Authors: William Bernhardt
Ben decided to take another tack. “Detective, you’ve acknowledged that Leeman was trying to communicate through pantomime, correct?”
“I guess that’s so.”
“And your testimony is based upon your interpretation of some of his gestures, right?”
“Right.”
“To be fair, then, shouldn’t we try to interpret
all
of his gestures? Not just the ones you find useful.”
“I think I already said—”
“Shouldn’t we be trying to determine what he meant when he put his hand over his eyes?”
Bickley smirked. “I’m more interested in the gestures that came later. Like when he beat the woman over the head with the golf club.”
“That’s your interpretation,” Ben said evenly. “But it’s a pretty selective one, isn’t it? Interpreting the action to which I directed your attention spoils your entire confession theory, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Bickley said, but as Ben gazed into the man’s eyes he was certain that he did. He had undoubtedly told Bullock, too. They knew. They both knew. They had known all along.
“When you put your hand over your eyes in that manner,” Ben continued, “you’re communicating that you’re
looking. Seeing.
Wasn’t Leeman trying to say that this was all something that he
saw
?”
“I wouldn’t say so, no.”
“Is that because you didn’t take that meaning, or because you don’t want to spoil Mr. Bullock’s case?”
“Objection!” Bullock shouted. He was getting angry, or at least putting on a good show of it.
“Sustained. Counsel, the only reason you’re not in jail right now is that I don’t want to prejudice your client’s rights in the middle of a trial.”
The hell you don’t, Ben thought.
“
After
the trial, I may not be so generous. If you can’t control yourself, I’ll terminate this examination.”
Ben continued to stare down the witness. Hawkins wouldn’t be jumping all over him if he weren’t close to something. He couldn’t let up now. “Isn’t that what Leeman was trying to say? Isn’t that what he meant? That he was going to reenact for you something that he
saw
?”
Bickley began to squirm uncomfortably. “How should I know what he was trying to say?”
“Perhaps if you had bothered to consult some people who were trained in this area, you would’ve known.”
“Objection!” Bullock repeated.
Ben ignored him. “Isn’t it true that you didn’t have anyone there for the same reason you didn’t ask anyone about it later. Because you didn’t want an unfavorable interpretation to screw up your airtight case!”
“That’s a crock of—”
“Objection!” Bullock insisted.
The judge leaned forward. “Counsel—”
Ben plowed on ahead. “Isn’t that true, Detective?”
“That’s preposterous. I don’t—”
“
Isn’t it true?
”
“Look,” Bickley said, almost shouting, “we all saw what we saw! The tape speaks for itself.”
“No it doesn’t!” Ben shouted back. “It doesn’t speak for itself because Leeman can’t speak for himself. He can’t defend himself against people like you who are more interested in getting convictions than getting the truth!”
Judge Hawkins pounded his gavel. “Counsel, I want you to sit down! Now! This examination is over!”
“This is a gross injustice, your honor! They stacked the deck against Leeman ten years ago and they’re still stacking it today.”
The judge continued to pound. “I am commanding you to sit down!”
“But this isn’t a search for the truth! This is a travesty!”
The judge motioned for the sergeant at arms.
“All right, all right,” Ben said, brushing him away. “I’m sitting already.”
The judge relaxed a bit, then drew himself up and spoke to the jury in his most authoritative tone. “You will disregard every word of counsel’s outbursts. In fact, you will disregard his entire cross-examination. I order it stricken from the record. And Mr. Kincaid, we will be discussing disciplinary action at the conclusion of this trial. That’s a promise.”
Ben didn’t doubt it. He didn’t look forward to that, but he had to break through the stone wall Bullock and Hawkins were erecting around his client and try to make the jury see the truth. He probably hadn’t accomplished a damn thing, but it was just possible someone in the jury box heard what he was trying to say. At the least, Ben had forced the jury to focus on the central ambiguity of the tape. With any luck, perhaps he slowed down the Bullock juggernaut. A little bit, anyway.
“Mr. Bullock, any redirect?”
“Yes.” Bullock rose to his feet slowly. Ben had the impression he hadn’t actually prepared anything; he just didn’t want the jury to go home with Ben’s impassioned speech ringing in their heads.
