Naked Justice

Chapter 25

THE NEXT MORNING, CHRISTINA led Ben and Loving through the confusing city hall building to the large room in which the city council held its meetings. At the front of the room, the members of the city council were seated behind a table and arranged in a semicircle, with the current chairperson in the center. Microphones amplified their comments and conveyed them throughout the room, as well as over the airwaves of the local cable channel that broadcast the meetings.

They took seats near the back of the gallery. Christina had brought the file she and Jones had assembled with background information on the current city council members.

Christina passed the briefs to Ben. “Since 1989, each member of the council has been elected by a separate Tulsa district. The city government was restructured that year. You may have heard something about it, even though I know you only take the paper so you can tell when movies start.”

“I recall overhearing some discussion at the time,” Ben said dryly.

“The restructuring came as the result of a thirty-five-year battle, not to mention an NAACP lawsuit. Voters finally approved a change most comparably sized cities had made years before. It was a major brouhaha. Under the old city commission system, the majority of the councilpersons came from affluent white south Tulsa. Now, under the mayor-council system, each equally apportioned city district elects its own representative to the council. This was supposed to make city government more representative and efficient and responsive, although as a practical matter, it hasn’t made a heck of a lot of difference.”

“Who are these people?” Ben asked, scanning the semicircle before him. “I expected the most prominent citizens in the city. The movers and the shakers.”

“The movers and shakers are out moving and shaking. City council is for politicians.”

“I don’t see any faces I recognize.”

“Yeah. Of course you probably wouldn’t recognize Hillary Clinton if she was up there. But you’re right; these are not, with a few exceptions, the rich and famous. Most were single-issue candidates with a particular political axe to grind. Something that got them elected, or something that made them want to run in the first place. After all, would you want to be on the city council?”

“Well … no.”

“Of course not. Who would? It’s a lot of work for little gratitude or satisfaction. You’ve got the press watching you all the time, only reporting when you do something wrong or they uncover some bête noire or lurid secret from your past. And the city council level is too small potato to attract any of the— what’s the right word?—benefits that accrue to politicians at a higher level.”

“Someone must be running. I see bodies up there.”

“Right. The zealots, the extremists, one-issue wonders. Socially accepted monomaniacs.” Christina pointed toward the stage. “See the guy on the extreme left?”

Ben noted the tall man with the shaggy hair and full beard. He wore a T-shirt and jeans with a hole over one knee. “The one who looks sort of like Grizzly Adams?”

“Oui.”

“What’s his issue? Bad hygiene?”

“No. The environment, natch. Brian Erickson. Deep south district. The wetlands that are being paved over for the turnpike extension.”

“Let me guess. He’s against it.”

“Very insightful.”

Ben’s eyes shifted over a seat to a medium-size, middle-aged black woman. She was dressed in professional garb and carried herself with a serious, distinguished air. “Who’s she?”

“Loretta Walker,” Christina explained. “Activist lawyer. North Side district. Grew up in a poor family of eleven. First member of her family to go to college. Graduated Order of the Coif from OU law school.”

“And her cause?”

“What do you expect? She wants the North Side to look more like the South Side.”

Ben nodded. The chairman rapped his gavel on a podium and called the meeting to order. He was a short, thick man, mostly bald. He wore bifocals at the tip of his nose and spoke in a pronounced monotone. “Could we have a reading of the minutes?”

Loretta Walker, who apparently served as secretary, read the minutes, which were approved with marked disinterest. “Very good,” the chairman said. “Let’s move ahead to item number one. That’s why we’re all here today.” The first item on the agenda was what to do about the fact that the city’s mayor was currently operating out of a cell in the county jail. “The floor is now open for discussion.”

Brian Erickson led the debate. “I think this is a major embarrassment. How can we hope to accomplish anything of importance when our mayor is behind bars? He’s supposed to be the city’s moral leader, and here he is murdering his own family! No wonder the wetlands are going to hell.”

“I will remind everyone,” the chairman said lifelessly, “especially since the television cameras are upon us, that the defendant is accused but not yet convicted. Therefore it would behoove us to speak of him as the accused or the suspect rather than the murderer, regardless of how obvious the truth of the matter may seem to be.”

“We can’t jump to any conclusions,” Loretta Walker insisted. “Every time any black person comes to any prominence in this country, the powers that be try to knock him down. Clarence Thomas, Michael Jackson, O. J. Simpson, Wallace Barrett—whoever. It’s racism, pure and simple.”

“Wait a minute. We’re not here to decide whether he’s guilty.” This came from a man sitting on the right side of the podium. Medium size, dark blue suit, red tie. “We’re here to determine how best to lead this city. We’re here to do the people’s will, and God’s will. We’re here to lead the way, to be a shining star in the darkness.”

“What’s he?” Ben whispered. “Some sort of preacher?”

“No,” Christina replied, “but he might as well be. Carl Canton. Heads the local chapter of the Christian Coalition. A political action committee. Lots of ORU grads and Pat Buchanan Republicans.”

“What’s his agenda?”

“God.”

“Yeah, but in terms of policy.”

“Less welfare, less government, lower taxes. All that religious stuff.”

“When I think of all the little schoolchildren out there,” Carl Canton continued, “who may have worshiped their mayor, only to see him exposed for the man he truly is, I despair. I truly despair!” His face became flushed; his eyes wide and watery. Ben could see the camera moving in for a close-up. “Our children deserve a leader they can respect. Someone they can trust. To think of what this may do to them”—his voice broke—“it breaks my heart. Just breaks my heart!”

