Naked Justice

Chapter 20

BEN PEERED THROUGH THE windshield of his beat-up Honda Accord. “Where is this place, anyway? I don’t usually get this far south. And you still haven’t told me where it is exactly that we’re going.”

“We’re almost there,” Christina said enigmatically. “Turn onto Yale and head south.”

The light at the intersection was green, so Ben swooped through and hit a hard right.

“And you might want to slow down.”

“Nothing personal, Christina, but I hate passengers who try to tell me how to—”

Suddenly the road before him made a sharp ninety-degree swerve to the left. Ben twisted his steering wheel around, barely making the curve. As soon as he successfully completed the maneuver, he saw another equally sharp hairpin curve, this one twisting to the right.

Ben pulled the wheel hard the other way and hit his brakes, barely making the second turn. “Jiminy Christmas,” he muttered. He slowed down to about twenty and cautiously threaded his way through the equally sharp remaining curves. “What is this place?”

“Dead-Man’s Curve, Tulsa style,” Christina explained.

“Man, if I’d been going any faster, I would’ve gone right off the road.”

“A sad fact that has been discovered by many before you. How do you think the place got its name? This stretch between Eighty-first and Ninety-first is one of the worst in the city, especially at night. People who weren’t even aware they were speeding have totalled their cars here.”

“Well, next time you steer me toward Dead-Man’s Curve or anything else with a grim nickname, give me some warning, all right?”

“I don’t want to affront your manhood.”

“After all, I know how you hate passengers who try to tell you—”

“Christina!”

She smiled, and didn’t say a word for the rest of the drive.

Ben peered through the glass window in the door. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Christina frowned. “You said you wanted to talk to her.”

“Couldn’t you arrange a nice normal interview? Like in an office, maybe?”

“She refused.”

“So you came up with this!”

“Pardonnez moi. It was the best I could do.”

“Christina—”

“It was this or nothing, Ben. Take it or leave it.”

Ben sighed. He peered through the window to the main studio in the Midtown All-American Aerobic Salon. Ten women were scattered through the studio in rough formation facing a full-wall mirror. They were all stretching, warming up. They were dressed in leotards, mostly pink and purple, and body suits that wrapped around their torsos and thonged over their backsides. Headbands were de rigueur.

“This is not going to work,” Ben murmured.

“C’mon, Ben, give it the old college try. These women do this three times a week. Surely you can survive it once.”

“I’m not complaining because it’s too hard. I’m complaining because it’s stupid!”

“Right.”

“Look, you want me to do push-ups, I can do push-ups. You want sit-ups, I’ll do sit-ups. I can do jumping jacks all night long. But I’m not going to do all this swishy-wooshy, dancy-wancy, pseudo-sweaty stuff.”

Christina laid a hand on his shoulder. “Ben, you may not be the most coordinated guy in the world …”

“That is not what I’m complaining about!”

“Uh-huh. Look, when I contacted Cynthia Taylor, Caroline Barrett’s sister, she absolutely refused to talk to the lawyer representing Wallace Barrett, whom she despises. I tried every trick, every fib, every canard I know, but she wouldn’t change her mind. Short of sending Loving over to threaten her with bodily harm, I saw no way to change her mind. But after a little investigation, I discovered that she’s the instructor in this aerobics class.”

“And your brilliant plan is that if I sweat with her for half an hour, she’ll agree to talk to me?”

“No. But after each session, she makes herself available for private counseling with members of her class …”

Ben shook his head. “I’m not going to forget this, Christina.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Ben entered the aerobics studio dressed, thanks to Christina’s prior instructions, in his green gym shorts and Beethoven T-shirt. He noticed everyone else was wearing snazzy name-brand exer-outfits with sparkling white high-top tennies. His sneakers, which were at least ten years old, were scuffed and brown and had holes over both big toes.

He did not blend in.

Ben took an unobtrusive position in the far corner.

“Psst.”

Christina again. She was standing in the next row over, holding a large rectangular block. “Don’t forget your bench.”

“My what?”

“Your bench. This is a steps class.”

Ben walked to the far wall where the rectangular blocks were stacked. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see. Don’t forget to get a set of weights, too.”

