Naked Justice bk-6

by William Bernhardt

  Yeah, Deanna thought. Unequivocally.

  Deanna slid the photos back into the bag, then pulled out the day’s mail. Maybe there would be some relief from her ongoing misery here. Some sign of happiness in the world. A wedding invitation, perhaps. A graduation announcement.

  One envelope caught her attention almost immediately. It was a thin paper preprinted envelope, the kind where you rip off the perforated strips on the edges to get the slip of paper inside. Deanna ripped off the strip and with some effort managed to work out the contents.

  It was a formal document, a summons from the Twenty-fifth Judicial District of the State of Oklahoma. Tulsa County.

  Deanna read the message, then gasped.

  Jury duty.

  Chapter 28

  LOVING PARKED HIS CAR on the street opposite the park. The nearest streetlight was half a mile down the dirt road; all the lights in the park had been busted so many times the city finally stopped bothering to replace them. This was probably the least safe place imaginable to leave personal property unattended; Loving was glad once again that he had never bothered to replace his well-worn Ford pickup truck. It still ran, although it was more than a little beat-up. Not as bad as the Skipper’s car or anything, but it definitely showed its age. Any potential carjackers would immediately realize that this truck wasn’t worth the trouble.

  He crept quietly into the park, keeping his eyes open for any signs of trouble. It could be anywhere. O’Brien Park was one of the worst, most notorious sites in North Tulsa. Sort of like a heartland version of Central Park, O’Brien Park was a place no sane or law-abiding citizen went after dark. During the day, it might seem like any other park, except that, given its location, it was patronized almost exclusively by refugees from the poor and mostly black neighborhoods surrounding it. On Sunday nights, however, it was a major youth hangout, sometimes cruised by as many as a thousand people a night, in their freshly waxed cars flowing in off North Lewis or Birmingham Avenue. Some of the kids drove in from as far away as Okmulgee to climb onto the hoods of their cars, drink beer, and chill. Shoot the breeze about women or handguns or gangsta rap. The scent of burning marijuana was so strong it would linger for days. The police considered the whole place a keg of dynamite with a lit fuse; they were just waiting for the explosion.

  Even when it wasn’t Sunday night, this was not a place for a lone white guy, even one built like a refrigerator. Loving knew that. But the Skipper seemed to think this was important, so here he was. Truth to tell, he’d do just about anything for Ben. Ben was a good guy, especially for someone who’d spent too much time in college and too little time in real life. He’d done Loving some critical favors on more than one occasion, so Loving was more than happy to return one.

  He saw something at the north end of the park, just over the hill between the picnic tables and the baseball diamond. One man—skinny, long haired, standing alone. Waiting, unless Loving missed his guess.

  Moving stealthily forward, Loving crawled beneath the stone picnic table nearest the man. He could see through the opening between the table and the bench, but someone would have to be looking hard to spot him. With any luck, if they didn’t whisper he’d be able to hear as well.

  About five more minutes passed before the other party to the rendezvous arrived. He appeared suddenly out of the blackness; he must’ve parked his car somewhere else, too.

  It was Whitman. Loving was surprised he had come himself. Whatever was bothering him, it had to be serious. So serious Whitman couldn’t trust it to a third party.

  He approached the skinny kid with the long hair. They didn’t shake hands. For that matter, they didn’t even seem particularly friendly.

  Their first few exchanges were mumbled and Loving couldn’t pick them up. In less than a minute, though, the discussion had become sufficiently heated for Loving to overhear.

  “I told you to cut your goddamn hair!” Whitman said through clenched teeth. “Good God, what if someone spotted us together? You think it would take them long to put two and two together?”

  “I like my hair the way it is, man.”

  Whitman grabbed the dangling tresses on either side of the younger man’s head and jerked it forward. “You’ll get your hair cut or you’re a dead man, you sorry son of a bitch. Do you understand me?”

  “Hey, leggo.”

