Authors: William Bernhardt
When it was his turn, Kevin took his position before the jury. He was a man of modest build but in possession of a voice three times his size. As soon as he opened his mouth, he had the jury’s attention securely in his grasp.
“First of all, let me tell you what this case is not about. It is absolutely not a referendum on gay rights. During voir dire, I didn’t ask any of you where you stood on the issue and, frankly, I don’t care. It’s not relevant. Whether you support gay people, tolerate them, or despise them, it doesn’t change one essential fact—my clients did not commit this crime.”
“Death to fascists!” someone shouted from the back of the gallery.
Judge Lacayo sprang into action. “I warned you I would not tolerate any inappropriate behavior. Bailiff!”
Kevin hoped Boxer would take the call—he knew how to handle minor-league troublemakers—but instead another bailiff, one he didn’t recognize, stepped forward. “Yes, Your Honor?”
“Remove the offending person from the courtroom. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” He stepped up to the rail separating the gallery from the front . . . and removed his gun from his holster.
“Bailiff? What are you doing?”
“Removing the offending person.” He swung his gun around to the defendants’ table. “This is for Tony.”
The gun fired. Blood splattered out of Brett Mathers’s neck.
Someone screamed. Half the gallery rose to its feet; the other half dropped to the floor. Only a few remained stunned and frozen in place.
“You two work so well together,” the man with the gun said to the remaining defendant. “Don’t want to break up the team.”
Johnny Christensen wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. The woman sitting behind him cried out, “No! Please!”
Kevin crawled under the table while the shooter’s attention was focused on Christensen. He knew he was supposed to zealously defend his client, but surely that didn’t include serving as a human shield. And yet something told him that he had to act. The influence wasn’t so much the law professors at Northwestern as it was the nuns at St. Gregory’s, but he knew he was the closest, the one best positioned to do something. And he knew that if he didn’t, this trial would turn into a bloodbath.
Without another thought, Kevin bolted toward the assailant. He tried to tackle the man, but was just a beat too late. The gun fired.
Kevin clutched his chest, feeling the blood spewing forth. It took a moment for the pain to register, but when it did, it was crippling. He cried out, embarrassed at himself but nonetheless helpless to stop it. Through teary eyes he saw the shooter hovering above him, the gun aimed at his head.
He heard a commotion at the rear, and a millisecond later, the voices of security officers on the move. They knocked the assailant to the ground and kicked away the gun. He struggled, but they soon had him under control. They cuffed his hands behind his back, then jerked him to his feet.
“Say no to hate!” the man screamed, as the officers jerked him toward the doors. “Say no to hate!”
Kevin heard someone talking into a cell phone. “Get an ambulance! Two men down in Courtroom Ten.”
Judge Lacayo, back in his seat, pounded his gavel without effect. The courtroom was in turmoil and was likely to remain so for some time.
A medic rushed forward, first examing Brett Mathers, then Kevin. “We need to get you to a hospital as soon as possible.”
The security guards fought the chaotic crowd, hauling their captive out of the courtroom. He did not resist. “For you, Tony,” he said quietly, as they dragged him away. “And Matthew. And Claudia. And all the others.”
2
Sapulpa, Oklahoma
Ten miles west of Tulsa
“You heard what happened?” “Oh yeah.”
“Doesn’t this change everything?”
“It does.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
Manny turned off his four-bit drill and lifted his safety visor. He wished his visitor wouldn’t come here. Spoiled the mood. He got enough of the dirty and seedy and ugly elsewhere. This was where he came to get away from it all. He didn’t like it when “it all” came here.
This had always been his favorite room of his tiny house. Technically, it wasn’t even a room of the house—it was the garage. But he’d decked it out like a first-class workshop. He had everything he needed to do his carpentry work and then some.
“What are you making?” his visitor asked.
“Oh, bookshelves.” Manny turned the drill back on and finished making two more round bolt holes on the side of a thick piece of oak. “I sell ’em at the flea market over at the fairgrounds. Don’t make that much, but it gives me somethin’ to do. Something that doesn’t involve pushin’ or stealin’ or snatchin’. And it gets me a little scratch. Just to tide me over till . . . you know.”
