Perfect Justice

53.

AFTER LUNCH, THE COURTROOM reassembled itself with relative calm. Or at any rate, this time no rocks came through the windows.

“Any further testimony from the prosecution?” Judge Tyler asked.

“One more witness,” Swain said. “But he’ll be brief. The State calls Richard Litz.”

Richard Litz was a nondescript man with brown curly hair and a bushy brown mustache. He was wearing glasses with tinted lenses. Ben didn’t have a clue who the man was. And judging from the expressions on the other faces in the courtroom, neither did anyone else.

Except Henry Swain. “Mr. Litz, would you please tell the jury what you do for a living?”

“I’m the order clerk for Domestic Soldier in Hot Springs.”

“And what is Domestic Soldier?”

“Domestic Soldier is a mail-order supplier of equipment for outdoorsmen. Tents, compasses, hiking boots. You name it, we carry it.”

“Would your inventory include weapons?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Crossbows?”

“Definitely. All shapes and sizes.”

“And bolts?”

“Wouldn’t be much point in selling the crossbows without the bolts, would there?” He chuckled at his own little joke.

“Have you ever supplied any equipment to the ASP camp just outside of Silver Springs?”

Ben was beginning to see where this testimony was leading. And he didn’t like it a bit.

“Yes, many times. They’re regular customers.”

“Do you carry the bolts for the”—he held up Exhibit A and read the label—“KL-44 Carvelle crossbow?”

“Yes. We’re one of the few in this country that do. It’s a fairly rare item.”

“Do you sell those bolts to the ASP camp?”

“Normally not. But we did get an order from them for that item just a few weeks ago. First and last time ever.”

“Now, this is important, sir, so please take your time before answering.” Of course, Swain wasn’t really telling the witness this next bit was important; he was telling the jury. “When did this order come in?”

“July twenty-first. They were delivered on the twenty-fourth.”

“Right. And the crossbow murder occurred on the twenty-fifth.” Swain nodded thoughtfully, then returned to counsel table. He was almost there when he suddenly stopped and pivoted around to face the witness. “One last question, Mr. Litz. Who placed the order for the crossbow bolts on the twenty-first?”

“A man named Donald Vick.”

The murmur in the courtroom crescendoed. Judge Tyler banged his gavel and demanded silence.

“That’s all,” Swain said. “Pass the witness.”

Ben strolled to the witness box, thinking all the way. “You take phone orders for a mail-order company, right?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So you didn’t actually see Mr. Vick when he ordered?”

“True …”

“He was just a voice on the telephone.”

“That’s true, but—”

“Then it could’ve been anyone,” Ben said. “Anyone could’ve claimed to be Donald Vick.”

“I guess that’s true,” Litz said. “But I know who picked the order up.”

“What? I thought you said you delivered them.”

“Right. I delivered them to the ASP man who came for them on the twenty-fourth. And that was the man sitting right there in the gray coveralls.” He pointed directly at Vick. “I saw him with my own eyes.”

Swain jumped to his feet. “Let the record reflect that the witness has indicated that the pickup man was Donald Vick.”

“It will so reflect,” Judge Tyler intoned. “Anything else, Mr. Kincaid?”

Damn. Ben hated to end his cross on such a negative note. But he wasn’t prepared for a follow-up question. The coffin was nailed tightly shut.

“No, your honor.”

“Redirect?”

“I see no need,” Swain said, displaying his understandable confidence to the jury. “And the prosecution rests.”

“Very well,” the judge said. “We’ll start up again tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock with the defense case. Court is dismissed.”

He banged his gavel, and instantaneously the silence was broken. The exodus from the gallery was swift. Only the jury remained seated. And their eyes, Ben noticed, all twenty-four of them, were focused on Donald Vick.

Ben leaned forward, blocking the jury’s view, and whispered into Vick’s ear. “Why in God’s name did you pick up those crossbow bolts?”

“That was my job. I made all the supply runs.”

“You did?” If he had known that, he could have brought it out during cross. Now it was too late. “Why you?”

“Who else? Dunagan always gave me the grunt jobs.”

Ben observed that Vick invoked the name of the exhalted Grand Dragon with somewhat less reverence now. At least he realized what the man had done to him. “I’m going to have to put you on the stand, Donald.”

Vick glared at him. “I already told you. I won’t talk.”

“I won’t ask questions about any subjects you don’t want to discuss. I won’t ask you what you and Vuong fought about. But I have to get you on the stand so the jury can hear you say you didn’t kill him.” Ben glanced over his shoulder, just to make sure no one else was listening. “Otherwise, frankly, I don’t think you have a chance.”

Vick stared back at him, his voice caught in his throat. Surely he realized the trial was going badly, but that probably wasn’t the same as having his own attorney tell him straight out that he was headed for death row.

“I—I’ll think about. I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll be outside your cell tomorrow morning bright and early. So we can prepare your testimony.”

Vick nodded, and the deputies took him away.

Ben watched as Vick faded out of the courtroom. Every time Ben saw him, he looked less and less like a hardened hatemonger and more and more like a scared little boy who thought he saw the bogeyman lurking underneath his bed. A terrified youth who didn’t know what to do next.

And the tragedy was, his attorney didn’t know what to do next either.