Naked Justice (39 page)

“Well, did you saunter? Stroll? Walk briskly?”

Calley seemed to struggle for the correct word. “I … believe I moved downstairs and out with all deliberate speed.”

“Meaning fast, right?”

He shrugged. “I guess you could say that.”

“Were you running?”

“I don’t know if I was running …”

“But you were moving very rapidly.”

“I suppose so.”

“And on your way out, you had to pass through the living room. Right?”

“Uh, yes. That’s right.”

“Officer, in his opening statement, the prosecutor made much of a photograph that was found on the floor in the living room. Did you see that photo?”

“As I recall, there were many photographs in the home.”

“Ah, but this one was on the floor. Surely you would have noticed. If it was there.”

“I … There was a lot going on … I had a lot on my mind …”

“Officer Calley, did you see a smashed photograph of Caroline Barrett on the floor?”

“I … don’t recall it, but as I say, I was moving quickly. It was probably there and I didn’t notice.”

“Officer Calley, in your haste to leave the Barrett home, is it possible that you knocked over the photo?”

Calley appeared momentarily stunned. “I—what?”

“You heard me. Did you?”

“Did I—no, I most certainly did not.”

“It would have been an easy thing to do. No one would blame you. But we need to know the truth. Did you knock over that photograph?”

“No!”

“You were running—or moving very rapidly—through the living room. Very upset. You would have had to run right by the coffee table where the photo normally rested. Tell us the truth, sir. You knocked it over, didn’t you?”

“No!”

“And that’s how the frame glass was broken.”

“No! Absolutely not!”

“I’m sure it was an accident. But you did it, didn’t you?”

“I—” His head began to tremble. “No! I did not knock over the picture!”

“That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.”

“
I did not knock the damn thing over!
”

“Your honor,” Bullock shouted, “we apologize for that outburst, but this question has been asked and answered. Several times now.”

Judge Hart did not look happy. “I will excuse the outburst—just this once. The question has been asked and answered. If you have nothing more, Mr. Kincaid, sit down.”

“Nothing more,” Ben said. There was no point in pushing any longer. If Calley was responsible for breaking that picture, he sure wasn’t going to admit it now.

“Very well. Court is recessed for the day.” Judge Hart gave the jury the usual end-of-the-day instructions, particularly complicated in this instance since the jury had been sequestered. “We’ll resume tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp.” She banged her gavel, and the courtroom exploded.

Ben could see the reporters surging up the aisle. As soon as the jury was escorted out, he pointed Barrett toward a door at the back of the courtroom.

“Wait a minute,” Barrett said. “I want to make a statement.”

“That’s an incredibly stupid idea.”

“I don’t care. People have been lying about me all day. Why should I sit there and take that silently?”

“Well, at least let’s talk—”

“There’s no time. The marshals will come for me any moment.” Barrett pushed forward to meet the reporters. In a matter of moments, a multitude of cameras and lights and microphones were working.

Ben listened as Barrett did his best to put a positive spin on the day’s testimony, which was nearly impossible, since almost all of it had gone against them. For the most part, Barrett avoided the specifics of the evidence and statements, and simply reiterated his innocence in strong and impassioned tones.

Which was well and good for the six o’clock news, Ben thought, but the jury would require something more. If he was going to turn them around, he would have to give them something concrete, something that seemed at least as plausible as the evidence the prosecution had put on, and would continue to put on tomorrow.

This was one election Wallace Barrett couldn’t win with a press conference. Barrett might win over thousands of viewers, but the only twelve votes that counted would not be watching. They were the ones who would determine his fate. And they were the ones, Ben knew, who at that point had been given no reason to doubt that Wallace Barrett was guilty.

B
EN AND CHRISTINA HEADED
back from the courthouse to the Adam’s Mark in silence. Ben knew he was being sullen and uncompanionable, but he couldn’t help himself. It all seemed too grim and hopeless.

Finally, Christina broke the silence. “Ben, I know things look gloomy at the moment, but I think you’re doing a great job in there.
Sans pareil
.”

“Thanks for the kind words, but we’re losing, and you know it.”

