Naked Justice

Chapter 64

BACK IN THE GALLERY, Interim Mayor Whitman slowly rose to his feet. He was wearing a bright yellowish red shirt—alizarin crimson, Ben supposed. The only color Whitman could see.

“Step forward, please,” Judge Hart said.

Whitman hesitated. “Your honor, I just came in today to watch. No one told me I was going to have to testify.”

She smiled. “Life is full of little surprises, isn’t it? Step forward.”

Whitman moved to the front of the courtroom, muttering. “Don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know anything about it.”

A good sign, Ben thought. Most witnesses wait till they’re accused before they start denying.

The judge swore him in and Whitman grudgingly settled himself into the witness chair. He touched the mike, then gave his name and address.

“Permission to treat Mr. Whitman as a hostile witness,” Ben requested.

“Well,” Judge Hart said, “he certainly doesn’t look too happy to be here. Granted.”

Ben grasped the podium and began. “Mr. Whitman, you’ve known Wallace Barrett for many years, haven’t you?”

“Seems like forever.”

“You both went to college at the University of Oklahoma, didn’t you?”

“We did.”

“And of course, football is very important at OU, isn’t it?”

Whitman shrugged. “I’d say it’s their main claim to fame.”

“Wallace Barrett got a full sports scholarship. Did you?”

“No,” Whitman said flatly. “I paid my own way. Always have.”

“You did play football at OU, though, right?”

“Right.”

“Wallace Barrett was the star quarterback. Um … what were you?”

Whitman’s lips pursed together. “Second-string tight end. For a while. I quit my sophomore year.”

“Couldn’t take it anymore?”

“Didn’t see the point in getting my brains beat out for second-string tight end.”

“So you quit, and Wallace Barrett rode on to fame and fortune. Right?”

Bullock pushed himself out of his chair. “Your honor, this is a marvelously nostalgic interlude, but it isn’t very relevant to the case.”

Judge Hart spoke crisply and without even looking at him. “I’m sure Mr. Kincaid will link it up in time. If that was an objection, it’s overruled.”

Whitman leaned forward and answered. “You’re right, counsel. Barrett did a lot better than me on the college football team. Happy now?”

“The question,” Ben shot back, “is whether you were happy. I suspect you were very unhappy.”

“I had hoped to do better, sure. Things don’t always go the way you wish they would. What of it?”

“You and Barrett both moved to Tulsa after college, right?”

“Well, not together.”

“True enough.”

“Barrett made a few movies, then went into business and became a big success.” Ben glanced at the notes he had made from Jones’s report. “Your first three business ventures flopped, didn’t they?”

“They were speculative ventures, and they failed. There’s no shame in that. Everyone knows what the economy has been like in the Southwest since the oil bust. All my creditors were paid.”

“Must’ve been embarrassing to tell your father, though. The successful oil tycoon. And you couldn’t even drill a well without losing your shirt.”

Whitman’s teeth clamped down on his lower lip. “Is there some point to these questions, Mr. Kincaid?”

“There certainly is.”

“Well, I don’t see it.”

“You don’t have to. All you have to do is answer the questions.”

“Your honor,” Bullock said, “I protest. Mr. Kincaid is being abusive.”

“To the contrary,” Judge Hart said, not missing a beat, “I think he has summarized the witness’s role admirably. I only hope the witness will take his words to heart. Proceed, counsel.”

“So,” Ben continued, “your businesses flopped, while Barrett’s flourished.”

“I did all right in time. I’m the president and owner of Whitman Oil Corporation.”

“Actually,” Ben said, referring to his notes, “you inherited that business, correct?”

“Well … yes, but still, I’ve been making money with it ever since I got it.”

“Your biggest accomplishment, if I’m not mistaken, was the hostile takeover of the Apollo Corporation.”

“That’s probably true.” Whitman folded his hands proudly across his chest. “That shook the business world up. Got coverage on business pages all across the country. Doubled the value of my stock.”

“Put a lot of people out of work, too,” Ben noted. “The Apollo Corporation had been the city’s leading employer. You bought them out, cannibalized the resources, and sold off the assets piece by piece.”

“That’s just good business. And for the record, my corporation employs people, too.”

“Your honor!” Bullock just couldn’t stay down, even when he was striking out every time. “What is this? A referendum on sound business practices?”

Judge Hart turned her attention to Ben. “Are you going to be bringing this back to the case at hand soon, counsel?”

