Murder One

by William Bernhardt

  He tossed his head back, peering upward, like a wolf howling at the moon. The reminders of his sins were everywhere, all around him. Sins of commission, sins of omission. The first sin was perhaps the worst, but certainly that was forgivable, wasn’t it? The second sin was an atrocity, but given what had gone before, what choice did he have? Surely most people—even St. Francis—could understand where he had been, why it had happened. But the third sin—no one could forgive that. Not even God.

  He turned his head, peering into the deep-set stony eyes of the saint. Would you forgive me? he wondered. Could you forgive me?

  He felt wasted and empty. Is this what it’s come to? Talking to garden figurines? Begging forgiveness from statuary? He was in even worse shape than he had imagined.

  “God hears your prayers,” a voice said softly. “He knows you’re suffering and he wants to help you.”

  Kirk’s head shot up. Did the statue—?

  He relaxed. No miracles this night. The tall bearded man hovering over him was entirely corporeal and all too present.

  “I’m Father Danney,” he said. He was wearing a beret, cocked at a jaunty angle. “Can I possibly be of help?”

  “Why are you here?” Kirk growled. Don’t be so damn rude, he thought to himself, almost simultaneously, but the deed was already done.

  “This is my church,” Danney explained. He didn’t seem put off in the least by the insolence. “I work here at St. Dunstan’s.”

  “Kind of late to be out priesting, isn’t it?”

  Danney smiled. “Paperwork,” he explained. “It gets the best of us, even in the ministry. And I do like to walk the garden at night.”

  “I don’t think you can help me, Father.”

  “Why don’t you give me a try?”

  “You can’t imagine what I’ve done.” He turned away, unable to meet the man’s glimmering eyes. “I’ve done something horrible.”

  “We all have, son.”

  Kirk shook his head. “Not like this.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “I’ve made a terrible mistake. An unforgivable error. And it’s like I can’t stop somehow. Everything I do, I follow up with something even more terrible. Like I think that might make it better. Might cancel it out. But it never does. It just makes everything worse. Much, much worse.”

  Father Danney crouched beside him. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come inside? We could get something warm to drink. Maybe pop open a bottle of wine.”

  Kirk looked at him coldly. “Should a holy man be drinking wine?”

  “I’m an Episcopalian, son. We love wine.”

  Kirk turned away. “I prefer to stay where I am.”

  “Well, fine. I adore this garden. Always have. Even after all these years, after so many people I loved have passed away and had their ashes buried here. I still love this place.”

  “You’re a flower freak. You’re into the smell of honeysuckle.”

  Danney shook his head. “I feel the presence of God here. Don’t you?”

  “No,” Kirk said quietly. “Not for a long time.”

  Father Danney gently laid his hand on Kirk’s shoulder. “You know, my friend, God knows what you’ve done. And no matter what it was, He understands. And He’s waiting to forgive you.”

  “Not this time,” Kirk said, shrugging his hand off. He pushed himself to his feet. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m leaving, Father.”

  Danney clasped his arm. “You can’t keep running forever.”

  “Watch me.” Kirk gave the priest a hard shove, sending him reeling backward into an azalea. Kirk turned and ran, full out, as hard as he could manage, leaving the meddling holy man far behind.

  But not his guilt. Never that. No matter what he tried, no matter what he did to himself, he could never escape that.

  He had shoved the priest hard, trying to push him out of his life, out of his mind, but even as he ran, he knew he had not been successful. The man was back in the bushes, but his words remained, haunting Kirk, just like everything else.

  You can’t keep running forever, he had said. Because eventually, they’ll find you.

  Which was true, Kirk knew, even as he tore down Seventy-first. Eventually they would find him.

  Unless he made it impossible for them to find him. For anyone to find him.

  But that wasn’t the worst thing the priest had said. That wasn’t what haunted Kirk most, even as he sweated and cried and sent fresh shock waves of pain rippling through his tortured body.

  God knows what you’ve done.

