Hate Crime (25 page)

Somehow, from somewhere, he managed to find words. “Please . . . please don’t do this.”

“I recall a time when I was asking for your cooperation, Charlie. You were not so forthcoming, then. And now the time for discussion has passed.”

Another unbearable blow to his rib cage, then he felt himself being twisted around, turned onto his back. The pain was excruciating. Nothing could possibly hurt more, or so he thought, until he felt the hand on his face, forcing his shattered jaw open.

“Hungry, Charlie? Here’s a snack.”

Charlie felt cold steel pressed into his mouth, overwhelming his gag reflex. He tried to muster what remaining strength he possessed to do something, anything, cry for help, push the gun away. But he couldn’t. He clenched his eyes shut, bracing himself against the inevitable.

In his final nanosecond of life, he was thinking about home.

Part Two

Crimes of Passion

31

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is a crime that—”

DA Drabble hesitated. It was a slight pause, but Ben noticed, just the same. The DA could be forgiven this bobble. The last time this court had heard opening statements in this case, they had been interrupted by a fanatic with a gun. At some level, Drabble’s subconscious mind had to be searching the room, looking for any indication of danger.

“This is a crime,” Drabble continued, “of the worst sort—cold-blooded murder. And as the evidence will show, it was committed for the worst possible reason. Not for love, money, jealousy, revenge, or any of the baser emotions that normal people can understand, if not condone. This was a crime of hate—pure, blind, unreasoning hate. Johnny Christensen did not take this life because of anything Tony Barovick did. He committed murder because of who Tony Barovick was.”

Drabble was good. As before, when Ben had seen him on television, Drabble impressed him with his unforced yet deliberate manner. He didn’t come off as rigid and self-righteous, as so many DAs did. He didn’t insult opposing counsel. He didn’t resort to melodrama—well, not much—and he skipped most of the cheap theatrics, waving bloody photographs in the air and such. It was probably not a sign of any innate superiority; truth was, Drabble didn’t need to resort to any of that. He knew how to communicate, how to make the jury listen and, hardest of all, how to make them believe.

“On that chilly spring morning just a short time ago, Tony Barovick left his place of business and headed for home. He was probably thinking about the usual things—getting some groceries for dinner, what he might watch on television that night. What he didn’t know—what he couldn’t possibly know—was that he was being stalked—yes, stalked—by two students, two fraternity boys he had served back at his club. What had he done to offend them? you might wonder. Had he insulted them? Stolen from them? Hurt them? No, Tony hadn’t done any of those things. Tony hadn’t so much as mixed up their drink order. They were out to get him simply because he was a homosexual. And they didn’t like homosexuals. Indeed—they hated homosexuals.”

Ben scanned the courtroom. It was packed, as he’d expected. A few of the spectators were the usual thrill seekers, but most of the gallery was taken up by the press. CNN and Fox News and some of the other national outfits had set up camp in the hallway outside, so it was no surprise that they were allocated many of the choice seats. Several on-air personalities and celebs had been spotted in the courtroom. Rumor was that Dominick Dunne had a contract to write a book about the case, and John Cusack was negotiating for the movie rights. Everyone wanted a piece of the action.

Boxer Johnson, the bailiff who’d been clubbed over the head by the killer of Brett Mathers, was back on the job. Ben knew he’d taken a lot of grief after the execution; the shooter had knocked him out in the men’s room and stolen his uniform and gun. He seemed none the worse for it today; he stood at attention at the rear of the gallery, calm, watchful. An assured, strong presence.

In addition to the media reps, Ben also spotted a few people he’d read about last night, after he and Christina recovered from the shooting incident and finished with the police and the medics and he began cramming every bit of relevant information about this case into his head. Many of the people Tony Barovick had worked with and the potential witnesses were here, including the owner of the club, Mario Roma, and Tony’s barmaid and friend, Shelly Chimka. Scott Banner, the president of Johnny’s fraternity, was sitting behind her. Roger Hartnell was in a wheelchair, thanks to the bullet wound, but he was here, against doctor’s orders. He said it was important that he make an appearance, both as the local director of ANGER and as Tony’s former partner. They all sat together, behind the DA’s table, presumably to show their support for Tony.

