Naked Justice

Chapter 31

BEN HAD HEARD THE phrase media circus bandied about by lawyers, but it had never had any real meaning for him until now. As he approached the plaza outside the state courthouse at Denver and Fifth, the press descended on him. Flashbulbs burst in his eyes; minicam spotlights blinded him. A multitude of microphones were thrust under his nose, many of them bearing call letters he couldn’t even identify. This many reporters hadn’t been gathered together in one place in this state since the Oklahoma City bombing. And the trial hadn’t even started yet.

“Mr. Kincaid! Would you care to give us a comment?”

“No.” Ben tried to push past them, but he was massively outnumbered.

“Mr. Kincaid! Tell us what you expect to happen in there today.”

“No.”

“Don’t you have a responsibility to the American public?”

“No.”

“Your client was willing to talk to us. Why won’t you?”

“If you’ll excuse me.” Ben tried to push out of the circle, but no one was budging.

“Look!” A voice emerged from somewhere behind them. “Wallace Barrett’s in the courtroom! And he’s got a gun!”

As one, the reportorial massé broke and ran toward the courthouse, practically trampling Ben in the process. When they were gone, only Ben and Christina, the one who had sounded the alert, remained.

“Since I know Barrett isn’t being brought from the jailhouse for this hearing, I suppose he isn’t waving a gun around either, right?”

Christina blushed. “I thought you looked like you needed some help.”

“You were right.” Ben took her arm and escorted her into the courthouse. They took the stairs, which allowed them to avoid the reporters and were probably quicker than the elevators anyway. At the sixth-floor landing, just outside the stairwell door, they found Jack Bullock propped up against the wall.

“Hiding out?” Ben asked.

Bullock almost smiled. “Just taking a breather.”

“I thought you liked the press.”

“All things in moderation.” He pushed himself away from the wall. “You sure you still want to go through with this, Ben?”

“Well, it seems a bit late in the game to fold.”

Bullock shook his head sadly. “I just don’t see any upside in this for you. All you’re going to accomplish in there is the absolute and final destruction of your reputation. And when it’s all over, Barrett’s still going to spend the rest of his life in prison. Assuming he avoids the lethal injection.”

“Jack, tell me something. Off the record, away from the press. Have you even considered the possibility that you might be wrong? That Barrett might be innocent? After all, your case is entirely based on circumstantial evidence.”

“Most murder prosecutions are. So what? I’ve got DNA and blood evidence linking him to the scene. I’ve got a neighbor who saw him fleeing from the scene. And I’ve got about half a billion people who saw him running from the police. If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck …”

“Right. Never mind.” Ben opened the door and the three of them stepped out into the main hallway. Before he could move, the elevator bell dinged and the doors parted. Cynthia Taylor emerged. Her face was red and blotchy and she was clutching a tissue, trying to blot the steady stream of tears running down her face.

“What’s she doing here?” Ben asked.

“Witness for the prosecution,” Bullock murmured.

“At a hearing?”

Bullock shrugged. In other words, he wasn’t telling.

Almost as soon as Cynthia emerged, the print and television journalists swarmed around her. A barrage of questions came at once.

“Ms. Taylor, who do you think killed your sister?”

“Was your sister a battered woman?”

“Is the report in the Enquirer that Wallace Barrett threatened your sister’s life true?”

“Please,” she whispered. She held up her hands, trying futilely to push them away. “I don’t want to answer any questions.”

The questions continued to fly, so quickly Ben couldn’t even understand what was being asked. Instead of backing off, they were pressing forward, taking advantage of her inability to fend them off. Cynthia was dissolving, overcome by grief and tears.

“Please,” Cynthia sobbed. “I just want to be left alone.”

One of the telejournalists from Channel Eight jumped forward, tugging her cameraman close behind her. “Ms. Taylor,” the reporter said, “according to the coroner’s report, your sister was stabbed twenty-seven times. How does that make you feel?”

Ben felt his teeth grinding together so hard he could practically taste his fillings. His whole body began to tremble with anger. Enough.

He marched into the center of the commotion, grabbed the minicam perched on the operator’s shoulder, and threw it across the hallway. It slammed against the opposite wall, fell and shattered into pieces.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the female reporter shrieked.

“Ending the interview,” Ben replied.

“Do you have any idea how much those cameras cost?”

“Bill me.” Ben took Cynthia by the arm and escorted her to the courtroom. He seated her on the front row behind the prosecution.

