Authors: William Bernhardt
Consciousness began to fade. His vision blurred. He prayed for unconsciousness; nothing else could make the pain go away. Surely they would stop. Surely then they would stop.
The dark man saw him go limp and sneered. “If you think we’re gonna quit just ’cause you don’t like it, you got another think comin’, faggot. We’re barely gettin’ started.” He ripped the duct tape off Tony’s face. “What d’you say to that, queer boy?”
Tony’s eyes were so swollen he couldn’t see. His lips were cracked and bleeding. But somehow he managed to muster the power to whisper: “Please don’t kill me. Please.”
“Beg me, you fairy. Beg!”
“I . . . am begging you. Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything.”
“Like what? Like maybe you’ll suck my dick, is that what you’re thinking? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He shoved his fist deep into Tony’s gut.
Tony was finished, he realized. There was nothing he could do; he had no way to protect himself. He was entirely at their mercy. And they had none.
“Cut him down,” he heard the dark man say.
His heart twitched. Was it possible—was this insane torture over? Were they finally done with him? The blond man whipped out a switchblade and cut the duct tape binding his hands—and cut his wrists in the process.
“Whoops. Guess my hand slipped.”
“Never you mind, Johnny. I think he likes it. Give him another poke or two.”
The blond man did. All over Tony’s body. Treated him like a human pincushion. Tony felt blood gushing out of his body like water from a fountain, from his face, his abdomen—even his feet. Then he noticed the dark man was holding something—a five-pound iron maul hammer.
The two men continued their work for more than half an hour. And no one came to help Tony. His cries were heard by no one, no one except the person who had left the bar shortly after the assailants and witnessed the entire assault. And did nothing. But watched. And waited.
Part One
Times of Passion
1
PRESENT DAY
Tulsa, Oklahoma
Two Warren Place
Offices of Kincaid & McCall
“I really don’t want to do this,” Ben Kincaid muttered.
“You never do,” Jones grumbled, as he pressed the camera to his face.
“Tell me again why this is necessary?”
“My duties as your office manager include marketing, true?”
“I suppose.”
“That means it’s my job to make sure you get out and network, an important part of modern-day law practice at which you are ridiculously pathetic.”
“So that’s what this is about? Networking?”
“The Tulsa County Bar Directory goes to every big corporation in town, Boss. Your face needs to be in it.”
“So if someone sees my handsome face in a directory, they might decide to send some work my way?”
“You never know. You’ve got to stay above the radar if you want people to remember you.”
Ben stood in the lobby of his sparsely decorated law office, trapped between Jones’s workstation and the tacky sofa in the reception area. “I don’t think I need new clients that badly.”
“Take it from someone who has reviewed the monthly accounting books. You do. Now smile.”
“I am smiling.”
“That’s not a smile. That’s a grimace.”
“It’s the best I can do.”
“You want to attract clients, not scare them off.”
“I want to look like a lawyer, not a game show host.”
“Would you just smile already?”
“Not in a million—” All at once, Ben’s face lit up like a candle, with eyes wide and a hysterical grin.
Jones snapped the picture.
“Christina!” Ben whirled around.
The petite redhead standing behind him beamed. “How did you know it was me?”
“Who else would . . . would . . . do what you just did?”
“And that would be?” Jones inquired.
Ben’s face flushed. “She pinched me!”
Jones arched an eyebrow. “Where exactly?”
“You don’t need to know.” He gave his law partner a long look. “Christina. You have a navel!”
“I hope that doesn’t shock you.” Her hair was done up in a professional-looking pinned-back hairdo, but she was wearing a brief fuchsia top that exposed her midriff, a short skirt, and pink lace pumps. Across the top of the shirt, written in sequins, was:
MAIS OUI
.
“Britney Spears, eat your heart out.”
Christina did a little twirl. “You like, mon ami?”
“Of course I do. But Jones, as marketing director, shouldn’t you give her a little lecture on professional deportment?”
“Hey, at least she knows how to attract attention. I got no complaints.”
Christina blew him a kiss. “Merci, ma petite bagatelle. Oh, Ben, I’m sorry about last night.”