“Yes, your honor. Very soon.”

“Fine. Proceed.” Bullock sat down in a huff of moral outrage obviously intended for the cameras, but unfortunately for him detected by the judge. She peered down at him with a look that could melt steel. “Mr. Bullock, do you have a problem with my ruling?”

“But I—it’s just—” Bullock swallowed. “No, ma’am.”

“Good.” She turned back toward Ben. “Please proceed, counsel.”

“So,” Ben continued, “you’re not denying that the success of your company is founded on the demise of another.”

Whitman edged forward. “Look, counsel, that’s the reality of business. Apollo was our leading competitor, so we bought them out. Not only did we acquire some valuable assets, we garnered a larger market share. The fact is, Apollo had been a thorn in my side for years. I know how to deal with my enemies. They don’t last long.”

“Shortly after the takeover, you ran for city council and were elected. True?”

“That’s true.”

“Of course, Wallace Barrett had leapfrogged right past the city council and become mayor.”

“Yes, he became the mayor. Of sorts.” Whitman’s patience seemed to be fraying.

“You have ambitions to be mayor, don’t you, sir?”

Whitman squared his shoulders. “I don’t know why I should deny it. Yes, I do. I plan to run this next term.”

“In truth, you’ve been planning your campaign for some time, haven’t your

“True. These days, you have to start early if you hope to make a serious bid.”

“That includes fund-raising, speechmaking, poll taking—right?”

“Right, right.”

“The only problem is, according to your campaign manager, another council member, every poll you took showed you being beaten by Wallace Barrett. By a substantial margin.” Ben stared down at him. “Isn’t that true?”

He hesitated.

“My investigator met with Loretta Walker for some time. I have her affidavit right here, if you’d like to see it.”

Whitman stared back emotionlessly. “That’s quite all right. It’s true.”

“It must have seemed like, no matter where you turned, Wallace Barrett was there doing just a little bit better than you were.”

“I don’t measure my worth against”—his teeth clenched—“him.”

“Don’t you, though? Sure looks that way to me. You wanted to be mayor, and that was impossible, because once again, Wallace Barrett was in the way. You must’ve hated him, didn’t you?”

Whitman turned toward the jury. “Again, I see no reason why I should lie. Relations between Barrett and me were not good. That’s hardly a secret.”

Ben closed his notebook and put away his notes. It was time to take the plunge. Off the script, into never-never land. “And that’s when you decided to get in touch with Buck Conners, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Buck Conners. Our last witness. Surely you recall.”

“Right. I know who he is.”

“You work together at the city building.”

“Right.”

“And according to him, before he crouched behind the Fifth Amendment, you and he had some business dealings together.”

Ben could see the same analytical clockwork going on in Whitman’s brain that he had earlier seen in Buck’s. How much could he get away with? “That’s true.

“According to Mr. Conners, you employed him to do some … yard work.”

A slow smile tickled the edges of Whitman’s lips. “Actually, Buck is probably being modest. He has done yard work for me. But at the time of the murders, he was working on a different project.”

Ben could see the jury subtly leaning forward. “And what project was that?”

Whitman smiled. “A marketing brochure.”

Ben nearly tripped over his podium. “What?”

“A marketing brochure. Something to help the council market Tulsa to major corporations looking for a place to locate. It’s a common practice. As you mentioned yourself, Tulsa needs new job opportunities. I was trying to create some.”

Ben tried to get his bearings. How did he take this lie apart? “Did Mayor Barrett know about this project of yours?”

“No. I was hoping to surprise him. I wanted to wait until I had a completed prototype. Thought it would make it easier to push the project past the council.”

“And you expect us to take this story seriously?”

Whitman remained calm. “It was a serious project.”

“If it was so serious, why on earth would you use Buck Conners?” Ben pointed dramatically with his finger, forcing the jury to turn to scrutinize the scruffy, ill-clad, ill-groomed data processor.

“Simple,” Whitman replied. “I needed a good photographer, and I knew he was good and wouldn’t charge me as much as a professional. It’s his hobby, you know.”

“What did you tell him to photograph?”

“I left it at his discretion. To be honest, I’m not very artistically inclined. I don’t have a good eye for that sort of thing.”

“Why was he hanging around the mayor’s house?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I assume he thought a photo of the mayor’s home would be a nice addition to the brochure. It’s a logical choice.”

