Capitol Offense

by William Bernhardt

  Loving clenched his teeth. “Did you let Dennis go up to the room so he would do the killin’ for you? Or so he would get blamed for what you did?”

  “What difference does it make? Chris is dead. Dennis Thomas took the rap. And here we are.”

  “Yeah,” Loving said bitterly. “What are you gonna do with me?”

  “Well, there’s really only one choice, right?” He walked away for a moment, then returned with something in his hands. “And it has to be done in a way that cannot be traced back to me. No clues. Not even a bullet.”

  Loving stared with horror at the small stainless steel tube in Shaw’s gloved hands. “Don’t do it, Shaw. You don’t want this on your conscience. Do not do this.”

  “Did you know they still haven’t identified Parsons? That’s how bad this stuff is. Tears you up like nothing else. Add that to the effect of the sun and critters, plus the fact that you won’t be found for weeks, probably years, out here in the vast desert.” He pulled out the plug in the tube. “It isn’t pretty. But it is necessary.”

  “Don’t do this, Shaw.”

  “Don’t have any choice.”

  “Do you think this is what your sister would want? Do you? You said she was an angel. Would an angel want to live at the cost of so many others?”

  “She will never know.”

  “How can you be sure of that? Three people have died already.”

  Shaw began to tremble. “Do you think I don’t already know that?”

  Slowly, he tilted the brim of the tube. A silver-gray powder drifted downward onto Loving’s chest.

  Loving’s eyes ballooned. He twisted from side to side, but he had been tied so tightly he could barely move. “Get that off me!”

  “If it’s any comfort,” Shaw said, “you’ll be dead in about six hours. On the down side … it won’t be a very pleasant six hours.”

  “Shaw!”

  “Goodbye, Loving. You’ll understand, I hope, if I don’t stick around. Got an appointment to keep. And now that that stuff’s loose, I want to be as far away as possible.”

  “This is wrong, Shaw! Wrong!”

  Shaw turned away, covering his eyes. “I can’t stop it now, Loving. Don’t you see that? It’s gone too far. Too far. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “There’s always something, Shaw. It’s never too late. You can do anything you want. You can be whoever you want to be. Get this stuff off me!”

  Shaw shook his head. “No.” And then he disappeared.

  “Shaw!” Loving bellowed as loudly as he could, but there was no response.

  He heard the sound of a vehicle driving away. He was alone. In the desert. Under the hot sun.

  The powdered cesium was burning him. Burning a hole straight through to his heart.

  39

  You can’t save everyone.

  Ben stared out at the darkened city streets. He had climbed onto his rooftop perch, but tonight he found no solace there. The air was brisk, but it did not invigorate him. The electric blue moonlight cast a shimmering, ethereal glow around the midtown neighborhood, but the sense of forgiving and forgetting that he usually obtained here, at least in a small and temporary fashion, was not forthcoming. The streets were always busy on a Friday night. Everyone was going out to dinner, it seemed, and each of Tulsa’s restaurants would be packed to the brim. He and Christina usually stayed in, but it was fun to watch everyone else hopping about. Movie theaters would be packed with those anxious to get out of the house to see the latest Hollywood extravaganza in the eyeblink before it showed up on DVD. He could see a group of teenagers walking along, singing, shouting, raising a ruckus. A local gang? They didn’t look dangerous. Bored, mostly. Looking for something to do. Something to define their existence on a warm spring Friday night.

  And what would Dennis Thomas be doing right now? Ben closed his eyes tightly shut. He didn’t want to think about it, but the imagery came unbidden. By now the booking would be complete. He’d be in coveralls tonight. Guards acting out power fantasies, or hiding their insecurities with bitterness. Either way, the effect would be equally unpleasant for Dennis. He would not be allowed to bring books. He would not be allowed a window. He would be put in a cold cellblock in a small room with someone he didn’t know and had nothing in common with until it was time to haul him away to the penitentiary where he would in all likelihood spend the rest of his life. However brief that might be.

  Ben ran his fingers through his hair. Christina had tried to comfort him, of course, but it hadn’t worked. He not only didn’t respond to it, he resented it, if he were to be honest with himself. He didn’t want to hear a lot of claptrap about how he had done his best. What good was that? He hadn’t been asked to do his best. He had been asked to win. It was no consolation to hear that you can’t win them all. At this moment in time, there was only one case, and he had lost it. That was why Dennis was spending the night on a metal cot staring at the ceiling, wondering if he would ever sleep well again.

  This was not like most cases. Ben had been reluctant to get into this mess at all, but that didn’t matter. He had taken the case, and he had bumbled and lost it. Dennis had placed enough trust in him to put his life in Ben’s hands. His faith had been misplaced. His gamble, lost.

  To Ben it was never just a case, never could be just a case. He was there to help his client, to do the right thing, to try to extract a little justice from a system that had all too often forgotten that justice was its goal. He’d failed.