  Whitman jerked all the harder. “Do you understand me?”

  “Hey, like you ain’t my mother, okay?”

  Whitman wrapped the hair around his hands and pulled down so hard it drove the kid to his knees. “Do you understand?”

  He cried out in pain. “All right, all right. You’re hurtin’ me.”

  “I can do a lot worse.”

  “Like, chill already. I got the message.”

  Whitman released his hair. Strands came off with his fingers. “You’d better.”

  The kid brushed the dirt off his knees and stumbled back to his feet.

  “I’ve invested a lot of money in you,” Whitman growled. “I’m feeding more of your bad habits than I can count. And in exchange, I expect a little cooperation.”

  “Fine, fine. Whatever you want.” Loving noticed that the kid was a hell of a lot more compliant now. Amazing what a little physical pain can do.

  “What the hell did you think you were doing?” Whitman said.

  “You mean—”

  “I mean dragging some stupid girl into this. Have you lost your mind?”

  The kid smirked. “Is that what you’re so uptight about, man? Then relax. She’s cool.”

  “She should never have been involved.”

  “I thought she’d make me less conspicuous, okay? Instead of some hood casin’ the neighborhood, we just looked like a couple of sweethearts out for an evening stroll. It was perfect. No one even noticed us.”

  “Someone did, you asshole. Someone told the police.”

  “Not her.”

  “Maybe not, but what if someone recognizes her, huh, punk? What then?”

  The kid fell silent.

  “Have you got the camera?”

  The kid passed the camera to Whitman. Which reminded Loving that he had a tiny camera of his own, with an infra-red filter, and he should be using it to record this little meeting.

  As soon as Whitman got the camera, he ripped open the back. “Where’s the film?” he barked.

  “Ah. Well … that’s a bit of a problem.”

  Whitman rose to the tips of his toes. “What do you mean?”

  “It seems that Martha’s mother developed the film. Found the camera under her bed and took the film and developed it. I mean, can you imagine? What a prying bitch.”

  In a flash, Whitman brought his fist around and hit the kid so hard it literally knocked him off his feet. He fell to his hands and knees.

  Whitman grabbed his neck and shoved his face into the dirt. “I want those pictures and I want them immediately. And the negatives. Do you understand?”

  The kid sputtered dirt.

  “That film could lead the cops to you, and from you to me. I don’t want that to happen. Got it?”

  The kid tried to speak. “But how can I—”

  Whitman rammed his head against the ground hard. “I don’t know how you can do it, and frankly, I don’t care. You can threaten her or torture her or kill her. I just want that film. Very soon. Otherwise, I’m going to threaten and torture and kill you!”

  Whitman shoved the kid’s face down again into the dirt. The kid rolled over onto his back, groaning. Loving could see blood and dirt smeared on his face.

  Whitman yanked his wallet out of his back pocket, ripped out several bills and let them flutter down onto the kid’s prostrate form. “Here’s some spending money. Just make sure you do whatever you need to get the job done. Got it?”

  The kid nodded his head, trembling.

  “Fine, asshole. I don’t want to hear from you again until it’s done.” Whitman turned and disappeared into the darkness.

  Great. Lov
ing shoved the camera back under his shirt. He’d gotten more than a sufficient number of photos of this meeting. This would break the case wide open. Whitman was totally hosed.

  Loving was so pleased with this development that he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late. He reacted immediately, but forgetting where he was, he sprang upward, slamming his head into the underside of the concrete picnic table. While he reeled from that blow, he saw something jabbing in at the side. He ducked; it barely missed his head. And he knew now what it was—a baseball bat.

  Loving forced himself forward, scrambling to get out from under the table. As long as he was pinned down here, there was no way he could fight back. The bat came at him again, this time catching him square against the back and knocking him over. His spine ached; he just hoped it wasn’t severed. He heard the whooshing sound that told him the bat was coming at him again. But there was nothing he could do about it. He closed his eyes and prayed for the best. A few seconds later, the bat swung again. His face was knocked forward into the dirt and he saw nothing but darkness.

