Perfect Justice bk-4

by William Bernhardt

  Ben noticed that Jones and Loving were standing near him on the sidewalk. Jones was taping the event with his video camera.

  “What are you doing here?” Ben asked.

  “Recording this for posterity,” Jones said. “I love a parade.”

  “Been hearing about this for days at the Bluebell,” Loving said. “Supposed to be quite a show.”

  Ben ground his teeth together. “I can’t believe Judge Tyler denied my request for a change of venue. This is outrageous.”

  “What are you complaining about?” Jones asked. “If they scare all the jurors to death, that’s got to work in your favor at trial.”

  “I wonder,” Ben said. “I think this town is sick and tired of being bullied.”

  The ASP rally marched down Main Street at a slow, steady pace. They were ensuring that everyone had an opportunity to see them. As they crested the hill Ben saw there was more to the procession than just the marchers and the cross. A gigantic gallows on wheels was being pushed along behind the procession. On the platform several figures in effigy swung from nooses. A large sign nailed to the gallows identified the figures as THE ENEMY.

  Ben was able to identify three of the figures almost immediately. They were the Hatewatch volunteers, Demon Carroll and Demon Pfeiffer. And of course, next to them, a slender brunette figure in a stylish blue dress.

  “Darn. I knew I shouldn’t have worn that dress.” Ben turned to see Belinda standing behind him, watching the parade. “I look much better in red, don’t you agree?”

  Ben took her hand. Any woman who could make jokes while being hung in effigy was his kind of woman.

  “You realize they’re trying to screw the trial?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Think it’ll work?”

  “I doubt it. The DA will use voir dire to—”

  Ben was startled by the sound of music—different music—coming from the other end of Main Street. This wasn’t coming out of any boom box, though. This was being sung, or chanted. Live.

  Ben and Belinda pushed forward to see what was happening. There was another assemblage on the other end of the street, marching head-on toward the ASP group. And they were all Vietnamese.

  Ben spotted Dan Pham at the head of the group, chanting and shouting at the top of his lungs. His group was carrying placards, too. They all said RESISTANCE.

  The ASP marchers spotted them. At first they slowed; then a figure at the front waved everyone ahead. It was Grand Dragon Dunagan. And he wasn’t backing down.

  The two groups advanced on a collision course. Ben now saw that the Pham contingent had visual aids, too.

  Theirs was a tank.

  A paper tank, to be sure. It had been constructed around a broken-down Oldsmobile, Coi Than Tien’s last remaining vehicle. The tank was made of napkins and chicken wire, like a homecoming float. From an artistic standpoint, pretty sorry. But from the standpoint of conveying a message, not bad at all.

  Dunagan kept motioning for his men to march on, but the procession was definitely slowing. The ASPers had probably been expecting a pleasant walk in the noonday sun, not a head-on confrontation with their sworn enemies.

  The ASP parade ground to a halt. A few seconds later the Vietnamese group also stopped. They were barely twenty feet apart, on opposite sides of the street.

  “We don’t want any trouble!” Dunagan shouted.

  “Neither do we!” Pham shouted back. “Ever.”

  There was a silence. The sidewalks were now filled with bystanders. Everyone waited to see what would happen next. The tension was palpable.

  “We have a permit to march today,” Dunagan said finally. “Do you?”

  “How like you,” Pham replied, “to hide behind laws. And lawyers.”

  Ben noticed numerous heads on both sides of the street turning to look at him. In most of their minds, Ben realized, he might as well have been standing with the rest of ASP in a green uniform. Only he knew about their falling-out the day before.

  “Our permit allows us to march down Main, then turn east on Maple and march to the city limits. So get out of our way.

  “I care nothing for your permit!” Pham shouted back.

  At that moment a tremendous boom sent tremors through the crowd. Ben wasn’t sure where it came from. But he was certain of the result.

  The ASP gallows was ablaze.

  “Fire!” Dunagan shouted. His men rushed back toward the wooden gallows. One of his men, who was standing too close when the fire erupted, hit the pavement, trying to extinguish the flames that had caught on his shirt.