  That was more than a mere pronouncement. That was a curse. That meant no matter what Kirk did, what pain he caused himself, what torture he endured, it would never make any difference. God would always know.

  And so would he.

  29

  DAY TWO—THE SIEGE Continues, Ben thought, as he left the parking garage and headed toward the county courthouse. As usual, a throng of reporters were lying in wait; as soon as he approached they surrounded him, blocking his way, forcing him to push past them just to get inside. The minicam lights were on him every step of the way as the reporters tossed out questions one after another.

  “How do you think the case is going for you?” one of the reporters shouted above the fray.

  “The Rules of Professional Conduct discourage lawyers from giving public statements regarding pending criminal actions.”

  “District Attorney LaBelle gave a press conference this morning.”

  Ben’s lips pinched together. “No comment.”

  Another reporter inched forward. She was female and, if he wasn’t mistaken, one of Christina’s buddies, not that that was doing him any good this morning.

  “Do you think your client will be able to overcome her past life?”

  Ben looked at her levelly. “I think she already has.”

  “Don’t you think it will be hard to get people to listen to Keri Dalcanton’s story when there’s so much public antipathy toward strippers?”

  Ben shrugged. “People don’t like reporters, either. But they still listen to you every night at six and ten.”

  The reporter placed one hand firmly on her hip. “I think there’s a little difference between a reporter and a stripper.”

  “True. Strippers provide a public service.”

  Ben blazed a trail to the elevators. Probably not a smart move, he thought, as he glanced back and saw the reporter’s gaping expression. But it certainly was fun.

  Christina and Keri were waiting at the defendant’s table when he arrived. Ben waved Christina aside.

  “How is she this morning?” he asked.

  Christina shook her head. “Two words: basket case.”

  Ben approached Keri and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. A second thereafter he caught Christina’s stony stare and removed it. “How are you doing?”

  Keri’s eyes were red and puffy; she had obviously been crying. “I … didn’t sleep well.”

  “That’s understandable.” And it was, but why today? Most defendants got their worst case of jitters on the first day. Keri had seemed fine yesterday. What had happened? “Did you see something or … read something?”

  “No. Nothing like that.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, pressing so hard she left a mark. “It just sunk in, that’s all.”

  “What did?”

  “LaBelle. What he was saying all day yesterday. He … he didn’t use these exact words, but basically, he was trying to get the jury to kill me. That’s what it amounted to. He wants me dead.”

  Ben tried to be comforting, but he knew that if he were in her shoes he’d be just as traumatized. “Well, he’s the prosecutor. Since you wouldn’t plea bargain, and this case has gotten so much publicity, he probably feels he has to push for the maximum sentence.”

  “Maximum sentence? We’re not talking about some fine, here, Ben. We’re talking about a man who wants me killed!” She brushed away a fresh batch of tears. “And he’s standing right in
front of me, trying to get other people to do it!”

  “I’m sorry, Keri. I know this must be rough. But I have to warn you—it’s going to get a lot worse.”

  Keri’s head fell. “Do I have to be here?”

  “I’m afraid you do.”

  “Everyday?”

  “Absolutely. It’s required. And we wouldn’t want the jurors to get the impression you didn’t think it was important.”

  Keri sighed, long and mournfully. “I suppose you’re right. But, God, it hurts. It hurts being so afraid.” She turned her face away, hiding the tears. “And it hurts not … not knowing.”

  Ben mentally finished the sentence for her: Not knowing whether you’re going to live or die. Everything depended on the outcome of this trial, this preposterously creaky, unscientific way of determining whether a human being should be executed.

  “We’re not going to give LaBelle what he wants,” he said, whispering softly into her ear. “He has to get a verdict before he can get a penalty. And we’re going to do everything possible to stop that from happening.”

  “But—but—what if that’s not enough?”

  Ben didn’t bother responding. To some questions, there was simply no good answer.