“Thank you,” Cynthia whispered, dabbing her eyes.

“No problem.” Ben headed toward the front of the courtroom.

“Thanks for the assist,” Bullock said as Ben passed. “Although, you know, they’ll crucify you now on the evening news.”

Ben threw his briefcase down on his own table. “Life is full of little trade-offs.”

Bullock tilted his head to one side. “Since when did you start doing favors for prosecution witnesses?”

“She isn’t just a witness,” Ben said. “She’s a human being.” Ben dropped into his chair and tried to get a grip on himself. His body was still trembling. What had come over him? It was as if he had suddenly been seized by an unstoppable rage; he had totally lost control. What he had done might seem heroic to Cynthia Taylor, but he knew it was just nuts. Utterly uncalled for. What had come over him?

The reporters flowed into the courtroom, setting up at their various stations. Ben scanned the panorama in amazement. It really was a three-ring circus. How could anyone imagine that any serious work could be done in the midst of all this showbiz fol-de-rol? How could anyone pretend that their presence wouldn’t affect the proceedings, that lawyers and judges and witnesses wouldn’t want to—wouldn’t be forced to play to the cameras? They were taking a system imperfect at best and making it a joke.

He’d never seen anything like it, he thought, but almost immediately he realized that he had. He had been involved in one other case that received inordinate media attention—far more than it deserved, in fact. Or perhaps it just seemed so, because everything about it was so personal.

When Ben arrived at the Oklahoma City courthouse on the first day of his father’s trial, he was instantly plunged into a sea of chaos. The hallway was jam-packed with people; there was barely enough space to breathe, much less move. Bailiffs tried to maintain order, but it was mostly futile. Anything could happen in here, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

Ben went to the courthouse with his mother, trying to be the strong shoulder he knew she needed. She was in worse shape than he had ever seen her; she seemed to have aged ten years in two months. That steely facade, that impenetrable fortress had been breached. Social contacts had thinned; invitations had almost dried up altogether. He wondered if she would ever recover herself.

It wasn’t that she had been ostracized; she was just in purgatory. They were waiting to see what happened. “After all,” she had explained to him earlier, “almost every successful man faces something like this in the course of his career. The small-and-lowly love to bring down the high-and-mighty.”

The prosecution had been merciless, and the press had lapped up everything they said. Everything Ben read left little doubt but that his father knew the EKCV was not ready for implementation, but nonetheless proceeded with the sale of stock using falsified data to fill out the prospectuses, and then, in order to appease the shareholders hungry for results, began human experimentation even though it had not been nearly well enough researched, resulting in two deaths. The charge was manslaughter in the second degree.

Ben escorted his mother down the hallway toward the courtroom. “Oh, no,” he whispered.

Outside the courtroom, he saw the surviving families of both of the men who had died with the EKCV faltering in their chests. He recognized their pictures from the newspapers; they had been interviewed repeatedly. One man, Herbert Richardson, left behind two grown daughters and a tiny grandchild. The other man, Tony Ackerman, was much younger; he left behind a widow in her early forties and a boy only thirteen years old.

Who the hell had allowed these people to flank the only entrance to the courtroom? Stage-managed by the press, no doubt. Some photojournalist looking for a tense moment to fill out the evening newscast or the front page, never giving a thought to what effect this manipulation might have on the principals. Including Ben’s mother.

He continued walking at a steady pace, gripping his mother’s arm. They couldn’t avoid them; they could only hope to get it over with as soon as possible.

They passed closest to the Ackermans, the woman and the boy. She was holding up well; she did not react overtly, but her face showed the strain and her eyes told Ben she knew who they were. The boy was in much worse shape. Tears streamed down his face; he was choking and gritting his teeth.

“Just keep walking,” his mother whispered, but Ben found that he couldn’t. He had to reach out; he had to make some attempt to let them know how he felt.

He looked down until he caught the boy’s eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly.

The boy’s mouth trembled. “I hate you,” he said, in a cracked but strong voice.

Ben froze, unable to respond. Hate me? Me? But I didn’t have anything to do with—But of course, the boy didn’t know that. As far as the boy was concerned, this was one gigantic, cynical money-making scheme, and Ben was one of the primary beneficiaries.

Mrs. Ackerman laid her arm across the boy’s chest, trying to push him back. He didn’t budge. Instead of retreating, he repeated himself. “I hate you.”

Ben made one more attempt. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you …”

Before Ben could complete the offer, the boy’s face curled up in an angry, twisted snarl. He pursed his lips and spit.