“You’ve been losing from the second you accepted this loser case. Any little thing you can do to improve the situation—and you’ve done several already—is pure gravy. And a testament to what a fine trial attorney you’re becoming. You shouldn’t get so upset about every single unfavorable ruling. You know how trials go.
Comme çi comme ça.
” She poked him in the side. “Look, when this is all over, let’s go camping again, okay? You and me, backpacking in Heavener State Park. I’ll show you the runestone left by the Nordic discoverers of this continent.”

Ben smiled faintly. “Deal.”

Despite the late hour, Ben found both Jones and Loving working at their desks at the hotel room. They took no particular notice when he walked in.

“I’m back,” Ben said.

Jones glanced up quickly. “Hi, Boss.”

Loving echoed with a grunt.

Ben was perplexed by their marked lack of interest. “Is something wrong?”

“Nope.” Jones continued typing away.

“Well … have I done something to offend you?”

Jones frowned, still typing. “Not that I’m aware of. Have you done something that you feel guilty about?”

“No, but …” He dropped his briefcase. “Normally when I come back from court, you two are hanging by the door like vultures, pumping me for information about what happened. Now I’m handling the trial of the century, and you guys act as if you’re not even interested.”

Jones pivoted around in his chair on wheels. “But, Boss—” He pointed to the television in the corner of the room. “We saw it all as it happened. Court TV, remember?”

Of course. “You watched the whole first day?”

“Right.” He stopped momentarily. “Don’t worry. I still got my work done.”

“Oh, no doubt.” Ben craned his neck awkwardly. “So … how’d I look?”

Jones smiled. “You really want to know?”

Good question. “I suppose.”

Jones sprang out of his chair. “First of all, ditch the suit.”

“Huh?”

“That gray pinstripe. Lose it. The stripes show up wavy and blurred on television. It’s very distracting. Gray isn’t good for color television, anyway. Makes you look evil, like a Mob lawyer or something. Stick to the Reagan ensemble-—blue suit, red tie. It’s a winning combination.”

“I see.” Ben tugged at his tie. “Anything else?”

“Well, yes, now that you mention it. Stop doing that.”

Ben froze. “Doing what?”

“That thing you do with your tie. Adjusting it. Whatever.”

Ben slowly lowered his hands. “It’s just a nervous habit.”

“Exactly. And it makes you look nervous. Not exactly the message you want coming from the defense lawyer.”

“Hmm. I’ll see what I can do.”

“And while you’re at it, don’t move your head around so much.”

“Huh?”

“Your head. It bobs when you talk.”

“That’s because my words carry great conviction.”

“Well, whatever it is, stop it. It’s very distracting on television. It makes you look like one of those plastic birds that dips its beak down into a glass of water.”

“I’m trying to impress a jury, not the folks back home.”

“Hey, you’re the one who asked.” He turned back to his work. “Other than that, you’re not bad. You’ve even got some camera appeal. Boyish charm and all that. Maybe you could get one of those news show jobs commenting on legal issues. Sort of a Geraldo Rivera gig.”

“How wonderful. Anything else I should know about?”

“Nothing comes to—oh, there is this one thing.”

“Yes?”

“You’re being sued by Channel Eight.”

“What, for not giving interviews?”

“Nooo.” Jones tossed him the pleadings. “For smashing their minicam against the courthouse wall.”

“Oh, that.”

“I was hoping maybe if you offered them an exclusive interview, they’d settle for costs.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Whatever. It’s your funeral.”

Truer words were never spoken, Ben thought. It still embarrassed and terrified him. He’d never even thought he had a temper, much less one that could get so incredibly out of control. But he knew now that he did.

He knew now that he truly was his father’s son.

He turned his attention to Loving. “How’s the investigation going?”

“It ain’t,” Loving groused. “I ain’t got a thing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You and me both.” He stood and shoved his enormous hands in his pockets. “I haven’t been able to find a trace of that weasel I saw at O’Brien Park, much less link him to Whitman.”

“Mmm. Well, keep trying.”

