Perfect Justice bk-4

by William Bernhardt

  He lay flat on the table and pulled the towel over him. “Okay. I’m in position.”

  “Good.” Belinda turned around and smiled. “Cute boxers.”

  “How … ?” Ben yanked the corner of the towel over his rear. “I never met anyone who majored in massage therapy before.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat.” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Didn’t I say I wanted to make a meaningful contribution to the world? Now, this is an example of a Swedish massage.”

  “Perfect,” Ben murmured as she soothed his neck and shoulders. “I’m feeling very Swedish tonight.”

  “The Swedish massage derives from Chinese techniques of physical manipulation. It’s composed of five basic strokes—the effleurage, the petrissage, friction, tapotement, and vibration.”

  “A massage and a lecture,” Ben said. “Such a deal.”

  She began the effleurage, which, she explained, involved long, gliding strokes in the direction of the heart. “Boy, are you tense!” She moved her hands systematically down his back. “Your muscles are really knotted up.”

  “Well, it’s been a tense week.”

  “Lucky I got you on this table before you exploded in the middle of the courtroom.”

  She took him through her repertoire of strokes—kneading, pressing, tapping, and vibrating. “Of course, this is just one example of each stroke. There are several variants.”

  “I think we should try them all,” Ben murmured.

  “This is the Anara massage technique.”

  Ben could tell the movements of her hands had changed, not that it made much difference. It all felt delicious.

  She started working on his thighs. “Strong legs for a desk jockey,” she commented.

  “I get plenty of exercise chasing my cat.”

  “Who’s looking after her while you’re on this extended vacation?”

  “My landlady, Mrs. Marmelstein. She’s always happy to help out. Cat-sitting gives her an excuse to go through my closets.”

  Belinda continued moving down his legs. “Man, you are just unbelievably tense. You keep it all locked up inside, don’t you?”

  Ben chose not to comment.

  “Now, this is an example of the Shiatsu massage technique.”

  To Ben’s surprise, her fingertips danced lightly over the soles of his feet. “Hey, that tickles.”

  “So there’s life in you after all.” She used her thumb and forefinger to rub out the tension in his feet. “Finally I want to demonstrate the famed Montgomery massage.”

  “The Montgomery massage?”

  “Right.” She began lightly kissing his back, then worked her way up the nape of his neck. Goosebumps rose on his skin. “Does this tickle?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” Ben rolled over and took Belinda into his arms. “Can I play?”

  “Please do.” The first kiss was followed by several others, each more passionate than the first.

  Belinda pulled away for a moment and reached behind her back. A second later her business suit lay in a pile on the floor.

  Ben felt his heart palpitating. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

  Belinda lay down beside him. She kissed him again on the lips, then let her own lips roam where they would. “I’m not sure, but I think you’re becoming less tense,” she said quietly. Her fingers ran up his chest and through his hair.

  Ben explored the soft contours of her perfect body. “Did you really major in massage therapy?”

  She smiled, then rolled over on top of him. “Nah. But I thought it was a great way to sneak a peek at your boxer shorts.”

  45.

  THE NEXT MORNING BEN made it to the Silver Springs courthouse well before nine and began reviewing his notes. He’d had a great night’s sleep. Once he and Belinda finally got around to sleeping.

  Two deputies brought Vick back to the defendant’s table and the crowd began to flood into the courtroom gallery. Most of the people he had recognized the day before had returned. Plus Grand Dragon Dunagan and a small coterie of ASP muscle.

  “What brings you here?” Ben asked as he passed by them.

  “Came to keep a close eye on you,” Dunagan said.

  “I thought you considered me lead counsel for the forces of goodness and light.”

  “That was before I found out you were a Vietcong sympathizer,” Dunagan spat out. “Before I found out you were in league with that demon whore Hamilton.”

  Ben’s jaw clenched. “You have no business talking about Belinda like that.”