It caught Ben just below the shoulder. He closed his eyes and brushed it off with his hand. It was a childish gesture, exactly the sort of thing you would expect from a kid.

But it hurt just the same.

There was a commotion at the other end of the hallway. The attention of the spectators turned from the mini-spectacle at the doorway to something altogether more compelling. Ben’s father was being escorted to the courtroom by two guards from the sheriff’s office. He paused as he approached them.

“Hello, Lillian,” he said to Ben’s mother cordially, if rather formally. Ben almost expected him to shake her hand.

His eyes turned for the barest of moments to Ben, then moved quickly onward. He didn’t say a word to Ben, didn’t even acknowledge his presence.

He had meant what he had said.

The first day of trial was a disaster for the defense. Everything went against them. It was obvious that the prosecutors had not simply been boasting in their press conferences. They had a well-researched, well-evidenced, well-organized case. No surprise there—Bullock always did professional work. By all indications, the trial was going to be a slam dunk.

It was just a matter of time.

Of course, if Ben had bothered to poll the countless representatives of the press in this courtroom gallery, almost all of them would have said they expected the Barrett trial to be a slam dunk as well. Ben was determined to prove them wrong.

He popped open his briefcase. The instant the lid raised, a booming noise exploded from the briefcase. Ben jumped quite literally out of his seat, clutching his chest.

A small puff of smoke arose from the briefcase. Ben waved it away, still trying to catch his breath. When the smoke cleared, he saw the tiny sign dangling from the top of the briefcase: BOOM!

And in smaller letters beneath that: YOU’RE NEXT.

Slowly Ben eased back into his chair. Given the general commotion in the courtroom, almost no one had noticed the small but potent explosion, and the few that did quickly turned their attention to more interesting matters.

His heart was racing. Who was doing this to him?

Whoever he was, he had made his point. He could get to Ben anytime, anywhere. Any way he wanted to.

The bailiff stepped through the chambers door and brought the court into session. A heartbeat later, Judge Sarah L. Hart entered the room.

Finally seeing her was almost anticlimactic. Ben wondered if she had known she would be assigned to this case as long as everyone else in town seemed to have known. If she had, it didn’t seem to have fazed her.

Judge Hart took her seat and scanned the gallery. “Well,” she said, stacking her papers, “I’m glad to see so much interest and enthusiasm for the judicial process. We’ve got more people here for this minor evidentiary hearing than attended my daughter’s wedding.” She turned her attention to the lawyers. “Are there any matters we can take up now before the trial begins, counsel?”

Bullock rose to his feet first. “Yes, your honor. We issued a subpoena to the defendant seeking the production of certain documents we believe could be critical to the prosecution case. They have not complied.”

Judge Hart turned toward Ben. “Is this true?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Was the subpoena properly served?”

“Yes, your honor. I have it right here.”

“And he hasn’t honored it,” Bullock added.

“Right, I got that part. What’s up, Mr. Kincaid?”

Ben squared his shoulders. “Your honor, this subpoena is nothing but a shameless fishing expedition. They’re seeking all medical records, nothing specific. They’re just hoping that if they swim around in my client’s medical history long enough, they’ll find something they can use to embarrass him.”

“That’s not correct,” Bullock said. “We believe there is ample indication that the defendant has possible medical and … psychological history that could be of relevance.”

“What’s your basis for that belief?”

“Well, the crime itself … the grisly manner in which it was perpetrated. … There may be some prior history.”

Ben approached the bench. Bullock followed, and they continued the argument out of the earshot of the reporters. “You see what they’re doing, your honor. They’re assuming guilt to fabricate probable cause.”

“It does seem that way,” Judge Hart agreed.

“What they’re really hoping for,” Ben continued, “is to find some history of psychological treatment, not because it’s in any way probative, but because they can use it to smear my client at trial and in the press.”

“What the press does is not my concern.”

“I think it is,” Ben continued. “Regardless of how you rule today, the press will report that the prosecution was seeking records of Barrett’s psychological treatment. Most people will assume from that that Barrett has received psychological treatment. Just by making the request, the prosecution has successfully tarnished the defendant in the eyes of the world. And twelve of the people exposed to this intentional smear will be selected for the jury.”

“Your honor,” Bullock said, “I can only assume that the pressures of handling a major case have caused defense counsel to become paranoid and irrational. He’s seeing plots that don’t exist.”