  After the preliminaries, Judge Cable invited LaBelle to deliver his opening statement. LaBelle took center stage, his aims locked behind his back. If his expression had been serious the day before, it was positively grim today.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I won’t insult you by shilly-shallying around the truth or trying to cushion the blows. You know there is a horror lurking at the heart of this case. Let’s confront that horror now, so we can get past the inevitable initial shock and decide what needs to be done about it.

  “The horror took place on the evening of March the fourteenth, right here in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The defendant, Keri Dalcanton, had left her job at a south side club where, as you already know, she took off her clothes for a living. It was very late, but when she returned to her apartment, no one else was there—not her brother, who lived with her, and not her married lover, Joe McNaughton, who often met her at her place after she got off work.

  “All was not well between the two lovers. As the evidence will show, Keri Dalcanton had been visited earlier by Joe McNaughton’s wife, Andrea. Harsh words were exchanged. Ms. Dalcanton actually attacked Andrea, hitting her repeatedly, pummeling her with blows that left Andrea bruised and battered. Andrea had asked Ms. Dalcanton to break off the affair with her husband of twelve years—and she refused.

  “But now the tables were turned. Ms. Dalcanton was the one who was listening—and she didn’t like what she heard. Joe McNaughton arrived and informed her that he was breaking it off. That he was returning to the loving arms of his wife. That it was over.”

  LaBelle paused, making them wait a bit before he delivered the clincher. “That was when—and why—she killed him.”

  LaBelle stepped away from the rail. “Some of you, I suspect, may well feel sympathetic toward Keri Dalcanton and her plight. Perhaps some of you have been jettisoned by a lover after the relationship became old or inconvenient. But none of you took the step Keri Dalcanton did. She is not on trial today because she was dumped. She’s on trial because she killed the man who dumped her.

  “Is there any doubt—any at all—that Keri Dalcanton committed this crime? Not in my mind, and by the end of this trial, I predict, not in yours. You will hear from the police officers who investigated the crime, who found the evidence that clearly proved she was the murderer. You’ll hear incontrovertible evidence that Joe McNaughton went to her apartment that night—a fact she later denied. You’ll hear from the coroner, whose findings are totally consistent with the police evidence. And you’ll hear from the victim’s poor wife—the truly wronged woman in this case. After you’ve heard her testimony, any lingering doubts you may have harbored will be gone. You will know with certainty what I know with certainty—that Keri Dalcanton murdered Joe McNaughton in a fit of jealousy and rage.

  “Who else could’ve done it? Who else would’ve done it, especially in such a gruesome and barbaric fashion? When Joe McNaughton’s body was found, crucified and pilloried in the center of Bartlett Square, he had been stripped naked and bound with chains—chains previously used by Keri Dalcanton during her fetishistic and perverted sex play. He had been stabbed over twenty times, bloodied with a large sharp knife, obvious proof that this was a murder of rage and vengeance. Worse, he had been mutilated, his male member severed and stuffed into his mouth, obviously suggesting that the murder had a sexual motivation. And finally, after he was dead, the word ‘faithless’ was written across his chest in his own blood. When Keri Dalcanton did that, she might as well have signed her own name.”

  LaBelle stepped closer to the jury box, his head lowered and his hands clasped, almost as if in prayer. “I know this is a difficult thing I ask you to do. Most of you are kind, understanding people. You want to forgive, not to punish. But when an abomination of this magnitude occurs, forgiveness is not an option. You must put that instinct out of your mind. You must become, if you will, machines. Logical, rational, truth-seeking machines. Because if we are to have any sense of security in our society, any semblance that justice is done, we cannot allow this heinous crime to go unpunished. When you swore your oath and accepted your role as juror, you became a part of a great machine, a machine that keeps us safe, that keeps society moving forward. Please don’t take that role lightly. You must do your duty.” He paused and looked at them levelly “When all the evidence is in, hard as it may be, you must find the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  Since he’d never had a partner before, deciding who would do what was a new and strange experience for Ben. His choices had to be realistic; he had the utmost confidence in Christina and her abilities, but this was her first trial, and a woman’s life was hanging in the balance. Ultimately, he decided to give her opening statement, while reserving closing argument for himself. Many attorneys, he knew, thought opening statement was more important, since first impressions are so critical and it is the lawyer’s first chance to discuss the meat of the case with the jury. Ben disagreed, at least in this instance. The jury would learn little about the case in the opening that they didn’t already know. What they needed now was someone who could elicit sympathy and urge them to keep their minds open until they had heard all the evidence. Ben knew Christina was much better at understanding and touching human hearts than he was ever likely to be. So she got the job.

