Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Carlee … that’s ridiculous.”

  “It is not.”

  “It is. Think about what you’re saying. ‘I saw a murder but it slipped my mind.’ That’s absurd.”

  “Dave …” Her eyes turned away. “I think I should contact that attorney. I think I should offer to testify.”

  “No.”

  Carlee leaned away, literally taken aback. Dave was a peacemaker, a compromiser. She didn’t recall a flat-out no from him in their entire married lives. Until now.

  “Dave, I think I have an obligation.”

  “To do what?” He rolled over and grabbed her wrist. “To make a fool of yourself? To turn this family into a laughingstock?”

  “Dave—”

  “And what about the children? Have you thought about them?”

  “I don’t see how this affects—”

  “Children talk, Carlee. If you testify, especially if you testify that you saw a murder but then forgot, you’re going to be all over the papers. All over the TV. And everyone’s going to be laughing at you. The kids at school will pick it up. You know how cruel children can be. ‘My mother says your mother is nuts.’ ‘My daddy says they should lock your mama up and throw away the key.’ ‘Where’s your dad, Gavin? Maybe your mom killed him and forgot about it.’ ”

  “Dave, our boys are strong and smart. They can handle a little—”

  “And what about me, Carlee?”

  “I—don’t—”

  “What about me? Will you think about that for just one minute? What’s this going to look like at the office? Is Hannigan going to continue to let me work with his star clients after you’ve been ridiculed on the evening news?”

  Carlee didn’t know what to say. This was a reaction she hadn’t anticipated, would never have dreamed possible. …

  “Dave,” she said finally, “I can’t just button my lip and let them give that man the death penalty if I can help him.”

  “I agree. But believe me, your testimony isn’t going to help him. In fact, it might hurt. They’ll think his lawyer put you up to it. They’ll think he’s so desperate he’ll try anything.”

  Carlee held her tongue. That was a possibility she hadn’t considered.

  “Believe me, you’ll do more good for that man if you just stay quiet. And I know it will be better for your family.” He reached out and turned out the lamp.

  Their bedroom went dark. Carlee sat up for a long time, long after they were both quiet, long after she heard the soft, steady snoring of her husband.

  All she wanted to do was what was right. But what was right? It was so hard to know anymore. What was right? What was real? What was true?

  What should she do?

  Eventually she laid her head upon her pillow and prayed for sleep. She prayed that dreams would come and take her away from all this confusion, all this uncertainty, all this indecision brought on by the curse of memory.

  But that night her prayers were not answered.

  49

  ON HIS WAY TO the back of the house, Royce spotted two little statues embedded in the garden. He’d never noticed them before.

  He crouched down and took a closer look. They were dwarfs, cute little guys with picks and shovels, like in that movie he saw when he was a kid. Which ones were they? Dopey? Sneezy? Sleazy?

  He laughed. If these guys were perched outside this place, he was betting on Sleazy.

  Royce’s friend was waiting for him when he arrived.

  “Where have you been? I told you I wanted you back before dark. Have you been to the police?”

  “Relax, already. I’m your friend, remember? Didn’t I get you out of those cuffs?”

  Yes, his friend thought. And I probably should’ve wrapped them around your worthless throat right then and there. “What did you learn?” he asked, eyes narrowed. Without the fake glasses, the natural coal gray of his eyes shone through with even greater penetration.

  “You’re safe,” Royce said calmly. “At least for now.”

  “And the boy?”

  “Well, that’s another matter. He’s under police protection. He’s got a bodyguard assigned to him day and night. You’re not going to be able to get anywhere near him.”

  The other man paced slowly around the sofa. “For how long?”

  Royce glanced up from the magazine. “I don’t get ya.”

  “How long will he be under police protection? They can’t baby-sit the little bastard forever.”

  “Huh. That I don’t know.”

  “How much did he talk?”

  “From what I gathered, he said pretty much everything he knew. Fortunately, that was practically zippo. Like I said, you’re safe.”

  “They can’t identify me?”

  “If they could, do you think I’d be at your place having this conversation?”

  “What will the police do now?”

  Royce’s expression became a bit more somber. “Well, my buddy on the force isn’t privy to all the top-level discussions. But my general impression is that they’ve got a lot of manpower searching for this apartment.”

  “Damn!” The man pounded his fist down on the glass tabletop. The glass bowed and shuddered but, to Royce’s relief, did not quite break. Control, he told himself. Control. “You will check in with your police contact every day, understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “I want to know everything. Absolutely everything. At the least sign of danger, I want to be informed immediately.”

  “Sure, sure, sure. But I don’t see what you’re getting so upset about. So what if they do find your apartment? They can’t prove it was you.”

  “You idiot!” Again the fist went down on the glass. “They have the boy.”

  “So?”

  “The boy can identify me. That’s what they’re counting on. He may not be able to find me, but once they do, they can use the boy to lock me away for a good long time. Maybe forever.”

  “Huh. I guess I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

  The man approached Royce, laying his hand gently on Royce’s head. “And you don’t want that to happen, do you, Royce?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You know, if the police arrest me, they’re going to ask how I became so attached to little Abie. I might have to tell them about you.”