“You should complain. You’ve cleared more than anybody.”
“It ain’t enough.”
“It never is.”
The visitor approached Manny’s work-in-progress and ran a hand over the smooth-sanded wood. “I had no idea you were so talented. At anything legal.”
“I love workin’ with wood. Messin’ around with my tools. It’s the best part of my life.”
“A man should have a hobby.”
“Yeah.”
They fell silent.
“What do you think we should do about it?” the visitor asked, finally.
“Well, I don’t know exactly. Maybe nothin’. With one defendant down and the defense attorney in the hospital, there’s no chance in hell the jury won’t convict the other guy. Once they do that, this whole business goes away.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t you agree?”
The visitor paused. “I can still see a few loose ends.”
“I think we’re in the clear. In fact, I was wonderin’ if maybe—”
“No chance.”
“Aw, just—”
“I said no.”
Manny hated that. The attitude, the arrogance. He’d been plying these trades for a long time. He knew what he was doing, and he didn’t need some hawk looking over his shoulder, bossing him around like he was some kind of toddler. And the pressure just kept coming. Haunting his days and nights. He’d had all of it he could take. As soon as the transfer was complete, he’d have a little talk with this visitor of his. Like maybe a talk involving a snub-nosed .38.
“Something bothering you, Manny?”
“I been kinda worried about this whole thing. I guess you know that.”
“Still having the nightmares?”
“Big time. Look, no matter what happens in court, I gotta blow the country. It’s not safe for me here. You gotta come across with more money.”
“You’ve already had more than anyone.”
“If I can’t get more, you know what I’ll be forced to do.”
“That would be bad. You worry me, my friend. Why don’t you come up north and join the rest of us?”
“I prefer the warmer climate.”
“Yes. That’s what worries me.”
“Now, if you could just speed up the transfer—”
“Not a chance.”
“Are you sure? ’Cause I—” He threw the drill down on his workbench. “I gotta live, you know? And I’m tired of begging. I can’t go on forever . . . like I have been.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning maybe I need to have me a chat with someone right now.”
The visitor grabbed his arm and clamped the bench-top vise around it, hard, then locked it.
“Hey! What the hell is this?”
“Think of it as therapy. You have dangerous information locked up in that head of yours, Manny. I’m going to help you forget.”
Manny twisted his arm around, trying unsuccessfully to get free. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve outlived your usefulness. You’ve become a risk. An unacceptable one.”
“Hey—whoa now—wait a minute! Let’s talk about this.”
“We’ve talked long enough.”
“If you think you can cut me out now, after I—”
All at once, Manny felt the wind literally choked out of his throat. His visitor had pushed him backward, sprawled across the workbench, then pinned his neck down. The grip on his throat was even tighter than the vise.
“Just—wait!” he managed to choke out. “Let’s . . . talk about this! What do you think you’re doing?”
“Erasing those unpleasant memories.” With his free hand, the visitor picked up the electric drill—and turned it on.
Beads of sweat broke out on Manny’s forehead. He thrashed back and forth, but was unable to move. “What the hell are you going to do with that?”
“A little surgical procedure, I think.” The visitor smiled. “Amateur lobotomy.”
“You must be kiddin’! You can’t—”
“I’m afraid I can.” The sound of the whirring drill in Manny’s ear was deafening—and terrifying. Slowly, the bit approached Manny’s temple. “Here’s the best part, though. I won’t send you a bill. You won’t have to worry about whether your medical insurance will cover it.”
“Look! I’m sorry! I was just—I don’t know—I just—” Manny thrashed frantically, but he was unable to get free. “Forget everything I said!”
“I wish I could. But it’s you who will know the bliss of forgetfulness.” The visitor pressed the tip of the drill against his skull. “Good night, Manny. Pleasant dreams.”
3
“Come on. Come clean.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“Christina, I insist on knowing what’s going on.”
“If I had anything to tell you, Jones, I would already have done so.”
Jones leaned over his desk in the front lobby of Kincaid & McCall. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Christina.”
“You’re imagining it.”
“Baloney. I saw the two of you, stuttering and coughing and getting all flush-faced. What’s the big secret?”
