Capitol Offense

by William Bernhardt

“I don’t care who you are. If I see another outburst like that, your co-counsel will be finishing this trial.”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “I will allow this witness to answer questions about what he saw and heard. And that is it. Do you both get that?”

  They answered in the affirmative.

  “Then get out there and finish. I’m ready for the weekend.”

  Ben returned to his place before the witness box. “Officer Conway, you had the rare opportunity to witness Mr. Thomas over a long period. A week. Did he seem to change during that time?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Was he more agitated the second time he came to the station than he had been the first?”

  “Yes, definitely. He became more and more upset as the week passed. And tired, haggard. Wrung out.”

  “I would imagine so. When you saw him at the scene of his wife’s accident and death—”

  “He was a totally different person.” Ben saw his eyes dart to the prosecution table. “I mean, I’m not saying he’d, you know, lost it or anything. But he was definitely more upset.”

  “Upset enough to do things he would not normally do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Or to say things he would not normally say?”

  “Probably so, but that doesn’t mean he was crazy.”

  “Are you a psychiatrist now?”

  “No, but I looked into the man’s eyes. Right there, at the scene, and that’s something not even your expert can claim to have done. I looked into his eyes and I didn’t see a crazy man. I saw a murderer.”

  “Objection!” Ben shouted.

  But the witness continued. “I looked into those eyes and I saw someone who wanted Detective Sentz dead. At any cost.”

  “Objection!” Ben repeated. “The witness—”

  “He’s a murderer!” Conway continued. “He tried to kill Sentz right there in the ravine. And he finished the job a few days later! It was all planned.” He thrust his finger toward Ben. “And that lawyer was part of it! They planned the whole thing!”

  “Objection!”

  “It’s true! He saw his lawyer just before he went to the hotel! It was all planned! All of it!”

  By now the judge was pounding his gavel thunderously, ordering the witness to be silent, but Ben knew the damage had been done.

  The gallery was in turmoil. Ben saw reporters rushing toward the back door. There was just enough time to get this latest bit on the five o’clock news broadcasts, reporting everything Officer Conway had said as if it were fact.

  The worst part was, Ben knew he had let it happen. He had opened the door and Conway had jumped right in.

  Ben glanced at Dennis. He looked worried, and no amount of coldness or cleverness was sufficient to mask it.

  Then he glanced at Guillerman. The DA was smiling. Not gloating, nothing that overt. But pleased.

  And he should be. He had created the fine distinction the prosecution needed to win this case.

  Dennis had been angry when he went up to that hotel room, yes, but not crazy. Just determined. Murderous and determined. A critical difference.

  The difference between a man who gets off on a charge of temporary insanity and a man who gets the death penalty.

  20

  Ben hunched over the living room table. His back hurt and his eyes were red and watery. He’d spent the entire weekend working from sunup to sundown—and not sleeping much or well in between. But he couldn’t altogether blame the condition of his eyes on that. In truth, he was mildly allergic to cats, including the one that was currently sitting in his lap. He and Giselle had spent many years together, ever since Christina first gave her to him. And she had been a great comfort to him. But not to his eyes. They still reddened every time she came near. And if he petted her and then made the mistake of rubbing his eyes … Visine alert!

  He leaned back and stretched, careful not to dislodge Giselle from his lap. He had not covered nearly as much material as he had hoped to get through before the trial resumed tomorrow. This case was moving too fast, much faster than he had anticipated. The speed of light, compared to the glacial pace of the usual pretrial and trial process. The prosecution had already rested its case, and now the burden was on him to come up with something to salvage the mess.

  Whether he cared to admit it or not, the last day of the trial had been a disaster. The prosecution had set him up and he’d fallen for it. They’d dealt with the defendant and his alleged defense perfectly. Ben would have a very difficult time trying to undo all the damage that had been done. And Dennis’s life hung in the balance. Whatever might or might not have happened, he shouldn’t be executed. Unfortunately, the burden of making sure that didn’t happen rested squarely on Ben’s shoulders.