  “I’m in agreement with Mr. LaBelle on one point,” Christina said, almost too quietly. Her voice quivered a bit as she approached the jurors. “All I ask is that you listen to the evidence, judge it fairly, and then look into your hearts and render the verdict you know is right.” She cleared her throat, adjusted her pitch. She was learning as she went. “But I also differ with Mr. LaBelle. I don’t think it takes much courage in this case to deliver a guilty verdict. That’s what he wants you to do. That’s what everyone wants you to do. To go against the grain—that’s hard. But that’s what I’m going to be asking you to do. Because Keri Dalcanton is not guilty. She did not commit this crime.”

  Christina repositioned herself slightly When her voice returned, most of the nervousness was gone. “Contrary to Mr. LaBelle’s suggestion, most of the so-called facts he presented to you are keenly in dispute. Most of them are entirely unproved—they are suppositions. Guesses. The real evidence will paint a significantly different picture. Keri Dalcanton is not an evil woman. Basically, she’s a scared little girl from Stroud, Oklahoma. The evidence will show that she was only eighteen when she left her hometown, after the tornado devastated it and she couldn’t find work. Except she couldn’t find work in Tulsa, either, not enough to support her and her brother, not with her limited skills. She lived in a tiny apartment at a level of near abject poverty, barely able to feed herself for months. Maybe becoming a stripper wasn’t the best choice, but the fact is, she was a child, an
d children make mistakes. Maybe getting involved with Joe McNaughton wasn’t the smartest move either, but if you’d been in her situation, if you’d found a man offering to take care of you and solve your many problems, wouldn’t you have been tempted? I know I would’ve been.”

  Christina moved ever so slightly closer to the jury, drawing them in both physically and verbally. “It’s true, as Mr. LaBelle said, that she had a sexual relationship with Joe McNaughton, a married man, although she didn’t know he was married at the time and the relationship was neither so unusual or so aberrant as he suggests. Here’s the truth, ladies and gentlemen—Keri loved Joe McNaughton. Maybe she shouldn’t’ve, but she did. With all her heart. He was her protector, her savior. She was devastated when he tried to break up with her. But she still loved him, and as the evidence will show, she wouldn’t’ve hurt him. Not then. Not ever.

  “The prosecution has no real evidence that she committed this crime and they never will. Because she didn’t. They can make suggestions, they can trot out circumstantial indicators. But they have no proof. And that’s of critical importance. Because as my partner told you yesterday, the burden of proof is entirely on the prosecution. They must prove her guilt beyond a reasonable doubt—a very high standard. If they fail to do so—and they will—then you have no choice under the law but to find her not guilty. No choice whatsoever. That’s what the law says you must do. And what I’m confident you will do.”

  She paused, started to turn away, then stopped again. As far as Ben knew, this was the end of her opening, at least as they had practiced it. But it seemed Christina had something more she wanted to say.

  “And let’s get one more thing straight before I sit down, okay? This court is not a machine. Keri Dalcanton is not a machine. You are not a machine, and I hope to God you won’t act like one. This case is not about machines. We could probably program computers to be jurors, if measuring evidence was all there was to it But we choose to use real people because that’s what trials are about. Real people. Only people can understand what goes on in the human heart. Only people can consider circumstances, can separate truth from fiction. And only people can stand up and do what they know is right, even in the most difficult of circumstances. We are not machines and God willing we never will be. We’re human beings. So let’s act like it.”