Loving pounded a ham-fist down on the desk. “Damn. I never should have let that creep get the drop on me.”

“You couldn’t help that.”

“I could’ve. And I should’ve. I screwed up.”

Ben gave him a friendly slap on the back. “Cut yourself some slack. You did the best you could.”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t good enough.”

Ben tried to sound optimistic. “I’m sure you’ll turn something up soon.” It’ll have to be soon, he thought. Because if it’s late, Wallace Barrett is going up the river, maybe on a one-way trip.

Loving glanced down at the stack of mail on his desk. “Oh yeah. You got a package.” He tossed a medium-size padded folder to Ben. “I already sent it through an x-ray machine. It ain’t a bomb.”

“I’m sure the owners of the Adam’s Mark will be glad to hear that.” Ben took the package and pulled open the staples sealing it shut. He reached in and withdrew …

A videotape.

All at once, Ben’s blood ran cold. He held the tape between two fingers, like a bomb. Despite the fact that the tape barely weighed a pound, his arm trembled.

He checked inside the folder. No letter, no words of explanation or description. No label on the tape itself.

Just like before.

“Have we got a VCR in here?” Ben asked quietly.

“In the bedroom.” Jones pointed without looking up.

Ben entered the bedroom, flipped on the TV, and plugged the tape into the VCR. A few moments later, the machine whirred to life.

This time, there was no mystery about the image that filled the television screen. It was an outside view of Ben’s office—Ben’s former office.

Before the explosion.

The camera was hand-held, or perhaps shoulder-held, and the shots were taken from the opposite side of the street. Ben could just make out the reflection on glass; the cameraman must have shot through a pane of glass. He had probably broken into the empty space that used to be the bar.

About thirty seconds after the tape began, Ben saw three figures emerge from the front door of his former office. It was him. Just behind and on either side of him were Christina and Jones. He was pulling them out the door. The expressions on their faces were wild, panic-stricken. They raced across the street and out of the range of the camera.

Barely a second later, Ben saw his office burst into flames. The noise of the explosion was just as deafening as it had been in real life. Ben found himself reliving the horror of the moment, the flying debris, the smoke, the collapsing infrastructure. It was horrible, nightmarish. But the most nightmarish part of it all …

Ben’s knees sagged. He dropped down onto the edge of the hotel room bed.

He had been there. The maniac had been there.

He was there with his camera, taking pictures, recording the whole hideous incident for posterity. He had been ten, maybe twenty feet away from them when it happened.

He could’ve killed Ben if he had wanted to. But he didn’t. Not then, anyway. He wanted to play with him first. He wanted to torture him. He wanted him to suffer.

He had been there.

Jones entered the bedroom. “So what’s the—” His eyes darted to the television screen, and his voice disappeared. “Oh my God.” Jones dropped onto the side of the bed beside Ben and stared slack-jawed at the flickering image on the television screen. “I don’t believe it.”

The smoke cloud on the television screen billowed out, almost obscuring the office ruins.

And then they heard the laugh.

It started soft, then grew louder, larger and louder, strong in its undisguised malevolence. In its hatred.

It was him.
He had been there.

After what seemed an eternity, the horrible laughter faded, replaced by a voice that was both threatening and merry.

“Sick heart,” the voice said over and over again. “Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart.”

A
FTER A LONG AND
mostly sleepless night, Ben dragged himself back into the courtroom. The scene was much as it had been the day before. Reporters and sightseers crowded the aisles and offered their opinions to anyone who would listen. There were several familiar faces in the courtroom, and several city council members, including Whitman.

Despite her traumatic experience the day before, Cynthia Taylor was back, sitting silently in one of the front rows where the jury couldn’t miss her, where she had undoubtedly been strategically placed by the prosecution. There were several other people he couldn’t identify but recognized from the day before; the fact that they seemed to have reserved seats told Ben they must have some importance. Potential witnesses, perhaps, or maybe writers taking notes for their forthcoming best-sellers.

Wallace Barrett was already in his seat at the defendant’s table, with three men from the sheriff’s office standing discreetly in the background. Ben slid into the chair beside him.