  Why did he do it? Why was he driven to take these impossible cases? To defend the lost, the hopeless, and, as Jones would point out, the invariably unprofitable. Was he still desperately trying to prove to his long-dead father that he had not made a fatal mistake, not chosen a profession of no value? Or was he trying to prove something to himself? Was he trying to calm the demons roiling inside by showing that he had something to contribute, that he could make the world a little better, one case at a time? Was he trying to find his worth in his work, or was his work trying to tell him who he really was? And how long would Dennis have to suffer because Ben had tripped and fallen on his journey to find his life purpose?

  Ben leaned back against the roof, wishing there was some way he could neutralize the thoughts racing through his head. Nothing worked—not food, not television, none of the usual diversions. He had tried playing the piano, the most natural mood elevator he knew. But he couldn’t get his heart into it. Not even a good Eliza Gilkyson tune could cure this angst. There would be no release, not even in sleep, when it finally came, because the sleep would be filled with dreams, and his dreams tonight would be nightmares, dark and nasty and remorseless.

  Christina had reminded him that this had been an impossible case and that he’d still given the jury a lot to think about despite the absence of any facts or evidence to help him. Ben bought none of it. He had been trying cases for a good while now. He knew the score. The fact was, Guillerman had beaten him because he’d put on the better case. He had outmaneuvered and outfoxed Ben from the beginning. Seen him coming. Outflanked him. The courtroom was a battlefield, and Ben had been pummeled by enemy artillery. Decimated.

  That stung.

  You can’t save everyone, Christina had tried to tell him. And the logical part of his brain knew that she was right. But what he was feeling at this moment had nothing to do with logic.

  He knew he wasn’t being fair to himself. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to be fair. He didn’t deserve it. On this warm spring Tulsa night, he had no memory of all those he had helped in the past. All he could remember was the man lying on the metal cot staring at the ceiling for what would be the first of so many sleepless nights, alone, apart, separated from everything he ever knew or loved. Until it was time for him to be put down. Because Ben hadn’t been able to save him.

  40

  Loving saw the first sores appear on his arms, then his legs. Big pustulous sores. Ugly ones. Scars that would never heal.

  Next, he felt extreme nausea. He
was heaving, puking uncontrollably. He couldn’t stop himself. It felt as if he were vomiting up his stomach, lining and all, spewing out his insides.

  The sores continued to bubble, boil. They hurt. They spread across his entire body.

  Inside, he could feel the poison eating away at him, his insides turning to fleshy mush. His GI tract giving up. His internal organs boiling and bursting, spilling even more poison into his system.

  Worst of all, he knew his immune system had shut down, so there was no hope that anything happening to him would ever get better. His body was falling apart, melting. Liquefying.

  He was on fire! The pain was so intense, like nothing he had ever felt before, and he had felt a lot of pain in his time. He was being cooked on a high-power rotisserie, inside and out. Burning him alive.

  “Ahhhhhh!”

  Loving squirmed from side to side, desperately trying to get loose. He knew he was hallucinating. He knew it wasn’t really happening, not like he imagined. But it felt just as intense. He was ashamed of himself for giving in to fear and panic, but what could he do? There was a mushroom cloud on his chest! It was killing him!

  How long had it been? Seemed like hours, although some small remaining remotely rational part of his brain said it had not been nearly so long.

  Shaw had said it would take six hours to kill him, but Loving knew it would hurt a long time before that. He had felt as if he were roasting since he awoke. He was in the desert, under the sun, perhaps that was natural. How could he know? Was it the cesium or the heat? Or his imagination? Which one would kill him first?

  He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. There was no point in panicking, he muttered. Then again, was there any point in remaining calm? Was there any point in anything? He would be dead in six hours. His body was melting!

  He wished he’d had a chance to say goodbye to his father. He did regret that. Maybe his ex. She had hurt him badly, but he had loved her once and in some part of his heart that would never change. He would have at least liked to have dropped by and said something to her, tried to patch things up. Before he melted!

  Why did people play with this stuff? Did they not understand how dangerous it could be? How could we possibly justify keeping any kind of radioactive materials around for any reason at all? Anyone who thought that was a good idea should have to sit with a tube full of cesium on their chest for a while and see if they changed their minds.

  He wondered what had happened with Ben and the trial. That was the worst part of this, knowing he had let Ben down.

  Who was he kidding? Melting alive was the worst part of this. But he did worry about Ben. The Skipper had done so much for him over the years. What had happened? He had no sense of time, but he knew the trial was winding down even when he was last conscious, back in Tulsa. What would happen to Ben if he lost? There should be some way to convey the information he had obtained, before …

  Before he boiled.

  He closed his eyes and prayed, prayed like he hadn’t since he was a child. He knew better than to ask for deliverance. That kind of miracle did not occur anymore. He asked for assistance for Ben or, failing that, for comfort. He asked for happiness for his friends, his family. His ex. Everyone back at the office. And then he prayed that the radiation would kill him quickly, before he had thoroughly experienced the excruciating pain he knew was soon to follow …

  The sun was still beating down on his face when he first heard the sound of a car engine. More hallucinations. Only explanation. Could he not, please, get the one about the bright white light? Because he was ready to be out of this …

  The footsteps came so loud and so fast he thought they were going to trample over him.

  “My God, is that what I think it is?”