Only one person sat behind the defendant’s table by choice. And Ben had spent the entire morning studiously trying to avoid eye contact with her.

“They were driven by one motive and one motive alone,” Drabble continued. “Blind, unreasoning hate. Hate born of fear, of ignorance. The same kind of hate that sent six million Jews to the gas chamber. The same kind of hate that killed 168 people at the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City. The same kind of hate that killed thousands at the World Trade Center. The kind of hate that cannot be tolerated in any civilized society.”

Vicki, the new intern, whispered into Ben’s ear. “This seems unduly inflammatory. Are we going to let him get away with this?”

Ben eyed Christina carefully. They were both tempted to object—this was pretty over-the-top. But Kevin Mahoney had told them that Judge Lacayo was usually lenient about what he’d allow in openings and closings. And they couldn’t deny that this was a hate crime—a critical part of their strategy was to acknowledge up front what Johnny had done, and what he had not done. They both decided to let it pass.

“This is what they did,” Drabble continued, his voice darkening. “First, they beat him mercilessly, giving him no chance to defend himself or escape. Then they used a Taser to torture him. Then they cut him. With a knife. And finally, when Tony must have felt that he couldn’t possibly feel any more pain, when he was crying out for mercy, they put wooden blocks under his knees and ankles, took a five-pound iron maul hammer and shattered his legs—first his left, and then, after the initial shock wave of pain had subsided, the right.”

Ben checked Johnny’s expression. He was holding up pretty well, all things considered. He’d been a wreck when the marshals brought him into the courtroom this morning. Crying like a baby, shaking visibly, begging for help. Christina had taken him to a rest room to scrub him up and get him back in control before the jury arrived. She’d been largely successful, though he had no idea how she’d managed it. No one was going to leave this trial with a good impression of the kid, but at least now he didn’t look like guilt incarnate.

Ben wondered what was going through Johnny’s mind as he heard the DA recount the list of horribles in which he had participated. Was he remorseful? Ashamed? Or was he secretly proud of himself, of what he had done in the name of his holy cause?

“Do you know what it feels like to have a thousand volts of electricity run through your body?” Drabble asked. “It isn’t pleasant. Your legs turn to rubber. You lose all control of your bodily functions. You can’t stop twitching. You can’t control your bladder. You lie on the ground and flop back and forth like a jellyfish.” Drabble leaned in closer. “But as bad as it is, it probably doesn’t compare with seeing someone take a knife to your flesh and cut it while you watch helplessly. And it certainly doesn’t compare to having your knees braced by two wooden blocks and seeing your legs destroyed with a five-pound hammer. Is it even possible for those of us who didn’t experience it to know what that would feel like? To measure the intensity of the anguish that poor boy suffered? To conceive of the magnitude of hate that would be necessary to commit such acts on another human being?”

Okay, Ben thought, so now he was being a little melodramatic. But it was an extraordinary crime—a brutal, hideous, inhuman one. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for any DA to discuss it without sounding intense.

“When Tony Barovick was found, just a short time after his destruction at these hands, in the fraternity house of which the defendant is a member, he was dead. Now the defense attorneys may try to suggest that Tony was killed somewhere else—but the evidence will show otherwise. The defense may suggest that the defendant beat Tony Barovick but didn’t quite kill him—but the evidence will show otherwise. What the defense will not deny is that Johnny Christensen attacked Tony Barovick, cruelly and mercilessly—because he did. Did Christensen want Barovick to die? Was that his intent?” Drabble paused. “I think his actions speak for themselves.

“Now I still remember the voir dire we did several weeks ago,” Drabble continued, “and I know many of you have mixed feelings on the subject of homosexuality. Some of you have deep-seated reasons, religious reasons, and we are not here to challenge those. But what I am here to say is—” At this point, Drabble whirled around and pointed at Johnny. “—what this man did was not an acceptable protest to another man’s lifestyle choice!”

