraying.
“You have ambitions to be mayor, don’t you, sir?”
Whitman squared his shoulders. “I don’t know why I should deny it. Yes, I do. I plan to run this next term.”
“In truth, you’ve been planning your campaign for some time, haven’t your
“True. These days, you have to start early if you hope to make a serious bid.”
“That includes fund-raising, speechmaking, poll taking—right?”
“Right, right.”
“The only problem is, according to your campaign manager, another council member, every poll you took showed you being beaten by Wallace Barrett. By a substantial margin.” Ben stared down at him. “Isn’t that true?”
He hesitated.
“My investigator met with Loretta Walker for some time. I have her affidavit right here, if you’d like to see it.”
Whitman stared back emotionlessly. “That’s quite all right. It’s true.”
“It must have seemed like, no matter where you turned, Wallace Barrett was there doing just a little bit better than you were.”
“I don’t measure my worth against”—his teeth clenched—“him.”
“Don’t you, though? Sure looks that way to me. You wanted to be mayor, and that was impossible, because once again, Wallace Barrett was in the way. You must’ve hated him, didn’t you?”
Whitman turned toward the jury. “Again, I see no reason why I should lie. Relations between Barrett and me were not good. That’s hardly a secret.”
Ben closed his notebook and put away his notes. It was time to take the plunge. Off the script, into never-never land. “And that’s when you decided to get in touch with Buck Conners, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Buck Conners. Our last witness. Surely you recall.”
“Right. I know who he is.”
“You work together at the city building.”
“Right.”
“And according to him, before he crouched behind the Fifth Amendment, you and he had some business dealings together.”
Ben could see the same analytical clockwork going on in Whitman’s brain that he had earlier seen in Buck’s. How much could he get away with? “That’s true.
“According to Mr. Conners, you employed him to do some … yard work.”
A slow smile tickled the edges of Whitman’s lips. “Actually, Buck is probably being modest. He has done yard work for me. But at the time of the murders, he was working on a different project.”
Ben could see the jury subtly leaning forward. “And what project was that?”
Whitman smiled. “A marketing brochure.”
Ben nearly tripped over his podium. “What?”
“A marketing brochure. Something to help the council market Tulsa to major corporations looking for a place to locate. It’s a common practice. As you mentioned yourself, Tulsa needs new job opportunities. I was trying to create some.”
Ben tried to get his bearings. How did he take this lie apart? “Did Mayor Barrett know about this project of yours?”
“No. I was hoping to surprise him. I wanted to wait until I had a completed prototype. Thought it would make it easier to push the project past the council.”
“And you expect us to take this story seriously?”
Whitman remained calm. “It was a serious project.”
“If it was so serious, why on earth would you use Buck Conners?” Ben pointed dramatically with his finger, forcing the jury to turn to scrutinize the scruffy, ill-clad, ill-groomed data processor.
“Simple,” Whitman replied. “I needed a good photographer, and I knew he was good and wouldn’t charge me as much as a professional. It’s his hobby, you know.”
“What did you tell him to photograph?”
“I left it at his discretion. To be honest, I’m not very artistically inclined. I don’t have a good eye for that sort of thing.”
“Why was he hanging around the mayor’s house?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I assume he thought a photo of the mayor’s home would be a nice addition to the brochure. It’s a logical choice.”
Ben gripped the edges of his podium. Somehow this thing was slipping away from him. He had to get it back before it was too late. “If your joint project with Buck really was this perfectly respectable marketing brochure, as you would have this jury believe, why did you meet Buck in the dead of night in a North Side park?”
Whitman shrugged. “It was a convenient halfway point between our homes. I live on the North Side, Mr. Kincaid, near Gilcrease Museum. I don’t have the prejudice against the North Side some people do.”
Ooh. Nice zinger. About half the jury lived on the North Side. “And what about Mr. Sanders? He saw you in a car talking to Buck near the mayor’s home.”
Whitman shook his head. “He’s mistaken. I’ve never been there.”
“He said he saw you.”
“He saw a car. Lots of people have brown cars. That doesn’t mean it was me.”
Ben’s voice rose. “And so you’re telling this jury that it’s just a coincidence that he was hanging around the neighborhood, working for you, at the same time that someone else committed the murders? That’s pretty convenient, isn’t it?
“No,” Whitman said calmly, “I don’t find it convenient at all. I find it very inconvenient. I find it very inconvenient for me, and very tragic for the Barrett family.”
“Your honor,” Bullock said, “I must object to this rude and abusive questioning of the city’s acting mayor. Mr. Whitman is not on trial.”
“That distinction didn’t stop you from doing your best to smear Mr. Kincaid’s investigator,” Judge Hart said curtly. “Overruled.”
Ben switched gears. “If you didn’t direct Buck’s work, Mr. Whitman, why were you communicating with him constantly at work?”
A small furrow crossed Whitman’s brow. “I think you’re mistaken.”
“In the two weeks prior to the murders, you probably communicated with Buck a dozen times during office hours.”
“That’s simply incorrect. I never went to his station. I never called him on the phone.”