  “Yes. Get the freaking pig!”

  More footsteps. Loving felt something hard brush against his chest. He hated to open his eyes. He knew it would only lead to more delusions. But it was hard to resist …

  “Mike?”

  “I’m here, buddy. Sorry it took so long.”

  “Mike?”

  “Don’t try to talk. You’ve been out in the sun too long. You’re severely sunburned.”

  “Is … that what it is?”

  “Yes. We caught Shaw and his friend just down the desert a few miles. Thank God you put that tracker on the truck. After you were nabbed, I got the transponder screen out of your van, but I didn’t know the frequency. Figured it out eventually, but by that time they were out of range. Knew they were going to New Mexico, though, from their text messages. Called the local authorities and got a helicopter to track down the signal. That’s how we found you.”

  “You’re … talking too fast.”

  “Sorry. Doesn’t matter.”

  Loving felt the tension in his arms and legs relax. They had cut him loose.

  “Don’t try to stand. We’re wearing hazmat suits. We’ll carry you back to the truck, then copter you out of here. You’ve been exposed less than an hour, so you should be okay, but we’re still going to fly you into Los Alamos for a very special chemical shower.”

  “That sounds … nice.”

  “It will do the trick.”

  “Need to call … Ben.”

  “Doubt if he’s in a very good mood. He lost that trial.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. And you know how he is.”

  “But—Dennis is innocent.”

  “I know you think so, but—”

  Loving grabbed Mike’s arm. “I know he’s innocent. Shaw told me so.”

  “What? When?”

  “Let me get to Shaw. We’ll make him a deal. Get him to testify.”

  “First we have to get you that shower. I can’t guarantee the DA will make any deals. Or that Shaw will cooperate.”

  “He will. Now that it’s over.” Loving was so tired. Maybe it would be okay, just for now, to rest. For a little while. “He’ll do it.”

  “Maybe if we can make it in his own best interest.”

  Loving shook his head slowly. His body was beginning to relax, and he wasn’t even out of the sun yet. “He’ll do it for his sister.”

  41

  “Mr. Kincaid, I know why you’re here. Again. Do you recall the last time?”

  “I do,” Ben said contritely.

  Judge McPartland pointed his gavel. “Then you may recall my telling you that if you brought another motion before this court, without new grounds, I would cite you for contempt and throw you in jail.”

  “I recall that distinctly, your honor.”

  “It is one thing to be a zealous advocate. One cannot help but admire that. Up to a point. But when the trial is over, it is over. Your remedy, if any, is to appeal to a higher court, not to keep badgering the trial court.”

  “Yes, sir. But an appeal takes a year or more. A motion to set aside—”

  “I don’t need a lecture on trial procedure, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Especially not during your third attempt at the same motion. You are very lucky that I have not already—”

  “He’s innocent!” Ben exclaimed.

  A hush fell over the packed courtroom. Despite the fact that most of those in attendance were reporters, there was not so much as a cough. Perhaps they were stunned that he had raised his voice. Or perhaps, like Christina, they thought it was long overdue. If dangerous. Especially with an old-school judge. Good thing he’d brought a toothbrush …

  “I am aware of your position, Mr. Kincaid. And I do not doubt that you genuinely believe it. But we have rules and procedures in this justice system of ours. Surely you must realize—”

  “I’ve been down this road before,” Ben said firmly. “Trying to get someone out of the clutches of the criminal justice system when I knew he was not guilty. Seeing a good man rot away in prison because the wheels of justice turn so slowly.”

  “I admit the system is flawed—”

  “But no one ever wants to do anything about it. That’s why
so many trials go bad. That’s why more than a hundred people have been released from death row because DNA evidence proved the criminal justice system totally screwed up. That’s why—”

  Behind him, Ben felt Christina tugging at the back of his coat. He coughed into his hand. “But I digress …”

  Since Dennis Thomas’s conviction, Ben had alternated between halfheartedly planning an appeal and mostly wallowing in his own guilt. He should’ve done this, he should’ve done that. Nothing made him feel better. Despite Christina’s best efforts to bring him out of his funk, all he could think about was the fact that there was a man in prison—a man on death row, no less—because he’d let himself be outmaneuvered by a sharp district attorney positioning himself for reelection.

  Then he got the call from Loving. Mike, actually, on behalf of Loving. Slowly he was able to put the pieces together. Within twenty-four hours, he was back in front of this court with a motion to set aside judgment based upon newly discovered evidence. Ben presented an affidavit from Loving in which he described in detail everything that Shaw had told him. The intentional killing of Joslyn Thomas. The deliberate refusal to investigate. The drugging of Dennis Thomas. The cesium black market operation that lay behind the whole complex drama.

  His motion was denied. The judge took it all into consideration, but he noted that the standard for setting aside a jury verdict was very high, and rightly so. Otherwise there would never be any finality in any case. He noted that the affidavit had been sworn out by someone who worked for the defense attorney, which of course went to its credibility. He also noted that it was all hearsay, a form of evidence disfavored by the courts, and that Loving had recently been drugged and was suffering bouts of memory loss as a result.