Ben obliged.

A few moments later, Cynthia Taylor bounced into the room. As might be suspected, she was tall and thin and perfectly shaped. Her headband was a pastel tie-dye.

“All right, class!” she said, clapping her hands. “Let’s gooooo!”

She punched a button on a tape deck resting in a folding chair, and a dance tune with lots of synthesizers and a prominent beat burst out.

“What is that?” Ben asked, wincing.

“That’s music, silly,” Christina shouted back. “To help you keep the rhythm.”

“I don’t know what it is,” Ben replied, “but it is definitely not music.”

Ben diverted his attention from the painfully loud and bizarre lyrics (“Se’s a maniac, maaaan-i-ac I know … “) and tried to follow Cynthia Taylor’s fancy footwork. She was doing a sort of reverse box step, with the bench in the middle. Left foot floor, right foot up. Switch around, left foot up, right foot down.

Ben tried to copy her movements, but he was about three steps behind and soon was totally confused. He looked in the mirror and suddenly realized that the entire class was facing the other direction. He was facing the mirror; they were facing him.

“Don’t forget the switchback on the horseshoe,” Cynthia Taylor shouted.

“The what?” Ben said, but his words were lost in the general clamor. The music switched from one raucous rhythmic number to another that, as far as Ben could tell, was musically indistinguishable from the first.

“Keep in step for the pirouette,” Cynthia said. “Here we goooo!”

Ben watched as the rest of the class leaped on top of their benches with one foot down and the other outstretched behind them, arms reaching forward. They looked like the figure of Mercury in the FTD logo. That was followed by another involved box step on the ground. Then they switched legs, kicked forward, drew their knee up to their chin, and started over again.

“Okay,” Cynthia shouted. “Everyone got it? Let’s goooo!”

Ben’s protestations to the contrary, the class kicked into high gear. The music’s tempo accelerated, as if someone had switched a record player to the 78 speed. The class whirled through the complex motions faster than Ben could follow. Tasmanian devils in stretch pants.

He jumped up on the bench left foot first, but with a bit too much force, and flew off to the other side, bumping into a petite brunette.

“Oops. Sorry,” he said, turning a bright crimson. The woman laughed, along with about half the rest of the class.

Ben checked Christina to see how she was handling this complicated barrage of movements. Unfortunately, she seemed to be doing great. She was following the steps in perfect rhythm, making it appear effortless.

“Well, if she can get it,” Ben thought sullenly, “so can I. Not very coordinated indeed.”

He launched back into the routine. He held out his right foot and leaped toward the block, careful this time not to overdo it. Unfortunately, he undershot the mark. His toe hit the block but the rest of his foot did not. He slid backward, tumbling onto his backside and rolling into a gray-haired woman in the row behind him.

“Omigosh,” Cynthia said, running over to check on him. “Are you all right?”

Ben was still in a heap on the floor. “I’m just fine,” he said icily. “Don’t stop for me.”

“Well … all right.” She returned to her bench.

The woman he had practically tackled bent down and outstretched her hand. “Looks like you’re having a spell of trouble, sonny. Can I help?”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s important to stay in shape, you know,” she said. “You don’t want to be trampled by us grandmas.”

After the session was over, Ben huffed and puffed out of the studio, leaning against the wall for support.

“Let’s get out of here,” he gasped.

“Get out? Have you forgotten why we came?”

“No.” He tried to slow his breathing and swallow more air. “I’m just not capable of doing it.”

“Give yourself a minute. You’ll come around.”

A thought occurred. “You seem to be doing all right. In fact, you’re barely sweating.”

Christina smiled, bouncing her full red hair around her shoulders. “Well, I work out regularly, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Not at a fancy place like this. At the Y downtown. This was a breeze compared to”—she stopped suddenly—“Oh, I mean, not that this was easy or anything.”

“Thanks.” He grimaced. “Shouldn’t we shower before we see her?”

“No. She’ll only be in her office for ten minutes. Then she has another class.”

“She’s going to do this again? What is she, a masochist?”