“Nonetheless,” the judge said, “I’m not going to let you prowl around in this man’s medical history unless you can give me a good reason.”

“Your honor.” Bullock stepped away from the bench. The volume level of his voice sharply increased. “Surely you’re not going to prevent the prosecution from learning the truth about the man who committed possibly the most heinous crime this city has ever seen!”

Judge Hart pointed her gavel at him. “Talk to me, counsel. I’m the one that matters in this courtroom.”

“Of course.”

“If I ever think you’re talking to anyone other than me in this courtroom, you won’t be talking in this courtroom any more.”

“Understood, your honor.” Bullock bowed his head, seemingly chastised.

“As for your subpoena, it seems to me rather obvious what you’re hoping to find, and even if you were lucky enough to find it, I wouldn’t let it in, because it doesn’t tell us anything about what happened the afternoon of the murder. Call it character evidence or habit or psychological disposition or what have you, it still feels like a smear to me. And I’m not going to have that in my courtroom.”

“Very well, your honor.”

Ben smiled. Hallelujah, he actually won one. And the one his client was most concerned about, at that. Maybe his luck was turning. Maybe this would be a good time to address the other big issue.

“Your honor, there’s also the matter of my motion in limine.”

“Right. I’ve read your briefs, Mr. Kincaid, but I’m afraid I’m not inclined to exclude the DNA evidence.”

“Your honor, this evidence was bought and paid for.”

The judge nodded. “A fact you can and no doubt will bring out at some length during cross-examination. If the jury feels the payment of money biases the evidence, they will disregard it accordingly.”

“But, your honor.” Ben knew it was bad form to continue arguing with the judge after she had made a ruling, but this was an issue of such importance he couldn’t restrain himself. “The principal problem isn’t the payment of money. The principal problem is that DNA evidence doesn’t speak for itself. It must be interpreted. That requires experts.”

“So hire experts. I don’t believe your client is a hardship case.”

“No, but there is nothing I can do that matches the impact of prosecution evidence presented by some Ph.D. spouting scientific technobabble and statistics that the jury can’t possibly understand, drawing conclusions about the ultimate question of guilt or innocence.”

“Again, these are all issues for cross-examination.”

“By that time, the damage will be done. This is a new and still uncertain science. It doesn’t prove anything; it just suggests circumstantial evidence via statistical probabilities. But juries don’t know that. They see some guy in a suit with a closet full of degrees take the stand, babbling a lot of jargon they don’t understand, and he tells them the defendant is guilty. Who are they to disagree?”

“The jury is always free to disregard evidence.”

Ben decided to try another tack. “But, your honor, don’t you see what’s happening here? The jury isn’t drawing its own conclusions. They’re drawing the conclusions they’re told to draw by some high-dollar expert. Juries lose more power every day; all the important decisions are made by prosecutors and experts and the press, all telling them what to believe. With all the hubbub, how can we go on pretending that people are being judged by a jury of their peers? We need to draw the line.”

“An intriguing argument, Mr. Kincaid, but alas, not a successful one. I’m going to let the evidence in. If there’s nothing else”—she slammed her gavel on the bench—“we’re in recess. The trial will begin Monday morning at nine o’clock sharp.” She glanced up at the cameramen. “That’s Central Standard Time.

The bailiff brought everyone to his feet and the judge beat a hasty retreat. Before Ben could make it back to his table, he found Bullock under his nose.

“Must be feeling pretty cocky with your pet judge on the bench, huh?”

“You’re fantasizing. Judge Hart is emminently fair—perhaps that’s why you’re worried.”

“Remember, Kincaid, the eyes of the world are on Judge Hart. They’re on all of us. This is the big time.” Bullock stepped so close Ben could feel his breath on his face. “I’m going to put that filthy baby-murdering client of yours in prison, if not in a graveyard. That’s a promise.” Bullock whipped around and stomped to the back of the courtroom, where he was greeted by a horde of reporters.

The eyes of the world, Ben thought. Now that was the scariest thought yet.

He packed his briefcase and headed out, hoping he could avoid the press. The stage was fully set now. Judge Hart wouldn’t be giving him any breaks. She couldn’t, not this time. Neither would the press. And Bullock would be doing everything in his power to get a conviction.

And Ben? All he had was a few hunches, none of which he could prove in a court of law. That would have to change. Ben didn’t know how, but somehow, that had to change.

Otherwise, Wallace Barrett didn’t have a prayer.