Ben gripped the edges of his podium. Somehow this thing was slipping away from him. He had to get it back before it was too late. “If your joint project with Buck really was this perfectly respectable marketing brochure, as you would have this jury believe, why did you meet Buck in the dead of night in a North Side park?”

Whitman shrugged. “It was a convenient halfway point between our homes. I live on the North Side, Mr. Kincaid, near Gilcrease Museum. I don’t have the prejudice against the North Side some people do.”

Ooh. Nice zinger. About half the jury lived on the North Side. “And what about Mr. Sanders? He saw you in a car talking to Buck near the mayor’s home.”

Whitman shook his head. “He’s mistaken. I’ve never been there.”

“He said he saw you.”

“He saw a car. Lots of people have brown cars. That doesn’t mean it was me.”

Ben’s voice rose. “And so you’re telling this jury that it’s just a coincidence that he was hanging around the neighborhood, working for you, at the same time that someone else committed the murders? That’s pretty convenient, isn’t it?

“No,” Whitman said calmly, “I don’t find it convenient at all. I find it very inconvenient. I find it very inconvenient for me, and very tragic for the Barrett family.”

“Your honor,” Bullock said, “I must object to this rude and abusive questioning of the city’s acting mayor. Mr. Whitman is not on trial.”

“That distinction didn’t stop you from doing your best to smear Mr. Kincaid’s investigator,” Judge Hart said curtly. “Overruled.”

Ben switched gears. “If you didn’t direct Buck’s work, Mr. Whitman, why were you communicating with him constantly at work?”

A small furrow crossed Whitman’s brow. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“In the two weeks prior to the murders, you probably communicated with Buck a dozen times during office hours.”

“That’s simply incorrect. I never went to his station. I never called him on the phone.”

“Are you denying that you communicated with him regularly during the weeks prior to the murders?”

Whitman’s eyes flickered for a moment. “Yes, I am. It’s simply untrue. I had no reason to talk with him.”

At last! Finally Whitman had given Ben enough rope to hang him. “Do you have a computer in your office, Mr. Whitman?”

He looked distinctly bored. “You know I do. You’ve been there.”

“And according to Mr. Conners, the city offices have e-mail capability. Is that true?”

“I suppose so. To tell you the truth, I don’t use those machines much.” He chuckled. “Don’t understand them, don’t trust them.”

“Are you claiming you don’t use e-mail?”

“I may have once or twice. Not often. And never to Buck.”

Ben started walking back toward counsel table. “You wouldn’t object if we examined your computer to verify that, would you?”

He spread wide his hands. “Of course not. But I’m afraid I always delete my messages at the end of the day. So there would be nothing for you to see. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.”

Now it was Ben’s turn to smile. “You know, that’s what I thought, too. I thought that once an e-mail message was deleted from the hard drive on your desktop computer, it was gone. Vanished into the ether. But my office assistant, who’s a computer whiz, told me otherwise. He explained that although pushing the delete button will delete the copy of the message that has been stored on the hard drive of your individual computer, the mainframe or server—the central computer that routes the e-mail from one machine to another—retains a copy. And those copies remain in the central computer system until they are actively deleted, which is usually done only once or twice a year. Did you know that, Mr. Whitman?”

Whitman’s response was slow and brief. “No.”

“Well, turns out it’s true. It also turns out you can hire a computer expert to hack into the central computer and extract all the messages that have gone to or from a particular terminal. Isn’t that amazing?”

Whitman didn’t appear amazed. “Indeed.”

“Now, you wouldn’t object if we took a look at the messages that went to and from your terminal during the two weeks before the murders, would you? Well, you’ve already said that you wouldn’t. You’re not going to revoke your permission now, are you?”

Whitman’s voice was considerably quieter. “I … suppose not.”

Good. That helped Ben past a major evidentiary obstacle. “Thank you, sir.

“We’ll have to go back to the office. I don’t know how long it will take—”

“Fret not, Mr. Whitman.” Ben popped open his briefcase and withdrew a stack of letter-size papers. “I’ve already done it.”

He stopped at Bullock’s table and dropped a certified document in his lap. “Here’s the subpoena the judge issued for the documents themselves. Here’s an affidavit from the computer supervisor at the city office building who actually extracted the messages.” He approached the witness stand and forced the papers into Whitman’s hands. “And here are the messages.”

Ben returned to the podium with his copy of the messages. “Feel free to sort through them, Mr. Whitman. I’m sure they’ll all be very familiar to you. Those are your messages, aren’t they?”