  “I know what she is!” Fortunately the drone of the crowded courtroom muffled his shout. “And I know what you are now, too.”

  “You hateful—” Ben swallowed the expletive on the tip of his tongue. He turned his back on Dunagan and walked away. He noticed that Colonel Nguyen from Coi Than Tien was in the gallery. And in the front row, Belinda sat beside her associates Frank Carroll and John Pfeiffer.

  Judge Tyler entered the courtroom and the crowd was silenced. “Opening statements, gentlemen. Mr. Prosecutor, would you like to begin?”

  “Thank you, your honor.” Swain planted himself in his intimate, up-front position inches away from the jury,

  “Thuy Quang Vuong—known by his friends as Tommy—was a Vietnamese American. But that isn’t what this case is about. He was a young man, and subject to many of the troubles most young men face. That isn’t what this case is about either. Tommy Vuong was a living, breathing human being, with as much right to live his life as any one of you sitting in this jury box.”

  Swain leaned forward and made eye contact with each of the jurors. “And that’s what this case is about. Because you see, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Tommy Vuong wasn’t permitted to live. He wasn’t permitted to marry, or to have children, or to experience any of the quiet, simple joys most of us take for granted. Because on July twenty-fifth, on a hot summer night, someone ripped his life away by firing two metal crossbow bolts at close range into his chest and his neck.”

  He glanced at Vick, an unmistakable bit of nonverbal communication. “And then the killer planted a burning cross over Tommy’s bleeding head.”

  A discernible tremor passed through the courtroom. That was a detail that had been withheld from the press; most people didn’t know about it. Unfortunately it was also a detail that appeared to confirm Vick’s guilt.

  “You might think,” Swain continued, “that two crossbow bolts would produce a quick death. You would be wrong. Tommy Vuong’s life drained away, slowly and painfully, as his blood poured from his veins. And as if that wasn’t enough, the cross caught Tommy’s clothing on fire. And he began to burn.”

  Another shudder passed through the gallery. Ben felt a bit of a shudder himself.

  Ben could object; this dramatic recitation was hardly likely to aid the jury in their fact-finding mission. But he knew it would be pointless. Every prosecutor had the inherent right to portray the facts as melodramatically as possible. Swain was trying to stir up sympathy for the victim—and hatred for the defendant. And he was doing a commendable job. The jury already disliked Vick; Ben could see them sneaking peeks at him, then quickly averting their eyes. And they had yet to encounter a single bit of evidence that indicated he was guilty.

  “Not just anyone could commit a crime like that,” Swain continued. “Not just anyone could be so … cold. So utterly devoid of feeling. So heartless. No, it took a special kind of man to commit this crime. A man with hatred burning in his gut.” He turned and stood squarely before Vick. “Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence we will present will prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the man who committed this horrible deed was the defendant—Donald Vick.”

  Swain and Vick made eye contact. It was like a contest of wills; neither wanted to be the first to flinch. Eventually Swain turned away and continued his opening.

  Swain provided few clues about the testimony he would be presenting. Perhaps, Ben mused, the evidence wasn’t as strong as Swain had been suggest
ing. More likely he just didn’t want to give Ben any advance notice. Swain made passing references to trace evidence on the crossbow and Vick’s fight with Vuong, and a purported confession. What concerned Ben most was Swain’s elliptical reference to “Vick’s fatal mistake—the selection of the deadly and exotic crossbow as his instrument of death.”

  Swain finished his performance and reclaimed his seat.

  “Would you care to give your opening statement now, Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Tyler inquired, “or to reserve it until the start of the defendant’s case-in-chief?”

  “I’ll go now,” Ben said, rising to his feet. It was crazy to reserve opening until later. The jury could sit for days without hearing any version of the facts other than the prosecutor’s.

  Ben suspected he could never match Swain’s histrionic flair, and given his position in the case, it would be stupid to try. Instead he would maintain a calm, reasoned approach. He would remind the jury why they were here.