“There’s no secret.”
“Then why did you see Ben last night?”
“We told you already. We had a . . . thing.”
“There was no Inns of Court meeting. I checked.”
“It was . . . that other thing.”
“You two have been seeing a lot of each other.”
“What else is new? We’ve worked together since he opened this office.”
“Don’t give me that. This is something different.”
“Honestly, Jones, I don’t have time for this nonsense. Shouldn’t you be dunning debtors or something? Because I—”
“You’re dating, aren’t you?”
Christina froze. It took her more than a moment to recover. “Now you really are being ridiculous.”
He threw down his pencil. “I knew it! I told Paula last night, ‘Something weird is going down between those two.’ ”
“Jones, you’re being silly—”
“How long?”
Christina took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “About three months.”
“I knew it!” He pushed away from his desk. “And when were you planning to tell us?”
Her eyes moved skyward. “When there was something to tell?”
“Did you think this doesn’t concern me?”
“Well, frankly—”
“The two lawyers in the office start getting all snoochy-gooches with each other? It’s a recipe for disaster!”
“I think you’re exaggerating—”
“How can I effectively administrate this office when you two are behaving like this? How do I know what’s going on when you both stay in the office late working? Maybe you’re prepping for trial, or maybe you’re examining each other’s briefs.”
“Jones!”
“And what happens if you split up? What if you do a ‘hell hath no fury’ turn? Who has to leave the office? Who gets custody of Loving?”
“Jones! Calm down!” She checked the hallway outside Ben’s office. His door was closed. “It’s not that big a deal. I promise you.”
“How can it not be that big a deal?”
“It’s just . . . not . . . anything that . . .” She waved her hands in the air. “. . . because . . . nothing happens.”
He paused. “Nothing?”
She shrugged. “Not so’s you’d notice.”
“Then what were you—”
“We played Scrabble.”
He blinked. “You . . .”
“You heard me. That’s all we ever do.”
“But—” He ran his hand through his hair. “You were apologizing for last night.”
“I laid a phony blank on him. Turned a
U
tile over and played it as a blank. Bingoed for fifty bonus points. Sneaky, I know, but the rules permit it, and I was behind, and . . . I hate to lose.”
Jones stared at her. “So this big romance—”
“Scrabble.”
“And there’s been no—” He tilted his head back and forth.
“None.”
“Not even—”
“Not even a good-night kiss, if you must know.”
“How can you tell you’re dating?”
She frowned. “I’m optimistic.”
A few minutes later, the lobby doors opened, and a tall, attractive woman who appeared to be in her thirties entered. Christina was certain she’d seen the woman before, although she couldn’t immediately place her.
The woman hesitated just outside Jones’s desk. “Excuse me. Is this the law office of Ben Kincaid?”
Christina rose to her feet. “Yes. This is Kincaid
and
McCall.”
“Wonderful.” She clutched her purse with both hands. She seemed anxious about something. “I’m Ellen Christensen.”
“That’s it,” Christina said. “I’ve seen you in the courtroom. I was watching on the television when . . . well . . .”
“Yes. Of course.”
“That must have been terrifying.”
“It was,” she said, but Christina thought she seemed remarkably well composed.
“How is your son?”
“He’s recovering. It’s a trauma, seeing your best friend shot just inches away from you. Not that the press has shown him the least bit of sympathy.”
“No,” Christina said. “I suppose not.”
“I just thank God my Johnny wasn’t killed.” She was a thin woman, but her assured carriage gave her a bearing that exceeded her physical girth. She was actually much more attractive than she had appeared on television; her well-defined features had been blurred by the camera. “He’s the one that psychopath from the gay rights group wanted, you know. Kevin Mahoney just got in the way.”
Jones cleared his throat. “What brings you all the way from Chicago, ma’am? Is there some way we can help you?”
“I’m sure you’ve guessed why I’m here. Kevin Mahoney is stable, but he can’t possibly try a case in his current condition, and the court insists on plowing ahead with this travesty. All the newscasters and politicians are bearing down, of course. Demanding swift justice. Meaning a hanging, the sooner the better.”