Christina led Ben to Cynthia Taylor’s small glass-enclosed office. They knocked, then stepped inside, Ben in the lead.

“Oh, my goodness,” Cynthia said, rushing forward. “How are you? Does your foot hurt? Have you taken your pulse recently?”

“I’m fine,” Ben insisted, with not a little irritation. “I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” She positioned herself behind her small desk. “You know, there’s a beginner’s class that meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays you might be interested in. Of course, most of the other participants are children, but still—”

“I didn’t actually come for exercise counseling,” Ben said. Christina jabbed him in the side. Apparently she had hoped for a more subtle approach.

“Oh?” Cynthia said. “Then why?”

“To tell you the truth, I wanted to ask about your late sister. And your brother-in-law.”

Cynthia’s face became stony and cold. “I’m sorry. I’m not here to satisfy the perverse curiosity of thrill-seekers.”

“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” Ben said. “I’m a lawyer.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not the one who’s had people pestering me all week, are you? The clown representing Wallace?”

Ben tilted his head to one side.

“You sorry son of a bitch. You think I’d help the man who killed my sister? I want you out of here now.”

“Ms. Taylor,” Ben said calmly, “I just want to talk.”

“I’m serious. If you’re not out of here in five seconds, I’m calling Security.”

“Ms. Taylor, because you are a witness for the prosecution, I could subpoena you. But I’d rather not do that.”

“What makes you think I’m going to testify?”

“Let’s call it a strong hunch. Are you?”

She folded her arms across her chest, covering the sweat-drenched triangle on the front of her leotard. “Damn straight.”

“May I ask why?”

“Why? Because I want that sick bastard put behind bars. I want him executed. He thinks that because he’s such a goddamn big shot he can get away with murder. I’m going to prove he’s wrong.”

“But what are you going to say? You weren’t there at the time of the murder, were you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Did you ever hear Wallace say he was going to kill your sister?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Then what are you going to testify about?”

There was a protracted silence before she spoke again. “I’m going to tell the jury the truth. I’m going to tell them that Wallace Barrett was a wife beater.”

Damn. He’d been afraid of this. “When?”

“Repeatedly. All the time. He got off on it.”

“I can’t believe a man as prominent as Wallace Barrett could be beating his wife without people knowing about it.”

“Some people knew.” Her voice was quieter now. “I knew. And the police knew.”

“The police?” Mike’s warning returned to Ben’s mind. “Had she called them?”

“Yes, twice. He was such a bastard.”

Ben glanced at Christina. He could see the tension in her face. She could live with representing a murderer, but a wife beater was an entirely different kettle of fish. “Can you tell me about it?”

“One night about eight months ago, he flew into a rage because—get this—he couldn’t find the tie he wanted to wear to some party. He ripped her dress off, beat her up. She had bruises all along her arms, legs. Even her face. Then he pushed her outside and locked the door. She was trapped out on the front lawn, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, in front of everyone. All the neighbors must have seen. Finally, she went to the man next door’s place—Harvey, I think his name is—and called the police.”

“Did you see the bruises?”

“No. I was living in Chicago at the time. But she told me about it the next day on the phone.”

“So why didn’t the police lock Wallace up?”

Cynthia’s eyes went down toward the desk. “She wouldn’t press charges. There was nothing they could do.”

“What about the neighbors?”

“None of them would talk. Said they hadn’t seen anything.”

“Ms. Taylor, did it occur to you that that might be because they really didn’t see anything? Because your sister made the story up?”

Her eyes lit like fire. “I’ve known Wallace Barrett since the week Caroline met him. He’s always been an abuser. He’s never cared about anyone other than himself.”

“And none of this has ever come out? Even when he ran for mayor?”

“Don’t underestimate Wallace. He’s a very smart man. He knows how to … stifle dissent.”

“Come on, this is almost as paranoid as—” Ben stopped himself. Almost as paranoid as Wallace Barrett talking about how the city council was out to get him. What was wrong with these people? “What was the second incident?”

“Barely a month ago,” Cynthia replied. “This time he was in a jealous rage because she’d had the audacity to talk to some man she met at a party he dragged her to. He went out of control, screamed about how she was having an affair, sleeping around. Called her a whore, a bitch. Then he socked her right in the eye. She had to wear sunglasses for weeks.”

