Murder One

7

THE VERY FACT THAT Ben was being taken to court for his arraignment told him that this was not being handled like a run-of-the-mill case. These days, in Tulsa County, most defendants appeared for their arraignments by closed-circuit television from the jailhouse—what the cons called TV Court. It was simpler in many respects; it saved the sheriffs office the trouble and risk involved in hauling defendants out of the jail and across the plaza to the courtroom just so they could make a two-minute appearance that didn’t amount to anything anyway. Arraignments were a vestigial holdover from the Constitution; they prevented arrestees from languishing in jail indefinitely, but didn’t accomplish much else.

The second clue Ben received that this was not your garden-variety arraignment was that it was being handled for the prosecution by Nick Dexter—the same man who had tried Keri Dalcanton. Arraignments were typically handled by D.A. interns—law students, basically—which was another sign of how important everyone thought they were.

Except today. Today everything was different.

“The next case on the docket is State versus Kincaid.” Judge Collier ripped through his docket like a speed reader; his only goal was to conclude before lunch. “Is this the defendant?”

“Yes, sir,” Ben said, approaching the bench. He knew the judge recognized him. Ben had appeared before this judge on many previous occasions, although never as the defendant, and never in vivid orange coveralls.

“Are you represented by counsel?” Collier was young for a judge, only a few years older than Ben. He had dark hair and preppie eyeglasses; his skin was white to the point of being nearly translucent

“Yes, sir, I am.”

Christina stepped forward. “Christina McCall for the defense, your honor.”

Collier peered through his glasses. “I don’t believe I know you, Ms. McCall. Have you appeared before this court before?”

“No, sir. This is my first time.” As a lawyer, anyway. She left out the part about having just graduated from law school yesterday.

The judge scrutinized her carefully, creating an atypical pause in the otherwise rushed proceeding. Ben knew what he was thinking. These were serious charges, and he was probably contemplating whether to advise the defendant that he might want to seek a more experienced attorney. Collier used to be a defense attorney himself; this is an issue he would care about.

But he apparently decided it was none of his business. “Very well. Mr. Kincaid, you’ve been charged with concealing evidence, aiding and abetting the commission of a felony, and obstruction of justice. Do you understand the charges?”

Ben nodded. “I understand them, yes.”

“Will you waive the formal reading?”

It was tempting, given how he was being treated, to force the court to read and the prosecution to endure the painful and lengthy formal information. But his mother didn’t raise him to be spiteful. “I’ll waive.”

“May I assume you wish to enter a plea of not guilty?”

“Darn tootin’.”

“Plea of not guilty will be entered. Preliminary hearing is set for two weeks from now, Thursday at nine thirty A.M. Next case.”

“Your honor,” Christina cut in, “may I be heard?”

He shook his head. “Learn the rules, Ms. McCall. We don’t take argument at the arraignment. I’ll entertain motions at the preliminary.”

“This is a little different, your honor.”

“They always are. Next case.”

“Your honor, Mr. Kincaid is an attorney.”

“Lawyers have to follow procedure just like everybody else.”

“Your honor, I don’t think you quite understand.” Ben knew Christina was trying the judge’s patience, but he had to admire her for hanging in there. “Mr. Kincaid is an attorney charged with aiding and abetting his client. It’s the defendant they’re after. They botched that prosecution, so now they’re going after the lawyer. It’s all a ploy to reopen the case.”

“Are you talking about the Dalcanton case?” Collier’s face became stony. By the time he turned to Dexter, his eyes had narrowed significantly. “Is this true?”

Dexter was in his early thirties, handsome, with strong cheekbones that photographed well when he handled high profile cases. But none of that helped him at the moment. “That is not entirely correct, your honor.”

Judge Collier drew himself up. “If one word of it is correct, you’ve got some serious explaining to do.”

Dexter moved closer to the bench, an earnest expression on his face. “Your honor, we believe Mr. Kincaid aided and abetted Keri Dalcanton in the commission and cover-up of the violent murder of a police officer.”

“So this is about the Dalcanton case?”

“Yes. We believe Mr. Kincaid suppressed evidence—”

“This is a crock, your honor,” Christina said, interrupting. “They lost the defendant, so they’re going after the lawyer. It’s a dog-and-pony show for the appeals court. And a revenge play.”

“That’s not so,” Dexter insisted. “Kincaid’s a bona fide defendant in his own right.”

“Based on his alleged assistance to his client?” the judge asked.

“That’s right.”

“Who you were unable to convict.”

“That’s … right.”

“Mr. Dexter, this does not look good.” Collier appeared to have forgotten all about the other ten thousand cases on his docket. “How can you charge a defense attorney with concealing evidence against his own client? A defense attorney has no obligation to come forward with evidence against his client. To the contrary, he has an obligation to zealously defend and protect his client.”

Ben nodded silently. Bad break for the D.A., drawing a former defense attorney for the arraignment judge. Collier knew the score.

“But your honor, no attorney has the right to conceal physical evidence.”

“True. But the attorney can receive items in trust, can’t he?”

“Well, yes, but he can’t knowingly conceal—”

“Did the prosecution ever request that Mr. Kincaid turn over items presented to him by his client in trust?”

“Well, no. We didn’t know—”

“Do you have affirmative evidence demonstrating that he was aware he was in possession of relevant evidence?”

“Well, no, but—”

“And what’s this about aiding and abetting? How can we charge him with aiding and abetting someone you couldn’t convict in the first place?”

Dexter’s chiseled cheekbones began looking a trifle puffy. “Your honor, it’s an independent charge. Before a different judge and a different jury, we could have a different result.”

“So this man could be convicted for aiding and abetting his own client, who wasn’t convicted herself? Mr. Dexter, this stinks to high heaven.”

“It gets worse, your honor,” Christina said, seizing her opportunity. “Certain police officers have been out to get Mr. Kincaid since he won the Dalcanton case. The search of his office was based on an anonymous tip, and they almost immediately turned up a knife no one had ever seen before. Worse, in the twelve hours Mr. Kincaid has been in custody, he’s been intentionally mistreated and abused.”

“Now that’s a lie,” Dexter barked.

“Look at his face!” Christina shot back. “Do you think he got that shiner by accident? Does that happen to every defendant who comes before this court?”

Collier’s expression was grave. “Mr. Dexter, I do not like what I’m hearing.”

“Your honor,” Dexter pleaded, “I can assure you this prosecution is on the up-and-up.”

“Frankly, Mr. Dexter, right now your assurances aren’t worth a hill of beans. I can’t let you go around locking up the defense attorney every time you lose a case.”

“That isn’t what this is about. I—”

“If you can’t give me some independent charge against this man—something that doesn’t hinge on your prior failed prosecution—I’m going to bounce him.”

Dexter bit down on his lower lip. He glanced quickly at the back of the courtroom, then squared his jaw and addressed the judge. “Very well, your honor. I’d like to amend the charges against Mr. Kincaid in the information.”

“To what?”

Dexter took a deep breath before answering. “Murder. In the first degree.”