Authors: William Bernhardt
Mike motioned to Swift, encouraging her to try to comfort the woman. He was useless when it came to this kind of trauma.
Shelly continued. “He slashed my wrist. Not so bad I would die, but the pain was incredible. He wanted me to tell Tony I’d tried to kill myself, that I was losing blood fast. He knew that would get him out of the club and over here in a hurry.” Another wave of tears followed. “And I did it. God help me, but I did it.”
“You had no choice,” Swift said softly, stroking her hair. “None at all.”
“Manny listened in with the knife at my throat the whole time. I told Tony I’d been depressed and I’d slashed my wrist and I didn’t know what to do. Of course, he said he’d come right over. He was always so good. He loved me, he really did. And I loved him.” She buried her face again. “So he left the club in a hurry. Alone. Don’t you see? I killed him! Just as much as anyone. It was my fault!”
“That’s absurd,” Swift said, cradling the distraught woman in her arms. “It was not your fault.”
“This is all well and good,” Baxter said, “but why didn’t you say anything about it before now?”
“I think I can answer that question,” Mike answered. “You didn’t want to see those two men again.”
“I was so scared,” Shelly said. She was rocking back and forth, hugging her knees. “So terrified they would return. Even after I knew Manny and Charlie were dead. He killed Tony. And Manny, right?”
“Probably,” Mike acknowledged. “And Charlie.”
“And he would’ve killed me, if I’d told you what happened. I didn’t like lying. But I had no choice. After I bandaged my wrist, I put my arm in a sling to try to conceal what had happened. I started telling people that I’d hurt myself, hysterical about what had happened to Tony. Any story. Just so no one would know what had really happened.”
“Can’t blame you for that,” Mike said quietly. “A lot tougher types than you would’ve caved if something like that had happened to them.”
“I’m still not getting this,” Baxter said. “We know those two fraternity creeps beat up Tony after he left the club. Did Manny and his pals know they were after him? Were they all working together?”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Mike answered. “More likely the frat boys got to Tony before Manny had a chance.”
“Lucky day for Tony Barovick,” Swift said ruefully. “People waiting in line to hurt him.”
“That’s his reward for partnering with murderous thugs,” Mike replied. He pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket and started dialing. “That Christensen kid has been saying all along he and his friend didn’t kill Tony, but no one believed him. Including me.” He punched in a phone number. “Damn it. I hate it when Ben and Christina are right.”
“Hello?” said Ben’s voice on the other end of the phone.
“Good afternoon, counselor,” Mike answered. “Court adjourned for the day?”
“Just a break.”
“How’s it looking?”
“Like our client is going down hard, barring a miracle.”
“Well,” Mike said, casting a look around the room, “I know I’m never going to convince you that I’m an angel. But I may have just the miracle you’ve been looking for.”
46
“Do you think this is going to work?” Christina whispered to Ben as she saw the bailiff emerging from the judge’s chambers.
“I don’t know,” he said, lips tight. Christina knew the expression—it was a sign his brain was working, probably several steps ahead of hers. “Coming this late in the game, I’m afraid the jury won’t believe it. It would be better if we could produce the fourth man, the remaining kidnapper.”
“Well, yes, I’m sure the police would like that, too. But how do you plan to accomplish it?”
“I’ve got an idea, but it’s risky.”
“Ben, there will be no second chance. If we don’t do something immediately, the case will end, it will go to the jury, Johnny will be on death row, and all the evidence on heaven and earth won’t be enough to get him out.”
“True.” He hesitated. “I should probably run this by Mike first.” He shook his head. “But he’d never permit it.”
Judge Lacayo called the court back into session. “Ms. McCall, I understand you have an additional witness to call who is not on your list?”
“Yes, your honor.” Christina rose to her feet. “We call Shelly Chimka to the stand.”
Drabble was predictably outraged. He moaned about sleazy defense tricks and fair notice and the pointlessness of submitting witness lists if the parties weren’t going to be bound by them. But in chambers, Christina produced Major Mike Morelli, who assured the judge that this witness had just been found, and furthermore that her testimony was not only critical to the case but that a gross miscarriage of justice might result if the witness was not heard. Under those circumstances, the judge had little choice.
