Authors: William Bernhardt
Ben grimaced. Warm it? “This will be fine.”
“All right,” Christina said, addressing the troops, “I don’t suppose I need to tell anyone that this trial is going against us in a big way. We have to face facts: Drabble saw us coming and headed us off at the pass. Those last two witnesses were disasters.”
“Those last two witnesses just told the truth,” Jones grumbled.
“I don’t know that. And for our purposes, it’s beside the point. Johnny is in trouble.”
“Because he’s a murderous, hatemongering creep.”
“Jones! That’s our client you’re talking about!”
“Don’t I know it! I’ve had to clean up the mess outside the offices twice now, thanks to him. And he’s not even paying his bills!”
“Whether you like it or not, we took the case. And we’re losing.”
“Maybe we
should
be losing.”
Christina pointed a finger. “What’s wrong with you, Jones? As I recall, you were all for this case when Ellen Christensen first came into the office.”
“Did you hear what he did?” Jones replied. “Did you hear what that kid from the frat house was saying? How our client just . . . destroyed poor Tony Barovick? And laughed about it?”
“We can’t sit in judgment of our clients,” Ben interjected. “No one is guilty until a verdict is rendered. And for that matter—I talked to Mike earlier today. He asked if I’d send him a copy of Tony Barovick’s journal. He thinks maybe Tony wasn’t quite the sainted martyr the media has painted him.”
Jones slapped the table. “Don’t tell me we’re going after the victim! That’s got to be the all-time sleaziest tactic.”
“Not if it’s the truth.”
“The truth! What are we going to say—that he deserved to have his legs shattered with a hammer?”
“As you know, Mike has been investigating the murder of two low-level criminals. Mike believes they were involved in some kind of drug-pushing deal that operated out of Remote Control. And he thinks Tony Barovick may have been in on it.”
“That’s total bullshit.”
Ben disagreed. “It makes sense. Tony was the manager, after all. He was in every night. How long could something like that go on without him knowing about it?”
“It’s a crock.” Jones swung around in his chair. “I don’t buy it, and the jury won’t, either.”
“I have similar concerns myself,” Christina said. “If we start talking about drug-running at this stage of the game, the jury will think we’re just conjuring up bogeymen to create reasonable doubt.”
“Which would be more or less the case,” Ben answered. “Except Mike says there’s really something to it.”
“But how do we prove it? Does Mike have any evidence? Any witnesses?”
“Not so far. Nothing that would hold up in court.”
“It would take a lot to make the jury forget what Johnny has admitted he did. And failing some concrete proof of a third party, he’s always going to seem like the most likely suspect.” She pushed away from the table. “No, I have to agree with Jones on this one, even if he is a temperamental, irrational hothead.”
“Hey!”
“Until we have a bona fide witness who can take the stand and explain what was going down, this drug-pushing theory is a loser for us.”
“Christina,” Ben said, “think about—”
“And since this is my case,” she continued, “my decision is final.”
Ben dropped his chin.
“Jones,” she continued, “I’ve been reading your reports. You’ve done some great work digging around the nooks and crannies of this case. But I haven’t seen anything that gives us a defense.”
“Guess why?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Because there is no defense. Everybody knows he did what he did.”
“Admittedly, distinguishing between a torturous bone-breaking beating and a murder is a tricky argument. But it’s the one we’re stuck with. Loving?”
He sat up. “Yes, ma’am!”
“I’ve read your reports, too. You’ve really gotten tight with those frat boys.”
He smiled slightly. “I know how to speak their language.”
“Just act sexist, self-centered, and irresponsible?”
“Aww, they’re not all bad.”
“Neither was Hitler.”
“And they’re easy to talk to, once you know the magic words.”
“Which are?”
“ ‘This round’s on me.’ ”
“I’m not seeing that you’ve found anything that gets Johnny off the hook, though.”
“ ‘Fraid not. I got the same story at the frat house that I got from the Minutemen. Some of them might’ve had an ax to grind against gays, but none of them liked what Johnny and his buddy did to Tony Barovick. The Minutemen think it set their cause back; they don’t want anythin’ to do with him.”
“Then why do they keep trashing our offices?”