  “Serving as a juror is one of the greatest honors that can be bestowed on a citizen in a free democracy,” Ben began. “But like all honors, it comes with responsibilities. And duties. Your duty as jurors is to ensure that your decision, whatever it may be, is not based on passion or prejudice, but is based solely and without exception on the facts presented to you during the trial. That is the promise you make when you sit in that box. That is your sacred obligation.”

  It was worth a try. In Ben’s experience, most jurors took their position seriously and endeavored to do the job right.

  “District Attorney Swain has told you, in great and grisly detail, how Tommy Vuong was killed. About those facts, there is no controversy. We do not dispute how he was killed, and we do not dispute that it was a horrible tragedy. We only dispute one issue: who did it. Because Donald Vick did not kill Tommy Vuong.”

  Ben scanned the jurors’ faces. If their minds were already made up, he probably wasn’t changing them. But at least they were listening.

  “The prosecution will present a variety of evidence to you in an effort to convict the wrong man of this crime. But as you sift through the evidence laid before you, ask yourself one question: does this evidence prove that Donald Vick did in fact kill Tommy Vuong, or that he might have killed Tommy Vuong. Because you see, ladies and gentlemen, any number of people might have killed Tommy Vuong. But you can only find Donald Vick guilty if the prosecution has proven beyond a reasonable doubt that Donald Vick did kill Tommy Vuong. That it was absolutely, positively Donald Vick—and no one else. The burden of proof is on the prosecution, and if they do not meet it, then Judge Tyler will instruct you that you must find Donald Vick not guilty.”

  Ben talked a bit more about the prosecution evidence. His remarks were necessarily vague; he had only the barest glimmer of an idea what the prosecution was going to say, much less what his response would be. And as far as he knew, the defendant’s only witness was the defendant.

  A man who refused to talk.

  Ben finished his opening. He gave Vick a friendly, confident smile that everyone could see, then sat down beside him. Some lawyers clapped their defendants on the back, or offered them a Life Saver, just to show the jury that they liked them. That struck Ben as a bit extreme under the circumstances; Vick would have to make do with a smile.

  “Very good,” Judge Tyler pronounced. “Looks like we still have time for some testimony before lunch. Mr. Swain, call your first witness.”

  46.

  SWAIN LED WITH HIS forensic testimony. It was a standard technique—get the boring stuff out of the way while the jury is still fresh and slightly less likely to nod off.

  His first witness was the county coroner, David Douglas, who was called to testify that Tommy Vuong was in fact dead. Hardly startling information, but a necessary prerequisite to a prosecution for murder.

  Douglas was somewhat uncertain about the cause of death. Was it the crossbow that killed Vuong or the fire? Or a combination of both? Under Ben’s cross-examination, he admitted that he suspected Vuong died from loss of blood due to the crossbow bolts, but it was impossible to be certain. Not that it mattered very much. Either way, Vuong was dead.

  Next, Ben was disturbed to hear Swain call a lab technician from Little Bock, a man named Darryl Stephens. Stephens would undoubtedly testify about the trace evidence found on the crossbow. Mike was expecting the results of his own tests today and was waiting at the post office for them to arrive. He promised to come directly to the courthouse as soon as they did. So far, though, Mike hadn’t appeared.

  After establishing Stephens’s credentials, Swain questioned him about the crossbow found near the murder site. “Have you had an opportunity to examine the bolts extracted from the dead man’s body?”

  “Indeed I have.”

  “And were you able to compare those bolts to the crossbow itself?”

  Stephens folded his hands across his lap. “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you obtain any information from this comparison?”

  “Yes.” Stephens leaned forward. Ben knew the signs; he was about to go into his teaching mode. “Crossbows and their bolts can be analyzed in much the same way the science of ballistics studies guns and bullets. Just as every gun leaves unique markings on the bullets it fires, so a crossbow marks each shaft fired from its triggering mechanism. The markings are harder to spot, but it can be done.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Swain said. “I didn’t know that.”