  And Christina wondered why he didn’t sleep well …

  No one had actually seen Dennis pull the trigger, but he knew he couldn’t rely on that, not when the prosecution could put him in Sentz’s room and his prints and DNA were all over the weapon. All their hopes were riding on the plea of temporary insanity. And what did they have to support that? Some medical testimony. Dennis had passed out, but Ben knew that could be spun in a number of different directions, including some that were not helpful. Their psychiatric witness was strong, but juries were wary of paid experts who purported to tell them what had really happened. In the final analysis, it was going to depend upon whether they liked Dennis, whether they felt sorry for him. If they did, they had a mechanism for allowing him to escape punishment. And if not …

  Ben checked his watch. Christina had suggested a movie earlier, but he had insisted on working. He knew the film would be wasted; he would never stop thinking about the case long enough to enjoy himself. For that matter, he would’ve liked to call Mike, see if he wanted to go get a bite, catch up on the latest with his nonromance with Lieutenant Baxter. But it wouldn’t be fair to Mike. He would end up talking about the case, which would put Mike in an uncomfortable position since he was a member of the police force. No, better to stay home. If he was going to be obsessed, he might as well be obsessed in a semiproductive way.

  He heard Christina shout from the kitchen. “Haven’t you worked enough? Take a break.”

  “I’ve still got tons to do.”

  “You work too much!”

  “We’re in the middle of a trial, remember? This is how we support ourselves. We work long hours in the courtroom so we can goof off … well …”

  “Yes? The woman who still hasn’t had a honeymoon is waiting for you to complete the sentence.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  The swinging doors separating the living room from the kitchen swung open. “All right, F. Lee Bailey. It’s dinnertime.”

  He pushed away from the table. “Perfect timing.” He glanced at the plate she slid under his nose. “And the perfect meal, too.” An egg sandwich, just the way he liked it. None of that fancy-schmancy egg salad stuff. Just scrambled eggs on mayonnaise between two slices of toasted bread. Heaven!

  Ben took a huge bite out of the corner. “Mmm. So good.”

  “I thought you were probably ready for some quality nourishment,” Christina replied, with only a hint of sarcasm. “I initially thought grilled cheese, that other great favorite of yours and others with a ten-year-old’s taste buds. But that would sit too heavy.”

  “I owe you one,” he managed as he chugged down another bite. In normal practice, Ben and Christina shared the cooking duties. But when a trial was on, that changed, even when Christina was second-chairing. He knew her contributions to the trial were absolutely as important as his, maybe more so. But her obsession level was considerably less, and that was a positive thing. They made a good team. He could obsess, and she could scramble the eggs.

  “Maybe some coffee to go with it?” he mumbled, his mouth full.

  “You know what coffee does to you.”

  “I need the caffeine. I have to stay up late. There’s much more I want to do.
”

  “Yes, and then you won’t be able to sleep because you’ve had so much coffee, and then you’ll be whining because you can’t sleep, and then your stomach will hurt because you’re allergic to coffee, et cetera, et cetera.”

  He wiped his face with a napkin, grinning. “You think you know me pretty well, don’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Much better than you know yourself. How about a Sprite?”

  “I guess that will have to do. And if it’s not too much trouble …”

  She rolled her eyes. “Chocolate milk?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “I suppose I can’t deny a man his comfort food in the middle of a murder trial.” She pulled a face. “Eggs and chocolate milk. Pardon me while I vomit!” She started toward the kitchen, then stopped at the television. “The evening news is about to start. Mind if I turn it on?”

  “Is there any point? It’s just going to be more of the same.”

  “More of the same I can deal with. I’m concerned about that last cheap shot Conway took on the witness stand.”

  “Oh, police officers hate defense attorneys. They’ll take any shot they can get.”