“Are you denying that you communicated with him regularly during the weeks prior to the murders?”
Whitman’s eyes flickered for a moment. “Yes, I am. It’s simply untrue. I had no reason to talk with him.”
At last! Finally Whitman had given Ben enough rope to hang him. “Do you have a computer in your office, Mr. Whitman?”
He looked distinctly bored. “You know I do. You’ve been there.”
“And according to Mr. Conners, the city offices have e-mail capability. Is that true?”
“I suppose so. To tell you the truth, I don’t use those machines much.” He chuckled. “Don’t understand them, don’t trust them.”
“Are you claiming you don’t use e-mail?”
“I may have once or twice. Not often. And never to Buck.”
Ben started walking back toward counsel table. “You wouldn’t object if we examined your computer to verify that, would you?”
He spread wide his hands. “Of course not. But I’m afraid I always delete my messages at the end of the day. So there would be nothing for you to see. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.”
Now it was Ben’s turn to smile. “You know, that’s what I thought, too. I thought that once an e-mail message was deleted from the hard drive on your desktop computer, it was gone. Vanished into the ether. But my office assistant, who’s a computer whiz, told me otherwise. He explained that although pushing the delete button will delete the copy of the message that has been stored on the hard drive of your individual computer, the mainframe or server—th
e central computer that routes the e-mail from one machine to another—retains a copy. And those copies remain in the central computer system until they are actively deleted, which is usually done only once or twice a year. Did you know that, Mr. Whitman?”
Whitman’s response was slow and brief. “No.”
“Well, turns out it’s true. It also turns out you can hire a computer expert to hack into the central computer and extract all the messages that have gone to or from a particular terminal. Isn’t that amazing?”
Whitman didn’t appear amazed. “Indeed.”
“Now, you wouldn’t object if we took a look at the messages that went to and from your terminal during the two weeks before the murders, would you? Well, you’ve already said that you wouldn’t. You’re not going to revoke your permission now, are you?”
Whitman’s voice was considerably quieter. “I … suppose not.”
Good. That helped Ben past a major evidentiary obstacle. “Thank you, sir.
“We’ll have to go back to the office. I don’t know how long it will take—”
“Fret not, Mr. Whitman.” Ben popped open his briefcase and withdrew a stack of letter-size papers. “I’ve already done it.”
He stopped at Bullock’s table and dropped a certified document in his lap. “Here’s the subpoena the judge issued for the documents themselves. Here’s an affidavit from the computer supervisor at the city office building who actually extracted the messages.” He approached the witness stand and forced the papers into Whitman’s hands. “And here are the messages.”
Ben returned to the podium with his copy of the messages. “Feel free to sort through them, Mr. Whitman. I’m sure they’ll all be very familiar to you. Those are your messages, aren’t they?”
Whitman glanced down at the papers in his hands. “I suppose.”
“By my count, sir, you communicated with Mr. Conners a total of eleven times by e-mail during the two weeks prior to the murders.”
Whitman fumbled through the papers. His manner and voice seemed disjointed, lost. He was scrambling. “I guess there were more details to work out than I recalled.”
“I guess so. Some of those details really intrigued me. Like the one mentioned in message six.” Whitman thumbed to the document while Ben held it up and read it out loud. “ ‘Meet me on Terwilliger at six.’ ” Ben looked up. “Just in case anyone has forgotten, Terwilliger Avenue is the street the Barrett family lives on, isn’t it, sir?”
Whitman’s eyes darted from side to side. “I … believe that’s correct.”
“Mr. Sanders lives there, too. I wonder if this is the day he saw you there? When you met Buck at six.”
Whitman did not respond.
“And then there’s message eight,” Ben continued. “That’s an interesting one. ‘Barrett will be home early this afternoon.’ ” Ben put down the paper. “Now, that’s an interesting bit of information to be conveying to your photographer, especially since you didn’t know he would be photographing the Barrett home. Why would he want to know this?”
Out the corner of his eye, Ben saw the jurors carefully scrutinizing Whitman. They wanted to know the answer to that question, too.
Whitman stumbled, stuttered. “I … don’t recall … It’s been a long time.”
“But this is probably my favorite of the messages,” Ben continued. He held it high in the air so the jury could see. “Number eleven. This one was sent on the very same day the murders occurred. I admire brevity in a writer, and this message is the very soul of brevity. Only five words, in fact.” Ben faced the jury and read. “It says, ‘Did you get the nigger?’ ”
The courtroom went crazy. The roar was loud enough to cause feedback on the television mikes. People stood on the pews, craning their necks for a better view. The cameras swirled around, trying to catch everyone’s reaction. Reporters threw messages to runners, while the rest of the gallery stared forward in stunned silence.
Judge Hart pounded the courtroom back into order, and Ben asked his next question. “Mr. Whitman, what exactly were you trying to find out when you asked Buck Conners ‘Did you get the nigger?’ ”
Whitman’s hands were pressed against the edges of the witness box. He blinked, twitched, rubbed his finger against the side of his nose. He looked up at the jury, then over at the judge, as if searching for some recourse, some place of appeal. “I don’t believe I want to do this anymore. This is an outrage. I am not the defendant.”