He fell silent, letting his words reverberate in the jurors’ ears. “And it is important that we, as a society, make it clear that we will not accept this kind of conduct. As jurors, you swore to uphold the law, and that duty was never more important than it is today. Why? Because there are some people who hate women. Who hate children. Who hate people of other races, other religions. Who hate fat people. Bald people. There will always be those who hate. But this—this!” He grew quiet, finishing with barely a whisper. “This must never happen again. Never!”

After a measured moment of silence, Drabble took his seat. Judge Lacayo nodded in Ben’s direction.

“Here’s your outline,” Vicki whispered.

Ben smiled. Christina was right—he liked the new kid on the block. She was quiet, a bit timid, so unaggressive he wondered if she could ever possibly survive as a trial attorney—which was exactly what people used to say about him. Small wonder he liked her.

“Thanks, but Drabble didn’t use notes, so I won’t either.”

“You know what you have to do?” Christina whispered to him.

He nodded. “I’m going to be brief.”

“I think that’s best.”

Ben took his position before the jury. He knew he didn’t have the slickness, the imposing presence or, for that matter, the good looks of his opponent. But he had managed to learn a thing or two about talking to juries. He’d learned, for instance, not to lie to them, because contrary to popular belief, most jurors were not stupid, and they would pick up on a lie immediately—and never trust him again. And he’d learned that, for the most part, jurors weren’t really impressed by hyperbole or dramatic surprises or courtroom theatrics. The stuff that made good television did not necessarily make a good trial. In his experience, what juries really liked was someone who would just tell them what happened, tell it straight, and let them draw their own conclusion. Of course, as he also knew, if the story was told properly, the conclusion could be artfully predestined—without giving the impression of doing so.

“First of all,” Ben said, echoing the words he had heard Kevin Mahoney speak all those weeks ago, “let’s establish what this trial is not about. It is not a referendum on gay rights. It is not a campaign for more hate crimes legislation. It is not a forum for sending messages to the populace at large. Nothing you do here will alter the history of World War II or alleviate the tragedies born of terrorist acts. You have been brought here to do one thing, and one thing alone—to determine whether this man’s guilt has been proven beyond a reasonable doubt. As the judge will later instruct you, any other consideration is grossly improper.”

Ben took a moment to size up the jurors. He hadn’t had his usual opportunity to get to know them during the voir dire, but he’d read the transcript and reviewed Kevin’s notes. Now he needed time to read the lines of their faces. He sensed that a few of them were wary of him, perhaps even suspicious. That wasn’t a great surprise. Some people were naturally suspicious of defense attorneys, usually those on the right side of the political fence or with a strong law-and-order bent. Many assumed anyone accused of a crime was probably guilty, that trials were a waste of time, that attorneys only existed to put the guilty back on the streets. The best way he could win them over would be to come clean about his client’s flaws.

“Second, I am not here to convince you that my client, Johnny Christensen, is a great human being. He isn’t.” Ben could almost feel Ellen’s eyes boring into him, not to mention Johnny’s. Never mind. He knew what he was doing. “He was neither good, nor kind, nor nice the day Tony Barovick was killed. He was mean and brutal and ignorant, and in many respects he represents the very worst part of this country, the faction that finds it acceptable to commit acts of cruelty and violence in the name of some higher cause. My partner has been trying to convince me Johnny’s not that bad, just misguided and poorly educated, but I’m not buying it. Frankly, I don’t even like sitting at the same table with him.”

Ben watched the eyebrows of more than one juror rise. Well, at least now he had their attention. “And you know what? I don’t mind telling you that, either. Know why?” He leaned over the rail. “Because it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Whether you like him or you don’t
doesn’t matter
.” He paused. “I know you’re not stupid people. I know you won’t be led by your emotions. If you convict—and that is an
if
—it will be because of the facts presented to you at this trial, and not because you do or don’t like someone.”

Ben walked slowly to the opposite end of the rail. “Now let me clearly state that we do not disagree with much of what the district attorney has said. We will not try to dispute the undisputed facts. Johnny Christensen did participate in the beating of Tony Barovick. We acknowledge that. But he was not the principal actor in that crime and, most significantly, he did not kill Tony Barovick. His cohort, Brett Mathers, did not kill him. Nor did Tony Barovick die from the beating. They left him in a vacant lot seriously injured, to be sure, but very much alive.”