“Were you present during this incident?”

“No. But I saw the black eye.”

“She could’ve gotten that any number of ways.”

“Bullshit. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s no jury in the room, so spare me this crap.”

“You understand, I have to consider all possible explanations.”

“I know exactly what you’re trying to do.” She drew in her breath. “I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”

“If Caroline Barrett was being battered, as you claim, it’s difficult for me to believe she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“She did tell someone. She told me.”

“You know what I mean. The district attorney. The media.”

Cynthia fell back in her chair. “How much do you know about battered women, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Not that much,” he admitted.

“It’s a recognized syndrome. A disease, really. It stems from our inherent genetic fight-or-flight response. When a woman is frightened or in danger, she goes through a series of emotional reactions. Avoidance mechanisms. Unconsciously she finds ways of dealing with the threat, like denial, repression, minimization. It’s all been documented.”

“Excuse me,” Ben said. “Are you a psychologist?”

“I’m working on my degree at TU,” she answered.

Ben made a note.

“Some women go through a sort of seesaw effect—anxiety rises until avoidance and numbing set in. Other women experience both symptoms simultaneously, creating conflicting emotions that make it almost impossible to act.”

“Still, Caroline Barrett was rich, pretty, smart. She doesn’t fit the image of a battered woman.”

“That’s not an image you’re talking about. It’s a stereotype. And it’s wrong. Many battered women have successful careers and are perfectly capable of expressing anger when they don’t believe they’re in danger. Some are even aggressive, or are perceived by friends as domineering. Abuse occurs in every race, ethnic background, educational level, and socioeconomic group. And don’t believe that right-wing hogwash that domestic violence is exaggerated. If anything, it’s underexaggerated, because it’s underreported. And when it finally comes to the surface, the response is almost always the same. They avoid, they deny, they pretend it didn’t happen. And they don’t report the son of a bitch who beat them.”

“Yes, but getting back to this case—why didn’t Caroline just leave?”

“They don’t leave because leaving doesn’t stop the violence. Often it intensifies it. These creeps are terrified of separation; the woman walks out and they become stalkers, harassing her at every opportunity. Studies have shown that a woman’s life may actually be in more danger after she leaves. And if you have two small children in your care, that may be a risk you simply cannot take.”

“I gather this will be the gist of your testimony?”

“That’s up to the district attorney. I’ll answer whatever he asks.”

“Are you a member of any organizations, Ms. Taylor? Any women’s groups, perhaps?”

“I’m the president of the local chapter of DVIS—the Domestic Violence Intervention Services.”

Ben nodded. “DVIS would probably love to have a high-profile case that would dramatize its cause, wouldn’t it?”

Cynthia glared at him. “So that’ll be your pitch. You’re a great human being, Mr. Kincaid.”

“I was just asking a question. Look, my client tells me he didn’t beat his wife. He says the city council is out to get him. I have to believe him until the evidence proves otherwise.”

“The evidence is all around you. You’re just not seeing it.”

“That’s what everyone says. You’re all so anxious to convict you don’t consider the alternatives. I’m not going to fall into that trap.”

“My sister was the one in the trap!” There was a stuttering noise, a catch in her throat. “I—tried to talk to her. I tried to get her out of there, to get her somewhere safe. But she wouldn’t listen.” Her voice flattened, as if all the air went out of her. “And I didn’t insist. I thought there was still time. If only I had known …” Her steely eyes became soft and watery.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Taylor,” Ben said quietly.

Her chin rose. “Don’t be sorry. Give up the legal shenanigans and let them give Wallace Barrett the lethal injection he deserves.”

Ben folded his notepad. “You really want to see him convicted, don’t you?”

“Do I want the man who beat and killed my sister to pay for his crimes? You’re damn right I do.”

“You’d be willing to do almost anything to see him punished, wouldn’t you? Or say anything?”

Cynthia’s eyes burned across the desk to Ben’s. “Was there anything else, Mr. Kincaid? I have a class to teach.”