Ben’s reaction was so immediate Jones couldn’t help but notice. His chin rose; his back stiffened. “Don’t worry about it.”
“How could I not? I don’t know what came over me.”
“Really, Christina, it’s nothing.”
“But I—”
“Really, you—”
“I wouldn’t want—”
“Not another thought.”
Jones’s eyes narrowed. “So . . . what was this, Inns of Court or something?”
“Yeah,” Ben said, much too quickly. “I mean, something like that. Right, Christina?”
“Right. Right.” Was her face pinking up, or was it just a reflection from that outfit?
“Any messages?” Ben asked.
“Nothing new,” Jones answered. “The same anonymous female we’ve been getting for weeks.” He handed Ben the message slip. It contained only four words:
PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY
.
“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Jones asked.
Ben didn’t answer. He crumpled the message slip in his fist. “Did you get that cable outlet installed, Christina?”
“Natch.”
“Excellent. I told you the super wouldn’t mind.”
“The super moaned and groaned and told me he was much too busy to get to it anytime before Christmas.”
“That would be a bit late for my purposes.”
“So I informed him. And he agreed to move it to the top of his to-do list.”
Ben was impressed. “Because he’s such a good friend?”
Christina shook her head. “Because he knows better than to mess with me.”
Cook County Criminal Courthouse
Chicago, Illinois
26th Street and California Avenue
Kevin Mahoney had visited the county courthouse many times since he began his law practice, but he had never seen it look like it did today. The sidewalks and courtyards outside were rarely crowded; at best a few skateboarders, panhandlers, and homeless people dotted the stone walkways. But today the area was so packed Kevin could barely find his way to the door. Maybe 2 percent of the throng had actual business in the courthouse; the rest were demonstrators, conveniently aligned east and west depending upon which side of the conflict they favored.
Kevin wasn’t normally claustrophobic, but as he marched down the increasingly narrower gauntlet of protesters, it did seem to him as if the human walls were closing in. Did they know who he was? Who he was defending? He could only hope not. On the north side, the gay alliances and task forces stood in solidarity, passing out pamphlets and waving signs in the air. Kevin had read that they’d applied to the city council for the right to build a bonfire; denied, they had settled for a midnight candlelight vigil.
Kevin surveyed the array of signs, which ranged from the poignant to the pathetic. Perhaps the most moving placards were the simplest.
EVANSTON—WORSE THAN LARAMIE
, read a placard up front, where the evening news cameras would be sure to find it. Kevin had frequently seen the posters bearing the name and photograph of Matthew Shepard—1976–1998, underscored with one word:
PEACE
. Now he saw many similar displays, except that Matthew Shepard shared his space with a picture of Tony Barovick.
On the south side of the piazza, the opposition forces were chanting in the singsong cadence usually associated with boot camp. “I don’t know but I been told . . . Jesus loves you young or old. . . .” The lyrics were probably clever, but the hubbub was so intense Kevin couldn’t hear most of it. Instead, he focused on the signs swirling in the air:
GOD STANDS AGAINST THE SODOMITES
and
WAGE WAR AGAINST THE HOMOSEXUAL AGENDA
and
YOU CAN BE CURED
! Perhaps the most memorable came from a crew cut clutching a red, white, and blue poster with a simple, three-word message:
AIDS CURES FAGS
.
Kevin’s Chicago-Irish, very Catholic instincts told him that he should avoid any possibility of conflict, but if he didn’t get to the courtroom in the next five minutes, Judge Lacayo would be threatening to sanction him, which would be a lousy way to start the day. So he plunged into the thick of the gauntlet. The first few seconds were fine—no one noticed him—but that didn’t last. He quickened his pace. Just as the front doors appeared in sight, one of the young men on the east side lurched forward. Kevin wasn’t sure if it was an attack or if the man had tripped, but he darted out of the way, just the same. The man fell into the crew cut, and the inadvertent touching rapidly escalated into a brawl.
“Back off, fascist!”
“God hates faggots and so do I!” came the reply, and a second later the combatants were on the concrete trying to gouge each other’s eyes out. More protesters jumped into the fray. As if from nowhere, a dozen police officers rushed in and pulled the factions apart, though not before several noses were bloodied.