“They claim they had nothin’ to do with that, too.”
“Judging from that last frat boy witness,” Ben said, “the Minutemen are hoping Johnny goes down, the sooner the better.”
“True,” Christina said, “but he stood up pretty well to your pummeling on cross. To tell you the truth, Ben—I didn’t get the impression he was lying.”
“If he wasn’t lying, then—”
“Yeah. I know.”
A silence fell across the conference table. A grim sense of inevitability blanketed the room.
“The marshals are bringing Johnny by later tonight,” Christina said. “We’ll talk about it. How he explains his absence.”
“And if he can’t?”
No one answered that question. No one wanted to.
Vicki was at the door. “Mr. Kincaid? I mean—Ben.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s someone here to see you.”
“Vicki, we’re in the middle of—”
“It’s Ellen Christensen.”
Ben’s neck twitched. “I’m working.”
“She says it’s important. It’s about the case.”
Ben stared down at the table, his eyes hooded.
Christina looked at him. “Please, Ben? We need all the help we can get.”
After a long moment, Ben slowly pushed himself out of his chair. “This won’t take long.”
Ben started speaking before he entered the room.
“I thought I made it clear that I didn’t want to have any—”
“I wanted to thank you,” she said. She was a thin, fragile woman, and she seemed particularly so now. “For helping with my son’s case. I appreciate it.”
“I did it for Christina,” he said, his voice low and flat. “Because she asked me. That’s the only reason.”
“Whatever the reason, I appreciate it.” Her face was red and a trifle puffy. She had obviously been crying, which Ben supposed should come as no surprise, given the circumstances. “Johnny is losing, isn’t he?”
Ben had never been one to comfort people with false hope, and he was less inclined than ever now. “Yes.”
“You think he will be convicted?”
“I think juries are utterly unpredictable. But at this moment—it doesn’t look good. That last witness destroyed our defense. If Johnny left the bar at 11:10, and no one knows where he went, then—”
“I know where he went.”
“You do?”
She nodded slightly. “I . . . I had hoped it wouldn’t come up. But I can testify.”
“We can’t put the defendant’s mother on the stand. The jury would think you were just trying to get your son off the hook. Who else knows?”
“No one. I’m the only one.”
Ben grimaced. “If we put you up there, Drabble will tear you apart.”
“I know that. But I still—”
“No. I’m totally against it. It’s a bad idea.”
“Is that because you don’t care about him?” she said, her voice rising for the first time. “Or because you don’t care about me?”
Ben turned, his hand pressed against his forehead. “Ellen—”
Tears sprang from her eyes. “I know how you must hate me. And I don’t blame you.”
“Ellen . . . I . . .”
“But I can’t believe you don’t care. Not even a little bit.”
Ben remained quiet.
“And I can’t believe you’d let my son suffer just to punish me. But that’s how it looks. As if you’re not even trying. As if you want Johnny to be convicted.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
A short explosion, then once again her voice crumbled. She wiped away a stream of tears, which were immediately replaced by new ones. “I know I made a terrible mistake, Ben. Don’t you think I would change things? If I could? If I could do it all over again?”
Ben couldn’t bring himself to look at her.
“But I can’t. I can’t turn back the hands of time. All I can do is . . . move forward.” She looked up at him, eyes pleading. “Can’t you move forward, too?”
Ben stared at the desktop, trying to reason with himself, trying to force himself to take the next step. Without success. It was as if there was some sort of wall, some psychological barrier that prevented him from making even the tiniest movement in her direction, even when his brain—or perhaps his heart—told him that he should.
“I’ll notify Christina that you want to testify,” he said, moving rapidly toward the door. “It’s her call. You should be ready to go tomorrow morning. In any case.”
“You been here all night?”
Mike looked up from his temporary desk. “As a matter of fact. How’d you guess?”
“Easy,” Baxter said. “You look like a piece of meat that’s been left out too long in the sun. Been working? Or have you perhaps finally taken Special Agent Swift up on her many offers?”
“Swift just likes to kid around.”
“Who’s kidding who? She’s been after your bones since she showed up in Tulsa. They sure make ’em horny down South.”
“Don’t be so crude.”