  Another firebomb, Ben thought. Like the one that hit the ASP munitions building a few days before.

  Since there was nothing they could do to quell the fire, the ASP men turned their attention to the other end of the street. They surged toward the ranks of the Vietnamese. The Vietnamese stood ready, wielding sticks and knives and anything else that was available.

  “Someone stop them!” Ben shouted, but no one heard. The deathly stillness of a few moments before was now replaced by chaos. Screams. Running. Clenched fists. Terror. What they had all dreaded was actually happening. The race war was upon them.

  The front lines of ASP met Pham’s group and fists began to fly. Ben saw two Vietnamese collapse; he also saw Pham duck under someone’s swing and rush at Dunagan.

  Main Street became a combat zone. Smoke from the fire filled the air, obscuring vision, making the scene even more confused. Ben heard shouts of fear and howls of pain splitting the thick sooty smoke. Sticks and rocks flew through the air. A billy club rose above the billowing black cloud, then descended with a sickening thud.

  Bodies crumbled to the pavement. Through the haze, Ben saw a two-by-four smash into the base of a Vietnamese skull. A few locals ran in from the street to try to break it up, only to be rewarded by a punch in the gut or a club to the head. Ben recognized Dr. Patterson trying to tend to some of the fallen. The impact of a brick to the back of the doctor’s head brought a premature end to his relief efforts. He fell on top of the man he was tending. Two ASP men ran over him, trampling his body underfoot. A group of six or seven young men on the other side of the street charged into the fray. Ben recognized Garth Amick and some of his chums. Apparently they weren’t going to let this riot pass without busting some heads themselves.

  Several more Vietnamese men were knocked to the pavement. A young man Ben remembered from the bucket-brigade line ran out from under the tank float. He was carrying a baseball bat. He ran up behind a green-fatigued figure and swung the bat across his back. Ben could hear the man’s piercing cry as clearly as if he were standing right beside him.

  Ben was watching the riot so intently he didn’t see the man who tackled him. All he knew was his feet were not beneath him anymore. He fell butt-first onto the pavement.

  “Son of a bitch. I got a bone to pick with you.”

  It was Garth, of course. Ben tried to be sympathetic; after all, under different circumstances it might’ve been him trying to defend his friends in this misguided manner. On the other hand, he wasn’t going to just sit there while Garth took potshots at his face.

  Garth’s fist came torpedoing toward Ben. Ben grabbed it in midswing. He held Garth’s fist with both hands, pushing back as hard as he could. Garth pushed, too. And Garth had leverage on his side.

  In a few seconds Ben was flat on the sidewalk and Garth was hovering over him. Bystanders were all around, but no one came to Ben’s aid. He continued to grapple with Garth’s left hand, and as a result, he didn’t see Garth’s right coming.

  Garth’s right fist, the one encased in brass knuckles, smashed into Ben’s chin. Ben felt as if his jaw had been separated from his skull. The back of his head thudded against the concrete, leaving him dazed and disoriented. He was just able to perceive Garth swooping around for another blow.

  And then, as if by magic, Garth rose off the ground. His fists swung at empty air.

  Ben pushed himself up. What on earth …?


  It was Loving. He had hoisted Garth up by his belt and flopped him onto the sidewalk. Garth squirmed, arms and legs flailing, but Loving pinned him down like a bug.

  “Want me to put ’im outta commission, Skipper?” Loving growled.

  “No.” Ben rubbed his jaw. It was probably still connected, but it hurt like hell to talk. Precisely what he needed on the first day of a big trial. “Just tie him up or dump him in a trash can.

  “Got it.” Loving hauled Garth back into the air and started down the sidewalk.

  By the time he was back on his feet, Ben was relieved to see that Sheriff Collier and four of his deputies had arrived. Collier fired his revolver several times into the air. Many combatants from both camps scattered. A few isolated fistfights remained, but the peace officers were gradually breaking them up. The man who had wielded the baseball bat was cuffed to a street lamp. The crowd was dispersing.