“What happened,” Bullock said finally, “after the defendant finished his reenactment of the murder?”
Bickley twisted his neck and adjusted his tie. “You saw it for yourself. He ran away. Ran into the corner and folded up into a ball.”
“Did you ask any further questions?”
“No. I didn’t see much point.”
“Did you hear anything the defendant said?”
“I don’t think he said anything. But I saw him. I saw the look in his eyes.”
Ben raised his head. This sounded like it was coming dangerously close to opinion testimony rather than fact, but given Ben’s performance a few moments before, he didn’t think the jury would be impressed by any great show of outrage.
“How would you describe his expression? Was he scared?”
“Scared? No, that wasn’t it. Let me tell you, I’ve been on the force for eighteen years, and I know that expression. It isn’t fear. It’s shame.”
“Nothing more,” Bullock said quickly, and sat down.
Hawkins pointedly did not ask Ben if he had any recross. “The witness will step down. Anything further from the prosecution?”
“No, your honor. The prosecution rests.”
“Very well, then we’ll retire for the day. Court will resume at nine o’clock in the morning with the defendant’s first witness. If you gentlemen have any motions you’d like to raise before then, see me in chambers.”
Ben did, of course. He would make the traditional motion for a directed verdict, but it would do no good. Hawkins was a prosecution judge, and even if he wasn’t, the prosecution had met its burden. They proved that a murder had occurred, and gave more than adequate reason to believe Leeman Hayes was the murderer. What’s more, the jury believed it; Ben could see it in their eyes. If Ben was going to turn the jury around, he was going to have to give them some evidence that made them question what they already believed, something that created a reasonable doubt that had not previously cluttered their thoughts.
Ben saw Bullock moving toward the back of the courtroom, where a group of reporters was waiting for him.
“Not yet,” Ben told him. “I’ve got motions to make.”
“Myrna can handle that, I’m sure,” Bullock said, grinning, barely looking back.
The message was clear. Bullock believed he was winning by such a gigantic margin that he could leave his junior assistant to handle Ben’s fruitless motions while he schmoozed the press. In other words, he had nothing to worry about. He thought he had the trial in the bag.
And the terrible thing was, he was right.
B
EN RETURNED TO HIS
office, pushed his way past the air-conditioner bill collector, and tried to firm up his defense plans. Unfortunately, he really didn’t have any. He hadn’t uncovered any compelling exculpatory evidence, certainly nothing sufficient to offset the powerful case Bullock had made for the prosecution.
He’d been through the materials Jones had prepared several times. Jones did good work; unfortunately, the evidence just wasn’t there. Leeman had had little on his side ten years ago; that was undoubtedly one reason his former attorney pushed for an incompetency ruling. And gathering evidence now, ten years after the fact, was nearly impossible. Who remembered that far back? Who stayed in one place that long? If any helpful witnesses had ever existed, they were almost surely gone now.
Christina entered his inner office. She was wearing a pink chiffon skirt, purple sweater, and penny loafers.
“Nice outfit,” Ben commented.
“Well, thanks,” she replied. “I like to dress up for court dates. Don’t you think I look divine?”
“I think you look like Annette Funicello,” Ben replied. “I thought you were going clothes shopping with my mother.”
“I want to. But I’ve been somewhat busy with this trial thing, you know?”
“Sorry to inconvenience you.”
“That’s all right. I’m used to it.”
Ben pushed away from his desk. “So how’s the trial look from the gallery?”
Christina averted her eyes. “Well … you haven’t put on your case yet. I’m sure it will look better once you get a chance to strut your stuff. You didn’t have many facts on your side, but your crosses showed great élan. You’re really becoming good in the courtroom, you know it?”
“Compared to what?”
“Well …” A sly grin crossed her face. “Compared to when you started.”
It was always dangerous to have someone around who knew you before you knew what you were doing. “Are you saying I was incompetent when I started?”
“Not incompetent. Naïve, perhaps. Inexperienced. Pathetic, at times. But not incompetent.”
“Glad to hear I’ve improved.”
“Well, so are your clients.”