  I’ll just bet, Ben thought.

  “Were you able to draw any conclusions about the crossbow and bolts you examined?”

  “Yes. The same markings found on both bolts extracted from Vuong’s body were also found on test bolts we fired in the lab from the crossbow found near the crime scene. There’s no doubt about it. This crossbow fired those bolts.”

  “I see,” Swain said, holding the crossbow up high so the jury could see it. “So this crossbow is definitely the murder weapon. Well, we’ll be talking about that some more later. Tell me, sir. Did you find any trace evidence on the crossbow when it was first brought to you?”

  “Yes, I did.” Stephens glanced at Swain, then continued. Ben got the impression this testimony had been rehearsed many times beforehand. “I found two hairs caught in the mechanism of the crossbow.”

  “Really?” Swain said in mock surprise. “Did you run any tests on the hairs?”

  “Yes. I conducted a spectroscopic analysis, and compared them to two exemplars removed from the defendant’s head.”

  “And?”

  “The hairs in the crossbow matched those taken from Donald Vick.”

  “I see,” Swain said. “That’s all for now, your honor.”

  “Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Tyler said. “Any questions?”

  Ben checked the gallery—Mike still wasn’t here. Blast. He would have to wing it without him.

  Ben positioned himself at the far side of the courtroom from the jury, one sure way to prevent eye contact between jury and witness. “Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  Stephens’s forehead wrinkled. “I … don’t quite follow you.

  “Don’t you think it’s an amazing coincidence?”

  “Think … what is?”

  “The hairs in the crossbow.” Ben pivoted and posed his question as much to the jury as the witness. “How did they ever get in the crossbow mechanism?”

  Stephens recrossed his legs. “Presumably they fell from the killer’s head—”

  “And just happened to get caught in the workings of the crossbow? Now that’s what I call a coincidence.” He checked the jurors for their reaction. “I would think it amazing if one hair managed to fall just perfectly so as to get trapped in the firing mechanism. And your testimony is that two hairs fell there.”

  “Well … yes.”

  “Sir, doesn’t that strike you as somewhat incredible?”

  “Sometimes unusual events occur. …”

  “Sir.” Ben approached the witness and hovered over him. “Isn’t it m
uch more likely that someone put those hairs in the mechanism?”

  The jury stirred audibly.

  “I … suppose that’s within the realm of possibility.”

  “And if that happened, Donald Vick might not have even been there at the time, right?”

  “Well … I suppose … theoretically …”

  “Now, you testified that the hairs in the crossbow matched those taken from Donald Vick. What exactly do you mean by matched?”

  “Matched means matched. Same texture, same color, same race …”

  “Sir, isn’t it true that at this time there is no absolutely certain method of establishing that a hair came from a particular person?”

  The witness squirmed. “We’ve been working with new DNA analysis techniques—”

  “Did either of the hairs you found have a live hair bulb?”

  “A—what?”

  “Hair bulb. You know, the root.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “But, sir, you can’t take a DNA fingerprint of the hair itself, because the hair is dead, right?”

  “I—suppose.”

  “And even if the bulb hadn’t rotted, you said it wasn’t intact.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Well then, isn’t it also true that you cannot say with medical certainty that the hairs in the crossbow came from Donald Vick’s head?”

  The witness glared at Ben. “That’s true. When you put it like that.”

  “Thank you, sir. No more questions.”

  “Redirect?” Judge Tyler asked.

  “Definitely,” Swain said. “Mr. Stephens, let’s talk about the scenario Mr. Kincaid just proposed. Do you believe that Donald Vick never came near that crossbow?”

  “No. I know he did.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The hairs weren’t the only trace evidence I found. There was also a bloodstain.”

  “A bloodstain!” Swain whirled to face Ben, obviously expecting to see a look of astonishment or surprise. He was greatly disappointed. Thanks to Mike, Ben had seen this one coming a mile away.