  There were over a dozen figures lying motionless in the street, two in green, ten from Pham’s group. A few bystanders. They lay in twisted, unnatural positions. Many of them were bleeding profusely. Ben hoped to God everyone was still breathing. But it was hard to tell.

  The fire on the ASP gallows had burned itself out. There was nothing left but a charred post and a platform bearing the stuffed remains of the figures in effigy. John and Frank. Belinda. Several Vietnamese. And—what?

  Ben advanced slowly toward the platform. There was another figure there, one that had been blocked from his view before by the others.

  It wasn’t of Madame Tussaud’s quality, but it was good enough. Medium height, brown hair, on the slender side. Like looking in the mirror.

  Ben brushed away the soot on the singed sign below the figure.

  DEMON KINCAID.

  42.

  WHEN BEN REACHED THE courtroom, it was a madhouse. The gallery was filled to twice its capacity; people were standing in the back and sitting in the aisle. At first, he thought some people must have taken refuge from the parade and the resultant brawl, but there was no sign that anyone was leaving. They were here for the show.

  Ben struggled past the squatters and tried not to be concerned. Silver Springs hadn’t had a murder in—what did Judge Tyler say?—twelve years. It was only natural that this trial would be a major event.

  Just as Ben reached the front of the courtroom, a flashbulb exploded in his face. Ben covered his eyes. Was that a reporter from The Silver Springs Herald? Because if it was …

  The face behind the camera belonged to a small boy aged, perhaps, ten. “A souvenir for your scrapbook?” Ben asked.

  The boy blanched, then turned and skittered away.

  Great, Ben thought. Now I’ve acquired the ability to strike terror in the hearts of ten-year-olds. He wondered if that was the result of what The Herald was saying about him, or what the boy’s parents were saying about him. Or both. What a wonderful vacation this had turned out to be. He hadn’t caught any fish, but he had managed to become the Silver Springs bogeyman.

  Swain came in the back door and made his way to the prosecution table. He was wearing a sport coat and slacks, suspenders, and a bolo tie. A sharp contrast to Ben’s three-piece suit (flown in courtesy of Jones). Which was probably exactly what Swain wanted. I’m one of you, Swain was subliminally telling the jury; Kincaid isn’t.

  Ben went to the defendant’s table and began preparing his notes. To his surprise, Swain walked over to talk to him.

  “Got a deal for you, Kincaid.”

  “Bit late, isn’t it?” Ben gazed out at the audience. “I think the good citizens of Silver Springs have come to see a trial.”

  “It’s not a trial they want, Kincaid. It’s a hanging. That’s my whole point. I saw what happened on the street today and it scared me to death. If I can, I want to keep this town from coming unglued.” He poked a finger beneath his tie and unfastened the top button. “Also, I’m having a hell of a time finding a baby-sitter.”

  “What is it you had in mind?”

  “You plead guilty; the judge gives you life imprisonment.”

  “Life! You call that a deal?”

  “It’s a hell of an improvement over death, that’s for damn sure. With good behavior and all that rot, your man could be out in nine years.”

  “And all he has to do is plead guilty to a crime he didn’t commit.”

  Swain plopped his briefcase on Ben’s table. “Kincaid, I know you haven’t had time to get up to speed on this case, much less prepare a defense. Let me tell you—we’ve got more than enough to put your boy away. I’m not trying to buffalo you. I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. My only concern is that while we’re in here playing lawyer games, Silver Springs is going up in smoke.”

  “Sorry, Swain. My client says he wants a trial.” Thank goodness that was finally true.

  “Once the trial begins, my offer is off the table. Once this circus is under way, it can’t be stopped until your man has a death sentence hanging over his head.”

  “Thanks for the early warning, Mr. Swain. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for trial.”

  Swain left, shaking his head as if Ben had single-handedly ushered in the end of civilization. Ben only hoped he hadn’t made a tragic mistake for Donald Vick, either. He hated to see a man plead guilty to a crime he didn’t commit. But twentieth-century plea bargaining turned criminal justice into a high-stakes dice game. And if Ben crapped out at trial, the penalty for Donald Vick would be stiff indeed.