All things considered, Shelly did an admirable job on the stand. Ben and Christina’d had little time to prepare her, and this was only the second time she’d told her story to anyone. But it was spellbinding, just the same. The jury hung on her every word. Christina couldn’t be sure whether they believed her. But they were definitely listening.
“Did the two men who attacked you ever say what it was they were planning to do to Tony?”
Shelly took a deep breath, tried to steady herself. “Not in so many words. But it was clear they weren’t planning to give him a big kiss and a hug. They kept saying that Tony had betrayed them. One time Manny said, ‘I’ll teach that little creep what happens when he holds out on his partners.’ ”
“What happened after you made the phone call?”
“That was all they wanted from me. Manny took the hilt of the butcher knife and hit me on the head—hard. I fell to the floor. I guess I passed out for a while—I’m not sure how long. I was already woozy from loss of blood. When I woke up, I bandaged myself. It was nasty, but not fatal. As soon as I could, I called Remote Control. But by that time it was one in the morning. Tony was already dead.”
Christina nodded solemnly. “And you have no idea who the other man was?”
“I don’t. I wish I did. But they were very careful never to call one another by name. I have no way of knowing.”
“I understand,” Christina said gently. “Thank you for testifying. I know how hard it must have been for you.”
“It was the least I could do,” she replied. “For Tony. I’ll never be able to forgive myself for what I did to him. Even if he was involved with these kidnappers, the Tony I knew was kind, and gentle and . . . and he took care of me. Always. But when it came time for me to do something for him—I failed. Miserably.” Tears filled her eyes. “And now he’s gone. And he’s never coming back.”
Needless to say, the reporters were riveted by this sudden, unforeseen development in the case. It had been juicy enough to attract major media attention when it was an antigay hate crime. Now that it had morphed and linked itself to a notorious kidnapping, the interest rate doubled. The media scrambled, trying to figure out how to spin the new developments. They’d been treating Tony Barovick as if he were a martyred angel; now it appeared he was considerably less angelic. Did that make his death less a tragedy?
In a rare acquiescence, Ben agreed to hold a press conference in the ground floor lobby of the courthouse. While the court clerk set up the conference platform, Ben conferred with Judge Lacayo’s bailiff, Boxer Johnson.
“So you’re available?”
“If you say so,” the sturdy man replied. Ben only hoped he looked as good as Johnson when he was in his fifties. “Think I should bring my weapon?”
“Oh yeah. Bring several.”
A few moments later, Ben stepped up to the platform. First, he read a prepared statement, then he took questions. The first few were softballs that he handled with no difficulty. But that didn’t last long.
“This new development has taken us all by surprise—and left some observers extremely dubious, if not downright cynical,” a CNN reporter said.
“Can’t say that I’m surprised,” Ben answered. “We live in a cynical world.”
“When did you get the first indication that this murder was linked to the Metzger kidnapping?”
“We’ve had prior indications from an officer with the Tulsa PD that there might be a connection between this murder and two subsequent ones. We first believed there was a connection to an Ecstacy drug ring, but we had no evidence. It was only today that we learned about the connection to the Metzger kidnapping.”
“Mr. Kincaid,” the reporter from ABC chimed in, “the parents of Tony Barovick have released a statement saying that ‘this is a typical trick of a desperate lawyer. We all know who killed Tony. Why are we putting up with this?’ ”
“With due respect to the Barovicks, who have suffered a horrible loss, they do not know who killed Tony. All they know is what the police have told them. And the police were wrong. I understand the need for the bereaved to seek closure, or at least retribution. But we can’t convict the wrong man just to please his parents.”
“I notice the prosecutor has not dropped the case,” noted a reporter holding a Fox News mike. “What do you think it will take to convince him you’re right?”
Ben took a moment before answering. “I think we’re going to have to produce the fourth man. The other kidnapper. The one who’s still at large.”