“No. Thank you for your time.” Ben led Christina outside to the weight-lifting area.

“Ben,” Christina whispered once they were outside, “I have some real problems—”

“We’ll work it out later.”

“But—”

“We’ll work it out, Christina. I promise. But later.”

I’ll work it out for you later, he thought to himself, because first I have to work it out for myself.

As soon as Ben and Christina left the office, Cynthia Taylor picked up the receiver to her, a large office desktop phone with a million buttons and an LED readout. After the line connected, she gave the receptionist an extension number. A few minutes later, she reached the party on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, it’s me. Cynthia.” Slight pause. “I don’t care what you told me, I need to talk to you now, and this is where you are.”

A loud and angry voice grated on the other end. “Yeah?” she answered. “Well, it is an emergency. Guess who was in my office? … Wrong. The creep who’s representing Wallace … Right. In my office.”

There was a burst of static. “Of course I didn’t invite him here. I didn’t even know who he was. He huffed and puffed his way through one of my classes, then came to my office during the counseling period and started asking questions.” Pause. “Yeah, well, I thought you’d want to know.”

She listened patiently while the voice on the other end of the line spewed forth for more than a minute.

“Well, whatever you’re planning to do, you’d better do it fast and do it well. I think he knows a lot more than you think he does.” She slammed the receiver down, grabbed her towel, and headed back to her class.

As soon as Cynthia Taylor was out of sight, Ben and Christina stepped out from behind a tall stack of plastic mats.

“And you accuse me of having wacky ideas,” Christina groused. “Why are we still here?”

“There’s something she wasn’t telling me,” Ben said. He led her toward the now-empty office.

“I thought the same thing,” Christina replied. “But it doesn’t explain why we were crouched behind the gym equipment.”

“It’s hard for me to believe she could be part of this purported conspiracy,” Ben explained, “especially if it culminated in the death of her sister. Still, there was something odd about the way she acted. If she is involved or feels guilty for any other reason, then our visit might’ve shaken her up. If we shook her up, she might report in to whoever she’s working with. And did you notice what she did the second she thought we were gone?”

Christina nodded. “She made a phone call.”

“Right.” He checked both ways down the corridors. They were empty. He grabbed the doorknob to Cynthia’s office and ducked inside. “Come on.”

Christina followed, closing the door behind him. “Do you know what will happen if we get caught?”

“So don’t get caught.” Ben scanned the desktop. “We’ll only be in here for a minute. I just wanted to see if we could figure out who she called.”

“Well, Sherlock, if I were you—”

“Don’t try to talk me out of it. We won’t be in here long.”

“Fine, but—”

“Shh. I’m thinking.”

Christina folded her arms and arched an eyebrow.

“I know.” Ben picked up a pad of paper on the desktop. “Maybe she scribbled down the number.”

“But why would she—”

“Shh.” Ben picked up a pencil and lightly drew across the sheet. “Maybe we can pick up an imprint.”

“Ben, this is pathetic.”

“Don’t be so negative.” He continued scribbling. Nothing appeared. “Rats. Didn’t work.”

“Ben, if you want to know—”

“Would you stop already? I’m detecting.”

Christina tapped her foot.

“I’ve got it.” Ben grabbed an open phone book on the corner of the desk. “Maybe she looked the number up. Maybe she left an imprint or smudge next to the number.”

“Ben, you’ve been watching too many late movies.”

“Always the skeptic.” He held the book up to his nose and scanned the pages. “Blast. I don’t see anything.”

“Ben, if you want to know—”

“Shh. I’m working.”

She threw up her hands in disgust. “I can’t stand this any longer.” She walked up to the phone console and pressed the Redial button. Half a second later, a seven-digit number appeared on the LED readout. The phone began dialing. “There’s your number, Sherlock. Hope I didn’t waste too much of your valuable detecting time.”

Ben stared at the readout. “I was going to try that next.”

“No doubt. Shall we see who it is?” She pushed the Hands-free button for the speakerphone. A few seconds later they both heard the line answered.

“Good afternoon. You’ve reached City Hall. The city council is now in session. How may I direct your call?”