“Good grief,” Ben said, “he’s not going to cry, is he?”

“No telling, mon capitaine,” Christina answered. “A few tears would probably get him on the evening news. And sensitive men are in with voters right now.”

“We have no choice!” Canton bellowed. “We must impeach this man. Immediately and without hesitation.”

The councilpersons continued to debate. Another woman, Andrea Potter (“I’m a housewife and proud of it!”), sided with Canton. Christina explained that they were the family issues coalition. Walker, Erickson, and most of the others expressed their disgust over the mayor’s situation, but feared that impeachment proceedings would only bring the city more bad publicity than it already had. The chairman managed to shuffle the debate along without committing to any particular viewpoint.

“Who is this chairman, anyway?” Ben asked.

“Bailey Whitman. He’s generally considered the most powerful member of the council. He was a college football player at OU.”

“I never heard of him.”

“That’s because he played at the same time as Wallace Barrett.”

“That’s interesting.” Ben cocked his head to one side. “They went to school together?”

“You got it. They’re both the same age—thirty-eight.”

“Are you sure? Whitman looks much older.”

“Yeah. But he isn’t.”

“Hmmm.”

“Yes. Rumor mill says he was planning to run for mayor against Barrett this fall. Two old football teammates going head to head. Pretty dramatic, huh?”

“Yeah. Except that Barrett’s going to have a hard time running a campaign from behind bars.”

“Which is a nice break for Whitman, because no one thought he had the slightest chance of winning.”

“It seems the council is divided,” Chairman Whitman said, breaking his silence. “Many of you cannot bear to do nothing, but the rest of you do not want to put the city through the embarrassment of impeachment proceedings. May I suggest a third alternative? The council does have the power to declare the mayor to be incapacitated, and if it does so, it may appoint an interim mayor to serve until such time as the incapacitation is no longer present.”

Loretta Walker leaned forward. “Doesn’t incapacitation mean being sick? Physically or mentally ailing?”

“I believe,” Whitman said, pushing his bifocals up his nose, “that it means whatever a majority of us says it means.”

“But I don’t think it was intended to apply to a mayor in jail,” Walker insisted.

“That’s because no one could have possibly anticipated this humiliating turn of events. Still, it has happened, and we have to deal with it.”

“If we go your way,” Erickson inquired, “who will the interim mayor be?”

“Whomever we appoint,” Whitman replied.

“Meaning you?”

Whitman pursed his lips and knitted his brows slightly. “I’m not the only option, although, as chairman of the council, I believe I am the logical choice.”

Andrea Perkins spoke. “If we appoint you, would you serve?”

Whitman hesitated. “Although this will of course entail some personal difficulties—yes, I would serve. As many of you know, I was contemplating a run for the mayor’s office. I believe there is a strong need for change, for new blood, to sweep out the old guard and the corrupt politics of influence and to set to work making this city a better place. This is perhaps more important now than ever. So I will accept the position. And if I am successful in the coming election, then there will be no need to put the city through another wrenching change of leadership.”

After that speech, the meeting moved quickly to its conclusion. By consensus, the council declared Mayor Barrett to be incapacitated, then appointed Whitman to act as interim mayor until such time as Barrett was cleared of the charges against him, if indeed he ever was. Whitman swore to do his best to see that the transition of power was smooth and said a few words about how this was the beginning of a new “time of healing” for the city. The remaining items on the agenda were relatively trivial and the meeting was adjourned.

After the councilpersons and cameras had departed, Christina asked Ben, “So what do you think? Conspiracy to get the mayor?”

“There’s not much love lost between them, that’s for sure. Almost every one of them managed to malign him. And they didn’t hesitate to use this prosecution as an excuse to effectively put him out of office.”

“Yeah, but killing his family as part of a conspiracy to get him out of the way?

“I know. It’s hard to imagine. Especially with this bunch. They’re so disparate. Different backgrounds, differing interests. It’s hard to imagine they could get together to plot anything so involved. Not to mention evil.”

“Why d’ya think it had to be all of them?” Loving asked.

“Well, that was Barrett’s theory—”

“I don’t think so, Skipper. I read your notes on your meetin’. He thought the council was behind it, but that didn’t necessarily mean all of them was in on it. Mighta just been a few of ’em. Or even just one.”

Ben batted the side of his face with the finger. “Christina, what did you think about Bailey Whitman?”

She shrugged. “You mean regarding Barrett? It’s funny.” She thought for a moment. “Of all the councilpersons, he probably said the least nasty stuff about Barrett. But I had the impression he probably hates him the worst.”

“I had the same impression.”

“Ditto,” Loving echoed.

“He could actually have the strongest motive. Living under Barrett’s shadow at college, and now again in city government. Facing a mayoralty race he couldn’t win. Until this happened. It almost makes a certain twisted sense.” Ben pondered. “But murder?”

“Hey,” Loving said, “you know what my mama always said.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“She said, ‘Son, politics is a dirty game.’ ”

“Your mother was quite the philosopher.”

Loving chuckled. “Well, she may not have gone to college or nothin’, Skipper, but she was one smart lady just the same. She knew what she was talkin’ about.”

Ben rose to his feet, slapped Loving on the shoulder. “Loving, I think you may just be right. Thanks.”

“Hey,” he said, arms spread wide, “don’t thank me. Thank my mother.”