Kevin doubled his pace, entered the courthouse, and passed through the metal detectors. The attendants were being particularly careful today, he noted. He entered the main lobby of the courthouse.
Lacayo’s courtroom was full and then some, no great surprise. The gray-haired bailiff standing at the door, looking very official in his uniform and holster, nodded. “Biggest turnout I’ve seen in years.” His name, as Kevin knew from countless prior court visits, was Boxer Johnson. He was in his late fifties and was definitely from the old school. By the book, firm, but salt of the earth.
“I assume security precautions are at a peak.”
Boxer grunted. “These days, they always are. But yeah. This trial, we’re taking no chances. Do you know how many people have called in threats against your clients?”
“I can imagine.”
Kevin took his seat at the defense table, and the two defendants were led into the room shackled at the feet: Brett Mathers, eighteen, dark complexioned, and Johnny Christensen, seventeen, fair. The restraints were removed and the marshals stationed themselves outside the courtroom. The jury was led in—voir dire had finally ended the day before—and Judge Lacayo entered the room.
Kevin knew Lacayo had been on the bench about ten years. He tended to be conservative, at least by Chicago standards. Normally, he was one of the more relaxed judges in the building, but you couldn’t tell it today. Whether it was due to the media attention or the huge crowd he must’ve passed through to get here, he presented a stony, all-business facade.
“I will only mention this once,” Lacayo said, pointing his gavel toward the rear of the courtroom. “I will tolerate no disturbances. Anyone attempting to disrupt these proceedings will be immediately escorted out of the building. Now, if there are no further preliminary matters, let’s get started.”
“You don’t normally go in for this couch potato stuff at work,” Christina said, flopping herself down on the couch in Ben’s office. Jones leaned against the armrest. “What’s your interest?”
Ben shrugged. “It’s a big case. It’s on Court TV.”
“There’s always a big case on Court TV, at least according to Court TV. So what?”
Ben turned up the volume a notch. “I happen to have a light workday.”
“Which, for you, would normally suggest the
New York Times
crossword and a Trollope novel. What gives?”
“I just thought it might be of interest to see how the Chicago big shots handle it. Might learn something.” He pointed toward the screen. “There’s Richard Drabble, the newly elected DA for Cook County. He was a law-and-order candidate. I bet he’s salivating at the prospect of getting a piece of this trial.”
“No doubt.”
“The judge is Manuel Lacayo. Very conservative by all accounts.”
“Who’s the woman sitting just behind the defendant’s table? A legal assistant?”
“No. Mother of one of the defendants.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“I . . . must’ve seen her somewhere. So, Jones, Christina—don’t you have some work you should be doing?”
“No,” they both said.
“Then go update the files. Write a brief.”
“Nah,” Jones said. “I want to see this.”
Ben folded his arms. “I thought I ran this office.”
Jones patted him on the shoulder. “You believe whatever makes you happy.”
Kevin took his seat beside his clients—careful to seem congenial and not give away how much he despised them—and listened attentively as DA Drabble began his opening statement. Drabble made all the expected points, generating neither surprise nor excitement. Kevin wondered if the extensive media coverage hadn’t stolen some of his thunder. However hideous the details, there was nothing the man could say about this case that hadn’t already been endlessly regurgitated on the evening news.
“Of all the motivations known to man,” Drabble said, “hate is the one that is least tolerable, especially in a society as diverse as ours. What could be more vile than two young men who torture and kill, not out of necessity, not for profit, not for revenge, not because of anything the victim did, but because of what the victim was? The evidence will show that the defendants stalked Tony Barovick, forced him back to their fraternity house, attacked him without provocation, beat him mercilessly, then killed him. What kind of people could commit such a crime? What do you call two men so consumed with hate that they would commit such an atrocity, such an offense to decency and human compassion? I will tell you. You call them monsters. Monsters who need to be punished. Permanently.”
Succinct—but eminently effective, Kevin thought. No doubt about where he was going. Or what Kevin needed to do in reply.