“How else do you explain it? I mean, you’re okay-looking, but honestly.”
Mike tapped his pencil eraser on his desk. “I seem to recall a night when you didn’t think I was all that unpleasant to be with.”
“I must’ve been feverish. Or seriously bored. You working on the murders?”
“What else would I be working on?”
“How should I know?” She paced around his desk. “Your obsessions seem to come and go. I mean, a few days ago you were all wrapped up in that kidnapping case. Now another mystery comes along, and you’re staying up all night working on that. It’s as if you have no personal life. As if the normal cycles of life never—”
Mike sat upright. “Wait a minute. You’re right.”
“About what?”
He ran for his coat. “You should be proud of yourself.”
“I’d be prouder if I knew what I’d done.”
“What every muse does. ‘Open thine eyes / That the blind might see.’ ” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. “You’re brilliant.”
Her response was a little slow in coming. “I thought we agreed—”
“Sorry. I was momentarily overcome. I’ll be back soon.”
“Morelli! I want to know what—”
But it was too late. He was gone.
41
The next morning the courtroom atmosphere was even more agitated than it had been before. The throng outside had doubled, and three incidents of violence were reported before Ben and Christina even arrived. The corridors of the courtroom were jam-packed, and spectators jostled and thrust for a chance to get one of the treasured gallery seats. It seemed everyone was anxious to hear what the defense had to say.
Ben was amazed that the case still seemed to hold the media’s interest; he couldn’t think of a network that didn’t have someone on the premises. Most of the familiar faces he’d noticed in the gallery were back again: Roger Hartnell, still hobbling along with his cane, Gary Scholes, the frat boy turncoat. Mario Roma was there, too; Ben made sure he never had a chance to get anywhere near Christina.
And Ellen was present, of course.
“You know I’m a reasonable man,” Drabble said, running his fingers through his hair. “You know it. Tell me I’m a reasonable man.”
“You’ve been a reasonable man,” Ben answered. “Most of the time.”
“I don’t go in for dirty tricks.”
“Right,” Christina said. “That little prank you pulled on me my first day was a clean trick.”
Drabble ignored her. “I’ve turned over the evidence I’m supposed to turn over. I’ve given you access to the witnesses.”
“You coached Gary Scholes to hold back the kicker.”
“I did nothing of the sort. I play by the rules.”
Ben was becoming impatient. “Fine, fine. You’re a paragon among prosecutors. Of course, that’s rather like being the Earl of Earwigs.”
Drabble drew himself up. “But I absolutely draw the line at surprise witnesses plopped into my lap seconds before they testify.”
“It’s not as if Ellen Christensen dropped out of the heavens. You’ve known about her. You’ve talked to her on several occasions. She’s on our list.”
“Only in a pro forma way. You never suggested she was a material alibi witness.”
“Look, if you want to talk fairness, I didn’t know Scholes was going to say Johnny left the bar at exactly the coroner’s estimated time of death, did I? I’m calling her to rebut your surprise assault on our defense. I need her.”
“Well . . . that’s just too diddly-doggone bad.”
“Don’t be vulgar. It detracts from your rugged good looks.”
“You heard what I said.” Drabble projected his voice so every reporter in the courtroom could hear. “I won’t stand by quietly while you thwart justice. The answer is no.”
But Judge Lacayo’s answer, happily, was yes. He was wary of denying the defense anyone they called a critical alibi witness—especially, Ben suspected, when the case looked like a prosecution win, which would guarantee an appeal. He offered Drabble extra time to prepare his cross which, to Ben’s surprise, he declined.
“That won’t be necessary, your honor,” Drabble grumbled. “I have a pretty good idea what I’m going to do.”
What can he be thinking? Ben wondered. As always, any time a prosecutor knew something he didn’t, he was left with an unshakable foreboding.
Christina handled the direct examination of Ellen Christensen. It wasn’t an easy task for her—especially knowing what she did about the woman’s past with Ben—but she also knew it would be a mistake to ask Ben to do it.
After establishing who she was, where she lived, and her relationship to the defendant, Christina took her directly to the time in question.
“What were you doing on the night of March 22?”
“I was at home. Alone. I’m a widow—my husband died two and a half years ago.”