  “True. But Guillerman doesn’t do anything without a reason. I think he had that witness prepared to deliver his fatal harpoon. I don’t believe anything there happened spontaneously. And how did he know you saw Dennis before he went to see Sentz?” She clicked on the console television.

  “… the News on Seven. This is Annie Rhodes.” The young woman holding the microphone was attractive, but she downplayed it with a stern expression. “Startling new developments in the murder of one of Tulsa County’s most trusted and honored police officers …”

  Ben frowned. “How do they know it was murder?”

  “Shhh!”

  “… took an unexpected turn Friday when one of the prosecution’s chief witnesses testified that Dennis Thomas planned the murder of Detective Christopher Sentz in advance and, furthermore, that he did so in conspiracy with his defense attorney and current U.S. senator, Benjamin Kincaid.”

  Ben frowned. “Didn’t she forget to say allegedly?”

  Christina waved him down. “Shhh!”

  “… but Channel Seven has learned that Dennis Thomas actually spoke to Senator Kincaid in his office on the day of the shooting, before the murder was committed. Evidence of conspiracy? Some Tulsans believe so.”

  Ben watched as the image cut to a video of someone Ben didn’t recognize. Her name appeared at the bottom of the screen.

  “I just happened to be at Two Warren Place that day when I was approached by a twenty-four-year-old man who said that he worked in Kincaid’s office …”

  “Huh?” Ben screeched. “Who?”

  Christina scowled. “No one that age works for us. I mean, I may still look twenty-four, but I’m not.” She pondered. “Maybe that kid who delivers sandwiches saw him.”

  “… and said that he wanted to consult with a leading defense attorney about how he might get away with murder. Apparently he and Kincaid talked for some time. That’s probably when the topic of temporary insanity was raised first.”

  “That’s not true!” Ben yelled at the glass box. “I mean, it is, but—but not the way they’re making it sound!”

  The television image reverted to the female reporter. “There you have it, John. An alleged eyewitness to the premeditated murder that robbed Tulsa of a fine officer and a family of its father.”

  “Eyewitness? It was hearsay!” Ben said, outraged. “Speculation. All she did was repeat what someone else supposedly told her. Can you get away with saying anything on the news if you get someone else to say it for you?”

  “This evidence—and I use the term lightly—wouldn’t be admissible in the most informal court hearing,” Christina noted. “But apparently hearsay is good enough for the evening news.”

  The reporter continued. “We consulted the district attorney for his reaction to this startling development in the case that has already shocked and horrified Tulsans.”

  This time the on-screen image shifted to David Guillerman, apparently sitting at his desk. He spoke hesitantly, as if he hated to comment at all, which would probably be useful when he had to explain to the judge why he’d violated the gag order.

  “Of course I’m shocked and appalled by the new information Channel Seven has brought to light in this case. I had no idea.”

  “Is it my imagination, or is his nose getting longer?” Ben asked.

  “Shhh!”

  Guillerman continued. “I prefer to try cases in the courtroom, not the media, but this is unacceptable behavior, made all the worse because the attorney is also our elected—well, our appointed representative in the U.S. Senate. The peddling of influence has already turned many people off government and caused enormous cynicism in this country. To have someone actually collaborating with criminals, just to make legal fees, is truly shocking. I hope the state bar association is paying attention. I understand that Kincaid’s colleague in the Senate, Senator Hardwick, is preparing a formal motion to censure him as soon as Congress reconvenes.”

  “Hardwick’s a Republican! He hates me!”

  “Which pretty much guarantees his participation in this lynching.” Christina shut the television off. “This changes the trial landscape.”

  “No joke. This is horrible! Those TV people totally trashed me.”

  “What do you expect from tabloid news channels? You’re famous. You’re a target. That’s how they pay their bills.”

  “They said I conspired with Dennis!”

  “Honestly, how long did you think you could stay in politics before someone flung some mud your way? This is probably overdue.”

  “But he said I helped plan a murder!”