  Payne was already seated at defendant’s table. He wasn’t planning to contribute, but he had to be there to maintain the facade of being co-counsel. And, Ben figured, it couldn’t hurt to have a trusted townie sitting at his table. There would certainly be plenty of locals sitting with Swain.

  Two deputies escorted Donald Vick into the courtroom. They handcuffed him to the defendant’s table. In Tulsa, Ben always had the opportunity to clean up his defendants—get them a haircut, put them in a respectable suit of clothes. Not here. Vick was wearing jailhouse-gray coveralls. He was going to appear to the jury to be exactly what he was: an accused man who had spent the last several weeks behind bars.

  “How do you feel?” Ben asked him. It was an inane question, but it was all he could contrive at the moment.

  “I’ve felt better,” Vick replied. His nervousness was etched all over his face.

  “The DA has offered us a plea bargain. You plead guilty, he’ll give you life. A long tour of duty, but preferable to death.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “I told him you wanted your day in court. But it’s not too late to accept his offer.”

  Vick’s brain appeared to be working double time. “Well,” he said, after a long pause, “when’s this show get on the road?”

  A few minutes later Judge Tyler entered the courtroom in his long black robe. The courtroom hushed instantly; he didn’t have to touch his gavel. The bailiff called the case and Tyler noted that all parties were present and represented by counsel.

  “State versus Donald Vick will now commence,” the bailiff solemnly intoned. “All those who have business before this honorable court will come forward.

  “Gentlemen,” Judge Tyler said, peering down at Ben and his client, “this trial begins now.”

  43.

  “MR. KINCAID,” JUDGE TYLER continued. “I read your statement in the morning paper.”

  “Statement? I never—”

  “Let me tell you right up front—I don’t appreciate disrespectful comments about this Court being published in the press. If you have a problem with me, you can say it to my face. And by the way, I’ve never let my cases be decided on the basis of legal trickery, and I don’t intend to start now.”

  “Your honor, I assure you—”

  “That’s enough. A word to the wise is sufficient. Now then, we need to select a jury. Bailiff, call the veniremen.”

  The bailiff began drawing names out of a metal cage that looked like an old-time bingo hopper. The selected people walked,
some hesitantly, all nervously, to the jury box. Once the required number of bodies was seated, Judge Tyler instructed Swain to begin voir dire.

  “Thank you, your honor.” Swain stood directly in front of the jury box, his arms spread wide, a warm and friendly smile on his face. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have assembled today in the midst of a great conflict. A festering cauldron of hate has spawned the most sinful of crimes—the wrongful taking of a man’s life. I don’t need to tell you the importance of the task that lies before us. I will just ask you this. Is there anyone here today that for any reason believes he cannot do his duty to God and this court of law?”

  Not surprisingly no hands were raised.

  “If we prove the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and we will—is there anyone here who would be unable to apply the maximum sentence mandated by law for this heinous crime?”

  No hands. But just in case there was some doubt about the sentence to which the DA was referring …

  “Is there anyone here who feels he or she might be unable to issue a sentence of death, if the law and the circumstances commanded it?”

  After a long pause one young man on the far end of the first row raised his hand.

  “Mr. Clemons,” Swain said.

  How did Swain know his name? Ben wondered. He couldn’t have memorized them all when the names were called. No—small town, Ben reminded himself. Small town.

  “Mr. Clemons, would you be able to issue a sentence of death?”

  “Well … I just don’t know,” Clemons said awkwardly. He was aware that half the town was watching him. “I mean … death—that’s an awful harsh sentence. I just—I just don’t know if I could do that or not.”

  “I see,” Swain intoned. His disapproval was evident. “I appreciate your honesty.” He glanced at the judge. Swain wouldn’t ask for Clemons to be removed now, with everyone listening in, but as soon as they were in chambers, Clemons was a goner. “Anyone else?”

  Apparently the possibility of becoming executioners didn’t trouble anyone else enough to speak up.