“No,” Ben said, “but you should be. Answer my question.”
“I won’t. I want a lawyer.”
Judge Hart leaned down from the bench. “Excuse me, sir. You will answer the question. That is an order.”
“I will not.” Whitman folded his hands across his chest. “I’m taking the Fifth.”
“That again?” Ben turned wide-eyed toward the jury. “There seems to be an epidemic of this today.” He took a step toward the witness. “Tell us the truth. You hated Barrett. You’ve hated him for years. You couldn’t be mayor as long as he was around. You had to get him out of the way. He was your enemy.”
“Yeah? What of it?”
“As you said yourself, Mr. Whitman. You know how to deal with your enemies, don’t you? Those were your own words!”
Whitman’s lips parted wordlessly.
“That’s why you hired Buck, isn’t it? You didn’t hire him for any phony photography job. You hired him to ‘get the nigger’!”
The clamor rose, this time even louder than before. Judge Hart pounded her gavel futilely.
Ben shouted above the tumult. “Answer my question! Isn’t it true? You engineered these murders, didn’t you? It was you!”
“It was not! I—” Whitman stared back at Ben with unmasked hatred. “I’m not saying another word till I see my attorney. You’re wasting your time.”
Ben threw his hands down in disgust. “That’s just fine, Mr. Whitman. I think we all know what happened, whether you care to admit it or not.”
“Objection!” Bullock shouted.
“Never mind,” Ben said. “I’m finished with this witness.”
Judge Hart leaned across the bench. “Do you care to cross-examine, Mr. Prosecutor?”
Bullock frowned. If he thought he could do himself any good, Ben knew he would. But it was hopeless. Whitman had taken the Fifth. And even with a friendly questioner, Whitman couldn’t explain away Ben’s evidence without risking a waiver of his Fifth Amendment right of silence. “No.”
“Very well. Anything else, Mr. Kincaid?”
“I see no need,” Ben said. He placed his documents back on the table and firmly placed his hands on his client’s shoulders. “Wallace Barrett did not commit these crimes. We rest our case.”
Chapter 65
AS IT TURNED OUT, there was no rebuttal testimony, so Ben got to go out on a high note. That was good, but the critical question was—how good? Whitman had been proved a liar, but had he been proved a murderer? There was no doubt in Ben’s mind, but he knew it was pointless to try to predict what the jurors were thinking. All they could do was wait and hope for the best.
After the tumult of the last witness, closing arguments were almost an anticlimax. Ben wondered what approach Bullock would take. He remembered that old trial lawyer’s canard: When you have the facts on your side, argue the facts. When you have the law on your side, argue the law. When you have neither, holler.
As it happened, Bullock did very little hollering. He had plenty of compelling evidence to wield, and he reintroduced every bit of it.
“I’m reminded of a story my father told me once,” Bullock began. He leaned his hands against the rail and edged toward the jurors. “Seemed a married man had been out all night, drinking and carousing and carrying on, and he didn’t get back until the wee hours of the morning. He knew his wife would be angry, so he took off his shoes and tiptoed into the kitchen. To his surprise, he found his wife was already up and sitting at the kitchen table, with a very angry expression on her face.
<
br /> “ ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.
“ ‘Well,’ he said, thinking quickly, ‘I woke early this morning, so I thought I’d go out for a jog.’
“His wife stared back at him. ‘I woke several times during the night,’ she said. ‘You were never there.’
“ ‘Well,’ he said, thinking at lightning speed, ‘I didn’t come to bed because I knew you were already asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.’
“ ‘I dead bolted the doors last night,’ his wife replied. ‘You were never inside.’
“ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I didn’t want to disturb you, so I slept outside in the hammock.’
“His wife shook her head. ‘I sold the hammock last week at a garage sale.’
“The man took a deep breath, folded his arms, and said, ‘That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.’ ”
Bullock pushed himself away from the railing. “For some reason, I kept thinking of that story the whole time the defense put on its case. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. That was more or less the main theme of the entire defense. Wallace Barrett has his little story about how he was conveniently not at the scene of the crime at the exact time of the murder, even though he was seen there throughout the afternoon. It’s illogical. It’s preposterously contrived. It conflicts with the evidence. But that’s his story, and he’s sticking to it.”
Bullock sauntered into the center of the courtroom, gesturing toward the defense table. “They would have you forget all about the mountain of evidence we have laid before you, all of which points to one man. Wallace Barrett. They have even attempted to tarnish the reputation of one of the leading citizens of this community in their desperate attempt to break the strong arm of justice. They want you to forget everything, but I want you to remember everything—all the facts, all the evidence.”
Bullock then proceeded to catalogue in detail the considerable evidence the prosecution had put before the jury. He covered it all—the eye- and ear-witnesses to Barrett’s violent episodes and his threats—Cynthia Taylor, Dr. Fisher, the man at the ice-cream shop. And perhaps most poignantly, Karen Gleason, the little girl who had the misfortune to hear her eight-year-old playmate being murdered on the other end of the phone.
Naked Justice Page 43