  “Hey, now wait a minute. I didn’t tell you what to do.”

  “They won’t see it that way. They’ll see you as an accomplice. A pimp.”

  Royce frowned. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”

  The man’s hand suddenly closed into a fist, tightly clenching a handful of Royce’s hair. “Find me a way to get to the boy.”

  “Oww! You’re hurting me!”

  Royce’s friend smiled, effecting a frightening change in his demeanor. Temper, temper, he scolded himself. He released Royce’s hair and walked back around the sofa to the table. “I’ve never let one of my little friends escape before. Not for long, anyway. I don’t like it.”

  “But I thought they were your little buddies. They wouldn’t hurt you. …”

  “Not intentionally, no. But Abie is so sweet, so eager to please. He might talk to them without realizing that he was betraying me.” His forearms trembled. “I don’t like being … vulnerable.”

  “I don’t think you have much to worry about—”

  “I don’t want to worry at all!” His fist came down like a hammer. This time it happened. The glass tabletop shattered under the impact, splintering the glass, cutting his hand.

  Please don’t do it again, Daddy. Please! It hurts, Daddy. It hurts!

  The man clenched his eyes shut and slowly withdrew his blood-streaked hand.

  “Don’t make me punish you, too, Royce,” the man continued, in an eerie, flat voice. “Get me that boy.”

  “I—I’ll do my best.”

  He grabbed Royce by the throat. “Don’t give me stupid platitudes. Do it!”

  “All right, all right.” Royce broke away, rubbing his sore th
roat. “Why do I always have to do the hard work?”

  “The hard work?” The other man began to chuckle. “But, Royce, all you have to do is find him.” His coal-gray eyes became small and black. “I’m the one who has to kill him.”

  50

  IF POSSIBLE, THE COURTROOM was even more crowded than it had been the day before. Word had gotten out; Courtroom Three was Tulsa’s hottest ticket. Ben had expected the media to be there in full force; he wasn’t expecting the horde of nonprofessionals: the retirees, the street people, the bored house spouses. The spectacle of seventy-year-old grandmothers squabbling for seats in the gallery was pretty sickening.

  As Ben scanned the gallery he saw several familiar faces. Almost all his acquaintances from the country club were there; Crenshaw and Bentley were sitting together near the jury box. Their clothes alone were sufficient to cause them to stand out from the rest of the crowd. The Rutherfords were there also, but they were not sitting together. Harold was near the front; Rachel was in the rear, pressed into a corner. Ben couldn’t help but suspect that this separation was significant.

  The back doors opened, and Mitch escorted Captain Pearson to a seat. Apparently, Mitch wasn’t staying. Poor chump; he probably had to chauffeur Pearson over.

  Ben waved to get Mitch’s attention. “Baby-sitting Cap’n Ron?” Ben asked.

  “No comment,” Mitch replied.

  “I have a question. Suppose I wanted to learn who on the Utica Greens board was communicating with person or persons unknown in Peru. How would I go about it?”

  Mitch thought for a moment. “Well, if they were communicating from someplace other than the club, I wouldn’t have any idea. But all of the board members have offices at the club. Deliveries and faxes are always logged in by the desk secretary. I could check for FedEx packages or certified letters from Peru. I could check the guest register for Spanish-sounding names. And I could check the phone bills for long-distance calls.”

  “That would be great,” Ben said. “When can you start?”

  “Now, wait a minute. …” Mitch looked nervously toward the back of the courtroom. “I’ll have to get approval from Pearson.”

  “No. You can’t tell him you’re doing it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, principally because he’ll tell you not to.”

  “Then I don’t think—”

  Ben laid his hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Look, Mitch, I don’t want you to lose your job. But if I don’t get this information, and as soon as possible, my client could end up convicted for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “But still—”

  “C’mon, Mitch. I can tell you’re a good guy. You’re not like these country-club clowns you work for who don’t care about anything but their own comfort. You care about other people.”

  “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

  Ben shrugged his shoulders. “I’m desperate.”

  Mitch frowned. “I’ll have to do it at night. When no one else is around.”

  “Excellent.”

  “It’ll take several days. I have other duties.”

  “Understood. But tell me what you’ve found as soon as possible.”

  Mitch nodded. “I’ll stay in touch.”

  “Thanks.”

  Leeman was already at the defendant’s table. His eyes had pronounced circles; his expression was long and drawn. He looked tired.

  And scared.

  Ben was startled by a sudden thud. “Whaa …?”

  “Morning, Kincaid.” It was Bullock. He had dropped a huge banker’s box of documents on the table.

  “What’s this mess?” Ben asked.

  “New exhibits,” Bullock replied succinctly. “We’ve added a few witnesses. But as you’ve pointed out before, trial by ambush is history. So here are the files. You’re on notice.”

  “How nice,” Ben said. “And a full two minutes before the trial begins, too.”

  “I always play by the rules. I’m required to give you notice. I just did.”

  “By the way, I didn’t think very much of your opening statement.”

  Bullock cocked his head to one side. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

  “Your opening had nothing to do with the truth. It had to do with prejudicing the jury by focusing their attention on the attorneys instead of the evidence.”