Ben pushed around the quagmire of trial-related papers on his desk. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t have a defense for Leeman Hayes. He deserves better than me.”
“You’ll think of something. I know you will. You always do.” She bent down and kissed him on the top of the head, then left his office.
Ben tried to return to his work, but less than a minute later Jones popped through the door. “Got some more info for you, Boss.”
“About what?”
“About Peru.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Anything helpful?”
“Maybe. I started with the police records, but I couldn’t turn up anything on Maria Alvarez. Apparently she was never in trouble with the law. I tried the Central Registry. They had a birth certificate, but that didn’t get me anywhere. Then I thought to try hospitals. Hospitals usually keep very detailed records. Two days later I had her.”
“She’d been in a hospital?”
“Oh yeah.” Jones grinned. “Before she came to the States. Isn’t that great?”
“I don’t know. Why do I care whether she went to a hospital or not?”
Jones began to pout. “Gee, Boss, I’m just trying to help. …”
“You mean you’ve been researching all this time, and all you’ve learned is that Maria Alvarez once went to a hospital?”
“Boss, you just don’t get it. This is the key to the whole case.”
“Excuse me.” To Ben’s surprise, Christina was standing in the doorway again. “There’s a woman here who would like to talk to you, Ben.”
“Tell her to make an appointment.”
“She wants to talk to you now.”
“I’m trying to prepare for this trial!”
“That’s just it, Ben. She says she has information that can help Leeman Hayes. She heard you on the newscast yesterday asking for witnesses, so she came to see you.”
That got Ben’s attention. “Well, ask her to wait a minute. Now, Jones, what did you mean—”
“She can’t wait,” Christina insisted. “She says she has to pick up her kids at Riverfield Country Day School. She says if she’s late, they’ll charge her a dollar a minute.”
“Jones, can I put you on hold for a moment?”
“Sure, Boss,” he said, still pouting. “Whatever makes you happy. I’m not important.”
“Thanks. Maybe we can go for an ice cream later. Show this woman in.”
She was a young woman, in her late twenties probably. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and vibrant blue eyes. She was wearing blue jeans and a short-sleeve blouse. She introduced herself as Carlee Crane.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Carlee said. “I know you must be busy.”
“My legal assistant says you know something about the Maria Alvarez murder.”
“That’s true. …”
“Great.” Ben leaned forward in his chair. “What do you know?”
“Well, you see …”She swallowed, then fidgeted with her purse. “I know this is going to sound strange, but—I saw it.”
Ben’s eyes ballooned. “You saw the murder?”
“That’s right. I was an eyewitness. I was working in the kitchen in the dining room at the country club late that night, trying to build up some overtime. They kept promising they’d promote me to waitress, but the maître d’ was hitting on me, and I wouldn’t play along, so I stayed in the kitchen. It was a crummy job, but I was very poor, and I was trying to save up for a car. …”
Ben tried to restrain himself. “Pardon me, but could we talk about the murder? I want to make sure I understand this. You actually saw the murder? Like, with your own eyes?”
“R-right.”
“Why on earth haven’t you mentioned this before now? Like ten years before now?”
“Well, this is the really strange, embarrassing part, Mr. Kincaid. To tell you the truth—I forgot about it.”
“
You forgot
?”
“I know that sounds impossible, but it’s true.” She walked across the tiny office to the window. “It was such a shock, such a horrible, horrible thing. I must have just—blocked it out of my mind somehow.”
“But how could you—”
“I can’t possibly explain it in any way that makes sense. I just know I didn’t remember. My memory was unreliable. It was playing tricks on me. Can you imagine?”
Without thinking, Ben withdrew a photograph from his pocket. It was the photo of him, at age three, and his father, tickling him, both of them laughing hysterically, having a wonderful time.
“I’ll do my best,” Ben said quietly. “Now sit down and tell me the whole story. From the beginning.”
M
IKE TRIED TO LOOK
tough as he swaggered down the dark city streets of Tulsa’s North Side. He walked with his hips first, his trench coat flapping, a bounce in his step and a toothpick between his lips. Don’t mess with me, he told the denizens of the night (and they were out there; he knew they were). I’m bad. Very bad. Bad for your health.