Perfect Justice

42.

WHEN BEN REACHED THE courtroom, it was a madhouse. The gallery was filled to twice its capacity; people were standing in the back and sitting in the aisle. At first, he thought some people must have taken refuge from the parade and the resultant brawl, but there was no sign that anyone was leaving. They were here for the show.

Ben struggled past the squatters and tried not to be concerned. Silver Springs hadn’t had a murder in—what did Judge Tyler say?—twelve years. It was only natural that this trial would be a major event.

Just as Ben reached the front of the courtroom, a flashbulb exploded in his face. Ben covered his eyes. Was that a reporter from The Silver Springs Herald? Because if it was …

The face behind the camera belonged to a small boy aged, perhaps, ten. “A souvenir for your scrapbook?” Ben asked.

The boy blanched, then turned and skittered away.

Great, Ben thought. Now I’ve acquired the ability to strike terror in the hearts of ten-year-olds. He wondered if that was the result of what The Herald was saying about him, or what the boy’s parents were saying about him. Or both. What a wonderful vacation this had turned out to be. He hadn’t caught any fish, but he had managed to become the Silver Springs bogeyman.

Swain came in the back door and made his way to the prosecution table. He was wearing a sport coat and slacks, suspenders, and a bolo tie. A sharp contrast to Ben’s three-piece suit (flown in courtesy of Jones). Which was probably exactly what Swain wanted. I’m one of you, Swain was subliminally telling the jury; Kincaid isn’t.

Ben went to the defendant’s table and began preparing his notes. To his surprise, Swain walked over to talk to him.

“Got a deal for you, Kincaid.”

“Bit late, isn’t it?” Ben gazed out at the audience. “I think the good citizens of Silver Springs have come to see a trial.”

“It’s not a trial they want, Kincaid. It’s a hanging. That’s my whole point. I saw what happened on the street today and it scared me to death. If I can, I want to keep this town from coming unglued.” He poked a finger beneath his tie and unfastened the top button. “Also, I’m having a hell of a time finding a baby-sitter.”

“What is it you had in mind?”

“You plead guilty; the judge gives you life imprisonment.”

“Life! You call that a deal?”

“It’s a hell of an improvement over death, that’s for damn sure. With good behavior and all that rot, your man could be out in nine years.”

“And all he has to do is plead guilty to a crime he didn’t commit.”

Swain plopped his briefcase on Ben’s table. “Kincaid, I know you haven’t had time to get up to speed on this case, much less prepare a defense. Let me tell you—we’ve got more than enough to put your boy away. I’m not trying to buffalo you. I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. My only concern is that while we’re in here playing lawyer games, Silver Springs is going up in smoke.”

“Sorry, Swain. My client says he wants a trial.” Thank goodness that was finally true.

“Once the trial begins, my offer is off the table. Once this circus is under way, it can’t be stopped until your man has a death sentence hanging over his head.”

“Thanks for the early warning, Mr. Swain. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for trial.”

Swain left, shaking his head as if Ben had single-handedly ushered in the end of civilization. Ben only hoped he hadn’t made a tragic mistake for Donald Vick, either. He hated to see a man plead guilty to a crime he didn’t commit. But twentieth-century plea bargaining turned criminal justice into a high-stakes dice game. And if Ben crapped out at trial, the penalty for Donald Vick would be stiff indeed.

Payne was already seated at defendant’s table. He wasn’t planning to contribute, but he had to be there to maintain the facade of being co-counsel. And, Ben figured, it couldn’t hurt to have a trusted townie sitting at his table. There would certainly be plenty of locals sitting with Swain.

Two deputies escorted Donald Vick into the courtroom. They handcuffed him to the defendant’s table. In Tulsa, Ben always had the opportunity to clean up his defendants—get them a haircut, put them in a respectable suit of clothes. Not here. Vick was wearing jailhouse-gray coveralls. He was going to appear to the jury to be exactly what he was: an accused man who had spent the last several weeks behind bars.

“How do you feel?” Ben asked him. It was an inane question, but it was all he could contrive at the moment.

“I’ve felt better,” Vick replied. His nervousness was etched all over his face.

“The DA has offered us a plea bargain. You plead guilty, he’ll give you life. A long tour of duty, but preferable to death.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I told him you wanted your day in court. But it’s not too late to accept his offer.”

Vick’s brain appeared to be working double time. “Well,” he said, after a long pause, “when’s this show get on the road?”

A few minutes later Judge Tyler entered the courtroom in his long black robe. The courtroom hushed instantly; he didn’t have to touch his gavel. The bailiff called the case and Tyler noted that all parties were present and represented by counsel.

“State versus Donald Vick will now commence,” the bailiff solemnly intoned. “All those who have business before this honorable court will come forward.

“Gentlemen,” Judge Tyler said, peering down at Ben and his client, “this trial begins now.”