  Chapter 29

  WHEN BEN ARRIVED AT the county jail the next morning to visit his client, he was surprised to find Christina already there.

  “Have you heard from Loving?” she asked the instant she saw him.

  “No, but I haven’t been into the office yet.”

  “I have,” she said, “and he isn’t there.”

  Ben read the concern in her face. “I’m sure he’s fine. What could possibly hurt him?”

  She frowned. “We always act as if we can ask him to do anything, as if he’s indestructible. But he isn’t.”

  Ben laid a hand on her shoulder. “If he doesn’t turn up soon, I’ll ask Mike to put out an APB. He’ll turn up.” He turned his attention to Wallace Barrett. He looked well—exceptionally well, given the circumstances. Shaved and groomed, he was wearing a tailored suit rather than the usual prison garb. He even looked as if he’d been working out. “Is there some occasion I don’t know about?” Ben asked. “I assume you didn’t get all spiffed up for me.”

  “That’s true.” Barrett didn’t quite make eye contact. He glanced at Christina, then down at the floor.

  “What is it?” Ben asked. “What’s going on?”

  Barrett adjusted his tie, then rose to his full height. “Ben, I’m giving some interviews today.”

  “What?”

  “Look, I know you don’t like this, but I don’t think I have any choice.”

  “Choice? Of course you have a choice. You can just say no.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing. Taking your advice. And look what’s happened!” The sudden boom in the bass register of his voice told Ben this was something Barrett felt strongly about. “Everyone in the goddamn world is convinced I slaughtered my own family!”

  “That will change at trial.”

  “You’re delusional! Everyone’s mind will be made up before we get to trial, if they aren’t already. How long do you think people can resist this constant media bombardment, day after day, always insinuating that I’m guilty? Oh, sure, they never use those words, but that’s what they’re saying. You can see it in the slant, what they choose to report and what they choose to leave out. They don’t want the truth. They want a hero turned murderer. That’s where the big ratings are.”

  “But still—”

  “How do you think I feel, sitting in the jailhouse every day, listening to the lies they spew out about me? How would you like it if they said those things about you?”

  Ben shook his head. “Cases should be tried in the courtroom, not in the media.”

  Barrett’s large hands balled up. “That’s pretty damn easy for you to say, Mr. High-and-Mighty. It ain’t your neck on the chopping block. People aren’t saying you killed your wife, your precious children.”

  Ben turned away. He didn’t know what more he could say. “Christina, come talk to him.”

  Christina didn’t budge. “Sorry, Ben. I think he’s right.”

  “What?”

  “In a perfect world, I’m sure what you say would be true. But we don’t live in a perfect world. We live in a world where gossip passes for news, and sensationalism passes for journalism. If we don’t play along, we’re going to lose out.”

  Ben turned back to Barrett. “Look, I’m your lawyer, not your mother. I can’t tell you what to do. But I think this is a mistake. If you do it anyway, remember—anything you say can and probably will be used against you by the prosecution.”

  “I understand,” Barrett replied. “I know how to handle myself. It’s not like I’ve never given an interview before.”

  “Fine.” Ben popped open his briefcase. “Any other little surprises you’d like to spring on me?”

  “Actually, yes.” The same nervousness Ben had spotted before seemed to return. “I was talking to your legal assistant here.”

  “Yes?”

  He took a deep breath. “I think we should hire a jury consultant.”

  “Oh, jeez.”

  Barrett held up his hands. “I know, Christina told me you thought they were a waste of money.”

  “Worse than that. They can be a real pain in the butt.”

  “But I think we’re going to need some help on this one.”

  “You mean you think I’m going to need some help with this one.”

  “We all need help, Ben. Now more than ever.”

  “Christina is an excellent judge of people,” Ben noted. “She’s better than any professional know-it-all I’ve seen in my entire career.”