Whitman glanced down at the papers in his hands. “I suppose.”

“By my count, sir, you communicated with Mr. Conners a total of eleven times by e-mail during the two weeks prior to the murders.”

Whitman fumbled through the papers. His manner and voice seemed disjointed, lost. He was scrambling. “I guess there were more details to work out than I recalled.”

“I guess so. Some of those details really intrigued me. Like the one mentioned in message six.” Whitman thumbed to the document while Ben held it up and read it out loud. “ ‘Meet me on Terwilliger at six.’ ” Ben looked up. “Just in case anyone has forgotten, Terwilliger Avenue is the street the Barrett family lives on, isn’t it, sir?”

Whitman’s eyes darted from side to side. “I … believe that’s correct.”

“Mr. Sanders lives there, too. I wonder if this is the day he saw you there? When you met Buck at six.”

Whitman did not respond.

“And then there’s message eight,” Ben continued. “That’s an interesting one. ‘Barrett will be home early this afternoon.’ ” Ben put down the paper. “Now, that’s an interesting bit of information to be conveying to your photographer, especially since you didn’t know he would be photographing the Barrett home. Why would he want to know this?”

Out the corner of his eye, Ben saw the jurors carefully scrutinizing Whitman. They wanted to know the answer to that question, too.

Whitman stumbled, stuttered. “I … don’t recall … It’s been a long time.”

“But this is probably my favorite of the messages,” Ben continued. He held it high in the air so the jury could see. “Number eleven. This one was sent on the very same day the murders occurred. I admire brevity in a writer, and this message is the very soul of brevity. Only five words, in fact.” Ben faced the jury and read. “It says, ‘Did you get the nigger?’ ”

The courtroom went crazy. The roar was loud enough to cause feedback on the television mikes. People stood on the pews, craning their necks for a better view. The cameras swirled around, trying to catch everyone’s reaction. Reporters threw messages to runners, while the rest of the gallery stared forward in stunned silence.

Judge Hart pounded the courtroom back into order, and Ben asked his next question. “Mr. Whitman, what exactly were you trying to find out when you asked Buck Conners ‘Did you get the nigger?’ ”

Whitman’s hands were pressed against the edges of the witness box. He blinked, twitched, rubbed his finger against the side of his nose. He looked up at the jury, then over at the judge, as if searching for some recourse, some place of appeal. “I don’t believe I want to do this anymore. This is an outrage. I am not the defendant.”

“No,” Ben said, “but you should be. Answer my question.”

“I won’t. I want a lawyer.”

Judge Hart leaned down from the bench. “Excuse me, sir. You will answer the question. That is an order.”

“I will not.” Whitman folded his hands across his chest. “I’m taking the Fifth.”

“That again?” Ben turned wide-eyed toward the jury. “There seems to be an epidemic of this today.” He took a step toward the witness. “Tell us the truth. You hated Barrett. You’ve hated him for years. You couldn’t be mayor as long as he was around. You had to get him out of the way. He was your enemy.”

“Yeah? What of it?”

“As you said yourself, Mr. Whitman. You know how to deal with your enemies, don’t you? Those were your own words!”

Whitman’s lips parted wordlessly.

“That’s why you hired Buck, isn’t it? You didn’t hire him for any phony photography job. You hired him to ‘get the nigger’!”

The clamor rose, this time even louder than before. Judge Hart pounded her gavel futilely.

Ben shouted above the tumult. “Answer my question! Isn’t it true? You engineered these murders, didn’t you? It was you!”

“It was not! I—” Whitman stared back at Ben with unmasked hatred. “I’m not saying another word till I see my attorney. You’re wasting your time.”

Ben threw his hands down in disgust. “That’s just fine, Mr. Whitman. I think we all know what happened, whether you care to admit it or not.”

“Objection!” Bullock shouted.

“Never mind,” Ben said. “I’m finished with this witness.”

Judge Hart leaned across the bench. “Do you care to cross-examine, Mr. Prosecutor?”

Bullock frowned. If he thought he could do himself any good, Ben knew he would. But it was hopeless. Whitman had taken the Fifth. And even with a friendly questioner, Whitman couldn’t explain away Ben’s evidence without risking a waiver of his Fifth Amendment right of silence. “No.”

“Very well. Anything else, Mr. Kincaid?”

“I see no need,” Ben said. He placed his documents back on the table and firmly placed his hands on his client’s shoulders. “Wallace Barrett did not commit these crimes. We rest our case.”