“But you don’t know who he is.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Ben said. “The kidnapper may think he’s safe. He may think he’s pulled off the perfect crime. But he hasn’t. I know who he is. And tomorrow morning in court—I’ll prove it.”
He snapped off the television. Well, that didn’t leave him much choice, did it? The time to act—finally and decisively—had arrived.
He wasn’t sure whether Kincaid was telling the truth. It could be some kind of trick or trap. But he couldn’t take the risk, could he? And he had been wanting to take the damn lawyers out, anyway. Toying with them obviously hadn’t been enough. He had to deliver a more final solution. So why not now? He just had to make sure he avoided whatever little defenses Kincaid might’ve arranged. And the best way to do that was to strike fast—before he expected it.
They should never have left Oklahoma, he thought, chuckling as he loaded his gun. Come to the big city and rub shoulders with the big boys—and two hicks from the scrubs are bound to get hurt. Permanently.
Zero hour had arrived. They would be so sorry they came to Chicago—in those final nanoseconds before he blew their brains out.
47
JOURNAL OF TONY BAROVICK
One night, Claudia Brenner came into Remote Control. I was stunned. I recognized her immediately, of course. She’s the woman who was hiking in Pennsylvania on the Appalachian Trail in 1988 with her girlfriend when a couple of backwoods freaks saw them making out and registered their displeasure—with a rifle. Her partner was killed; Claudia was seriously wounded. She wrote a book about it,
Eight Bullets
, probably the most moving testament I’ve read in my entire life. It was that book that inspired me to start keeping this journal. Not that anything that dramatic ever happened to me, or is even likely to. Sure, I know there are still people who don’t like gays. But I can’t imagine anything like that happening here. Not here.
Anyway, so I got a chance to talk to this woman, and she was incredible. I kept blathering on about how she was my hero and what an incredible role model she was. I probably made a gigantic jackass of myself, but she was nice about it. And when she left, I felt inspired.
I’d never been involved in gay politics. At first, because I didn’t want anyone to know I was gay, and later, because I was busy with other things. And I suppose if I were honest about it, I’d have to admit that I’m not that political. It doesn’t interest me much. But the thing is—gay rights doesn’t seem political to me. Treating people the same, not discriminating based upon sexual preference—is that political? Does that split down political lines? That’s not about Democrats and Republicans; that’s about human rights, about taking the freedoms we claim are the philosophical basis of this nation and making them real.
Ever since that night, I’ve been involved. I’m still not what you’d call a big activist, but I try to do my part. I joined the local Gay & Lesbian Alliance. I’ve marched in their parades. I’ve even allowed them to hold some of their meetings in the bar, in the back caverns.
The religious types still come to Remote Control, which they perceive as a den of premarital lust and fornication, and they rattle on a lot about Judgment Day. I don’t know what Judgment Day is or will be, but I think it’s got to be more than just the celestial accountant tallying up how many times you went to church. Surely, at some point, what’s more important is what you felt. What you thought. What you held in your heart. Whether you tried to make people happier, tried to make their lives easier.
I firmly believe that most people are good at heart, that they want to be good. It’s hard sometimes, what with ignorance and peer pressure and all our basest instincts constantly being hung out to dry. But I also know that the world is changing. For the better. So many of the evils that have plagued humanity since the dawn of time have been eradicated. Slavery, racial discrimination, gender discrimination, exploitation of children. With all the good that is happening, how long can prejudice and bigotry against gay and lesbian people survive? How long can it be before we too shall be released? If being part of the Alliance has made me realize anything, it is that when all is said and done, people who hate gays aren’t prejudiced because of some obscure passage in the Book of Leviticus. This prejudice, like every other prejudice, is based on the fact that we are different from them. They don’t care that mankind was made in God’s image; they want the world to be made in
their
image. Bottom line, they get uptight because I’m not just like them. And that scares them. And scared bunnies do crazy things.
48
“Is Ben here?” Loving said breathlessly as he ran through the front doors of their temporary offices.
“No,” Jones said, looking down a long nose. “Could I possibly serve as a substitute?”
“I need Ben. When do you expect him back?”