  “Probably so, but she’s got work of her own right now. I want someone who can go out and take the pulse of the people, maybe run some polls, find out what they think. Then we can tailor our defense accordingly.”

  “Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I always try to tailor my defense around the truth.”

  “C’mon, Ben, get with it. Of course we’re going to tell the truth, but the consultant will tell us how to tell it. What notes to play, what buttons to push. How to win the people over.”

  “Wallace, I think you’re confused. This is a trial, not a campaign.”

  “Is there a difference? We’re trying to win the votes of twelve people.”

  “Christina?”

  She shrugged. “Sorry, Ben, I—”

  “Right. You agree with him.” He turned back to Barrett. “Fine. It’s your money. You want to throw it away, that’s your business. But I don’t want him butting in and trying to tell me what to do at trial. Once voir dire is over, he’s gone.”

  “Understood.”

  Barrett sat down on the lower bunk in his cell. “One last thing, Ben.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Yeah. Something I didn’t tell you.”

  Ben didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Tell me now.”

  “There was a time in my life when … well, when I was pretty damn depressed. It was after my football career, before I got my business going. I didn’t know what to do with myself. No one seemed interested in me anymore. I’d gone from constantly being in the limelight to being nobody. I couldn’t handle it.”

  Ben nodded sympathetically. “Yes?”

  “Not too many people know this, Ben, but I had a nervous breakdown. Had to get some psychiatric counseling. In fact, I spent two weeks in a hospital. In—you know. One of those hospitals.”

  Ben tried not to evidence his reaction, but the possible impact of this little development on the trial was obvious.

  “Yeah, I know,” Barrett continued. “If the prosecution finds out, they’ll say crazy once, crazy always. They’ll use my psychiatric history to try to make me look unbalanced, like some psycho.”

  Ben nodded grimly. He pulled some papers out of his briefcase. “See this? It’s a subpoena. They want your medical records.”

  “Then they already know.”

  “I don’t think so. The subpoena’s too vague. This is just standard procedure. They’re on a fishing expedit
ion.” Ben put the subpoena back in his briefcase and snapped it shut. “We have to see that they don’t catch anything.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I’ll do my best. The hearing’s just before the trial.”

  A new voice interrupted. “Excuse me.”

  It was one of the sheriffs, standing outside the cell door. “Didn’t mean to cut in, but there’s a message for you, Mr. Kincaid. Looks urgent.”

  Ben took the message from the man, scanned it quickly. “Oh my God.”

  Christina’s eyes widened. “What is it?”

  Ben grabbed his briefcase. “We’ll check back with you later, Wallace. We’ve got to get back to the office.” He nodded toward Christina. “Come on.”

  Loving was in the lobby, sprawled out in a desk chair. Jones was pressing a large ice pack against the back of his head. “What happened? Are you all right?” Ben asked as he and Christina huddled round.

  “Sorry, Skipper,” Loving said. Each word seemed to cause considerable pain. “I screwed up.”

  “Never mind about that. Are you hurt?”

  “Aww … nothin’ serious. Someone bashed me in the head with a baseball bat.”

  “Oh, is that all? Loving, have you seen a doctor?”

  “I don’t need no doctor. I’ve been hurt a lot worse than this before. I’m just sorry I let the creep get the drop on me.” He bit down on his lower lip. “They were there at the park. Just like you said they’d be.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “I saw it all. Whitman and some longhaired creepazoid punk.”

  “Did he admit that he killed Barrett’s family?”

  “Not in so many words. But there’s no doubt about it—Whitman sent the kid out to Barrett’s neighborhood. And he’s got cheap hit man written all over his face.”

  “But can we prove it?”

  Loving lowered his head, obviously ridden with guilt and shame. “Not by me. I lost the camera. And the film. Whoever knocked me over the head ran off with it.”

  Christina put her arm around him. “You never mind about that. We’re just glad you’re alive.”