  “Which was probably a mistake. Guillerman took it too far. If he had simply said you had some idea of Dennis’s mind-set, he could’ve done almost as much damage, with a lot more credibility.” She cleared her throat. “Since that’s more or less true. But helped plan a murder? You? With your record? I don’t think there are many people gullible enough to buy that. Even if it does come from an attractive news reader.”

  “But I have no opportunity to defend myself.”

  “You will. As soon as the judge clears it, you can make a statement. Explain that at no time did Dennis say he planned or even wanted to kill anyone. This will blow over. In the end, all anyone’s going to remember from this mess is who won the trial.”

  “I hope you’re right.” He clenched his fists together. “It just makes me so mad! They intentionally misled their viewers. They melodramatized the facts. And everyone in the city was watching.”

  “Exactly.” Christina looked straight into his eyes. “Do you not see? That’s what you can use to your advantage. It may look grim now, but this could actually turn out to be the biggest break you’ve had in this entire impossible trial.”

  21

  Loving was not excited about the prospect of a return visit to Scene of the Crime. He’d come to this bar almost every night this week. Wasn’t all he had done, of course. He’d been surreptitiously following some of the officers who were at the hotel the night Sentz died. He’d run deep background checks on Sentz, Conway, and Shaw, as well as Dennis Thomas and his late wife. He’d bugged the police locker room, which was probably illegal and almost certainly would be fatal if they found out. He’d talked to everyone present when Joslyn Thomas was found and everyone at the hotel on the fateful day.

  But all of that had produced nothing. So here he was, back at Scene of the Crime, hoping to hit a home run when no one was even pitching. He knew Ben had been cross-examining the police witnesses, and he would have loved to have brought Ben something useful, but so far it hadn’t happened. He had to come up with something before this trial was over and done.

  His first visit here had been mildly productive, in a macho confrontational sort of way. But the follow-ups had not fulfilled the promise of the original. Officer Shaw h
ad obviously put the word out. No one was to talk to Loving, or anyone else associated with Ben Kincaid. And so far the other cops had toed the line. Loving had sat in silence for several nights running. Not stirring up any trouble, but not stirring up anything else, either.

  A more sensible person would probably give up, but sensible had never been Loving’s strong suit. Ben needed help. That was good enough for him. Loving frankly couldn’t care less about this Thomas guy. He didn’t hold much with killers, crazy or not. But Ben he cared about. Ben had reached out to him when he really needed help, when the rest of the world was heaping scorn and abuse. He would do anything for the Skipper. And if that meant one more miserable night at Scene of the Crime, so be it.

  “Psst!”

  Loving looked both ways. He didn’t see anything. But he supposed if the person hissing at him wanted to be seen, he wouldn’t be hissing at him.

  “Psst!”

  Loving followed the general sound to a grove of trees a little ways off the road, still a good distance from the bar. He could hear the hooting and the music and the blare of the big-screen television, but there was no chance that anyone hanging out there could have heard the hisser.

  “Am I hot or cold?” Loving said as he entered the grove.

  “Over here.”

  Loving walked slowly into the darkness. The scant moonlight eventually cast its glow on a man around thirty years of age. He was a police officer. Loving had seen him before, although he wasn’t sure they’d ever been formally introduced. What was his name? Something Hispanic, but Loving couldn’t quite place it …

  “I’m Joe Torres.”

  “Good to meet you.” Loving extended his hand, but the other man did not shake it. “You wantin’ me?”

  “Yes. Are you still investigating the Sentz case?”

  “You know somethin’?”

  “Maybe. I was the front desk clerk most of the times Dennis Thomas came in asking for help.”

  Loving eased in closer. “What happened?”

  “It’s all pretty much as they all say. Thomas was desperate. He begged, pleaded, argued. Sentz wouldn’t relent. Nothing seemed to matter. He said there were no grounds for opening a missing persons investigation, so he didn’t.”