Capitol offence

14

This was simply excruciating, Ben thought, waiting for the trial to begin. It was already ten past nine. What could be taking the judge so long?

He sat at the blond library table that would be his home away from home for the next many days, probably weeks. As usual, Christina had everything so well organized a blind man could find his way through it, which was good, because once the trial began, a blind man is exactly what Ben felt like.

To his right, he saw the prosecutor assembling his team and his materials. For all he had heard about the financial disadvantage the state supposedly had when mounting a trial, it looked to Ben as if they had far more geegaws than he did. Each of the three attorneys sitting at the table-Guillerman, Patterson, and another guy Ben didn't know-all had laptops in front of them, ready to pull up a piece of evidence or testimony with a click. He also knew they had spared no expense assembling witnesses and evidence.

"You think Guillerman will do the opening himself?" he asked Christina quietly.

"I don't think he has any choice, after so much publicity. Besides, it never hurts to get media attention just before an election." She paused. "Well, in this case, it will probably hurt you."

"I'd feel better if he had passed this off to an underling."

"Me too. When the DA himself is on the job, you can be certain of one thing: he doesn't expect to lose. And he will do everything in his power to make sure he's not mistaken."

To their right, Ben saw the all-important jury box, empty for the moment, but soon to be filled with the most important people in the whole drama. Their chairs were rudimentary, and by all accounts uncomfortable, as they were packed shoulder to shoulder in a varnished plywood box. There they would sit in judgment, trying to make sense of conflicting testimony and facts, not to mention complex psychiatric testimony, without even the benefit of being able to take notes. It was a daunting duty, but one, in Ben's experience, that most jurors took very seriously.

Behind them was the gallery, two sections of twelve rows of churchlike pews. They were completely filled, and Ben knew there were many outside who had not been seated but who would be allowed to watch the proceedings on closed-circuit television in the vacant courtroom next door. There were a few people Ben recognized as prosecution witnesses, but not many. Most would come when they were needed. In many cases, they were not allowed to hear the testimony of other witnesses. Most of the people in the gallery were media professionals. They had the know-how to secure a seat, and the people running the court system wanted to keep them happy. Media coverage tended to be pro-prosecution, if only because they heightened the drama by assuming anyone arrested was probably guilty but might not be convicted. They could say the word allegedly all they wanted; it was like white noise in the background, a sound barely registered and usually ignored.

The players were all assembled, except the one who would be sitting atop the raised bench, front and center. Ben wondered if he had time to run to the bathroom. No, better to tough it out. Although intestinal distress was an unwanted companion to an opening statement, as he knew from experience.

The door from the deliberation room opened and the jurors entered the room. Most of them glanced at Dennis but did not stare. That might be a good sign. Or it could just mean that, given the enormous media coverage, they had no need to stare at a face they already knew quite well. Ben would be watching them carefully once the prosecution started offering its testimony. That could be supremely telling.

The door from Judge McPartland's chambers opened. The bailiff came in, which for a trial was the equivalent of a raised curtain. The show was about to begin.

"All rise." The instant the bailiff said the words, McPartland entered and headed toward his chair. He was seated by the time the spiel was over. "The District Court of Tulsa County is now in session, the Honorable Judge Leland McPartland presiding. Please turn off all cell phones and pagers immediately or be held in contempt. This court will now come to order."

"Please be seated," the judge said. He gazed out into the gallery, then frowned. This was a charade judges always went through, in Ben's experience, whenever there was a packed crowd. The judge evinced disapproval, as if somehow the presence of all these people might disrupt the serious business they had to conduct. In reality, Ben suspected, like most showmen, McPartland did not mind having an audience.

The judge nodded at the clerk, who nodded back. Then he did the same with the court reporter. Everyone was ready to roll. He read the case name and number, then read the indictment in short form. He noted that a jury had been selected, then gave the jurors a few preliminary instructions, mostly about the importance of arriving on time each day and not talking to the press. He was not going to sequester them; he expected them to use their own judgment and to stay away from anything pertaining to the case. And with that…

Ben gripped Dennis's wrist and squeezed it.

Here we go.