  “Is that against the rules?”

  “Maybe not, but—”

  “When the evidence shows the defendant is guilty, like in this case, for instance, then I prosecute him. That’s my job. That’s what I believe in. Your problem is that you don’t have any convictions. How could you? I know I’m performing a service. I’m acting for the greater good. That’s why I don’t mind pushing. I won’t violate the rules, but I have no problem doing anything within the rules that will help make my case. Consider yourself warned.” He marched to the prosecution table without a backward glance.

  A few minutes later Judge Hawkins stomped into the courtroom. After letting the bailiff do his bit and giving the jury their daily instructions, Hawkins invited Bullock to call his first witness.

  “The State calls Dr. Hikaru Koregai to the stand.”

  Ben almost smiled. He felt like he and Dr. Koregai were old friends. Koregai had been a medical examiner for over twenty-five years; he’d worked on every homicide Ben had been involved with since he moved to Tulsa. He was well-known for his expertise in forensic medicine, his ability to stay cool under cross-examination, and his in-your-face “why the hell should I help you?” manner. The coroner with an attitude.

  After establishing Koregai’s expertise and credentials, Bullock took him back to the night of the murder. Koregai was called to the scene of the crime by a Sergeant Tompkins shortly after the body was discovered.

  “What condition was Maria Alvarez in when you arrived?”

  “She was dead.”

  “Did you confirm this opinion?”

  Koregai arched an eyebrow. He didn’t like being doubted, not even by friendly interrogators. “Yes. I searched for vital signs. There were none. She was dead.”

  “Do you have an opinion as to the cause of her death?”

  “Technically, she died of cranial cerorexia—the loss of oxygen to her brain. The more immediate cause of death was the loss of blood and the collapse of her respiratory system.”

  “And what caused that?”

  “The shaft of a golf club had been forced through her neck. The wound was fatal.”

  “Would death have been immediate?”

  “Possibly.”

  “But not certainly?”

  “The wound was fatal,” Koregai continued, “but not necessarily immediately so. She may have died quickly. Or she may have been pinned to the wall, in excruciating pain, for some time.”

  “I see,” Bullock said somberly. He shook his head sadly from side to side, then cast a firm glance at Leeman. The jury did the same.

  “Dr. Koregai,” Bullock continued, “I have some pictures I’d like you to identify.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ben said. “I object. Mr. Bullock has made this discussion grisly enough. We don’t need to see photos.”

  Counsel approached the bench. Bullock gave the photos to the judge, who passed them to Ben.

  Every one was a grotesque, full-color, blood-splattered picture of the victim pinioned to the wall. Bullock was obviously trying to turn the jury against Leeman by emphasizing the grotesque nature of the crime.

  “I repeat my objection,” Ben whispered to the judge, out of the jury’s hearing. “These pictures contribute nothing that hasn’t already come out through Dr. Koregai’s testimony. They have no probative value, and they could greatly prejudice the jury. Their verdict should be rendered based upon the facts, not passion stirred up by inflammatory nonevidence.”

  “Your honor,” Bullock said innocently, “the law requires me to positively identify the victim.”

  Judge Hawkins gazed at the photos. These were so hideous even he
didn’t want to look at them. “Don’t you have any other photos of the victim? Perhaps one that doesn’t show blood gushing from her neck?”

  “Your honor, this was the condition of the corpse when Dr. Koregai arrived. He can only identify what he saw.” Bullock leveled his eyes. “If I can’t use these photos, my case will be greatly prejudiced. I might even have to dismiss.”

  Hawkins grimaced. “Oh, very well. Objection overruled.”

  “Judge, I protest!” Ben said.

  “Your objection is already on the record,” Hawkins said huffily. “Let’s get on with this.”

  Ben ground his teeth together and returned to his table. If he had any doubts about his standing in this trial before, they were all gone now. Hawkins was a prosecution man through and through. He was going to be no help to Ben at all.

  Koregai identified the pictures, and the bailiff duly presented them to the jury. Each juror studied them for a few painful moments, then wordlessly passed them down the row.

  Ben didn’t have to read minds to know what they were thinking. They were thinking that this murder was more than a murder. It was an abomination, a sacrilege. They wanted to convict the person who did this.

  And without exception, each juror, after he or she examined the pictures thoroughly and passed them on to the next juror, looked across the courtroom at Leeman Hayes.

  51

  AFTER LUNCH, BULLOCK CALLED his next witness. With the medical testimony out of the way, Ben expected Bullock to take them directly to the night of the murder. To his surprise, Bullock instead called someone he’d never heard of before.

  “The State calls Ramona de Vries.”

  Who? Ben whirled around and made eye contact with Christina, who was rapidly rummaging in the files. She shrugged; she was as much in the dark as he was.

  While the woman walked to the witness stand Ben searched through his notes and outlines for some mention of a Ramona de Vries. His eyes fell on the large cardboard box Bullock had dropped on his table that morning.

  There she was—right on the top. A file folder labeled RAMONA DE VRIES. Ben had noticed it earlier, but the name didn’t mean anything to him and he hadn’t had time to browse.