Hate Crime

by William Bernhardt

  “It goes to consent, sir, and the Constitution and the rulings of the U.S. Supreme Court require that Miranda rights be knowingly waived before the police may question. In his state of mind, he couldn’t possibly-”

  “Let’s just cut through the baloney, could we?” Lacayo said, revealing another spark of temper. “Do you have any evidence indicating that your client did not understand his rights when they were read to him?”

  Christina hesitated. “Well, the whole scenario-”

  “I thought not. And if this man had his wits about him enough to brag about a hideous crime, he was able to understand the rights which he’s probably heard on television a thousand times before. Forgive me for saying so, counsel, but this argument is weak.”

  “Your honor-”

  “I don’t normally try to advise counsel, but I’m going to make an exception here, Ms. McCall, because you’re new to our court. I know this case has been thrust upon you in difficult circumstances. But you do not do your client any favors with these desperate arguments.”

  Christina’s lips parted.

  “To the contrary. By making it seem as if you’re floundering about, grasping for any straw no matter how feeble, you disincline the court to grant any relief in your favor and make a bad situation worse.”

  Christina was speechless. Chewed out in open court, in front of the woman who hired her and a host of state and national media. Of course Lacayo was grandstanding for the reporters, but that made no difference. This was devastating.

  “The best thing you can do now,” the judge continued, “is to stop making motions, go to trial, present what evidence you may have in a calm and reasoned manner, and let justice take its course. That public policy you were so concerned about earlier is not served by these frivolous attempts to suppress the truth.”

  Christina fell into her seat, so choked she couldn’t speak.

  “Your motion is denied. All your motions are denied. So if there is nothing else-”

  “If I may, your honor,” Drabble cut in. “The state has a pending motion to bifurcate the evidentiary portion of the case from the sentencing portion. I filed a brief.”

  The judge nodded. “I don’t have any problem with that.”

  “Wait just one moment,” Christina said. “I didn’t get his brief.”

  Lacayo peered across the room at her. “You have not received a copy?”

  “Excuse me,” Drabble said, “but isn’t that your copy on your table, Ms. McCall? In the manila envelope.” He turned back to the judge. “I handed it to her myself.”

  Christina ripped open the top envelope he had given her a few minutes before-that she had volunteered to carry for him. Sure enough-a motion to bifurcate.

  The man had suckered her. Not once. But twice.

  “So when you told the court that you did not have the brief, Ms. McCall,” the judge said, obviously angry, “that was something less than the truth?”

  “I-I guess-I had it. I just didn’t-”

  “Ms. McCall,” Judge Lacayo said, “this court feels just as strongly about truthfulness as it does about punctuality.”

  “Of course, but-”

  “Perhaps the least appealing quality of the unprepared lawyer is the tendency to make excuses for her failures.”

  “But your honor-”

  “The motion to bifurcate will be granted. This hearing is adjourned. Have a nice weekend, and I will see you all again Monday morning when we begin this trial.” He glared at Christina. “And I will expect rather better preparation and performance than I have seen in this courtroom today.” He slammed the gavel.

  As soon as Lacayo was out of the courtroom, the noise level in the courtroom became deafening, at least to Christina. She just hoped to God that Drabble didn’t come over to extend his sympathies. That would be too much. She might have to slug the man. The reporters would be waiting for her outside, but she knew if she sweet-talked the judge’s clerk, he might let her exit via chambers.

  So this was what it had come to-sneaking away from the courtroom, head hung in shame. What the hell had she thought she was doing when she took this case? She might sneak away from the reporters, but she knew she would still have to face Ellen, if not here, then back at Kevin’s office. What would she say?

  She needed help. She didn’t like to admit it, but it was true. She was in over her head. As she packed away her materials, she noticed an e-mail she had printed out this morning. INTERNS SEEKING PART-TIME POSITIONS.

  If Ben refused to help her, he couldn’t complain if she found someone else who would, right?

  By the time she’d made it back to the street, Christina was already on her cell phone setting up interviews. As far as she was concerned, she had no choice. After a performance like today’s, she had to do something. Anything. Because when this trial started, it would be about a good deal more than her professional reputation. It would be about whether a young man who insisted he hadn’t committed a murder would be sentenced to death-because his attorney blew it.

  13

  Charlie the Chicken sat opposite the desk and stared at the man in the gray, off-the-rack J.C. Penney’s suit. He was the natty sort-everything in its place. You could see it on his desk; you could see it in his clothes. A hanky tucked in his jacket pocket. Even wore a tie tack, for God’s sake.

  “Tell me about yourself,” the man said, folding his hands into each other.

  “Sure.” It was a tiny office with plywood walls; the man shared space with a bail bondsman. “I grew up on the South Side. Dropped out of high school, moved downtown. Adventures in the big city-you know how it goes. Had some idea I was going to get involved with a theater company, but so far that hasn’t happened. I had to take a trip out of town recently, and… unfortunately, that caused a break with my previous employer. Now I’m back and looking for something to do.”

  “Are you still interested in theater work?”

  “Yeah. But at the moment, I need to earn some bread. But that’s okay. I mean-it’s all performing, isn’t it? When you get right down to it. Playing a role. Assuming a character. Trying to please the audience.”

  Charlie had to fight to keep from laughing. Even a grin would probably be a mistake at this juncture. Who knew how much of a sense of humor this guy had, given what he did for a living? He came off as such a starched shirt. Charlie had expected a significantly higher sleaze factor-silk shirt, or perhaps Hawaiian, open at the collar, collar flared. Fat, feet on the desk, leaning back in the chair. Like a porn film producer, maybe. Instead, he got the man in the gray flannel suit.

  “As you might imagine,” the man continued, “our hours are at times somewhat irregular and unpredictable. Would that be a problem?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Afternoons are common. And sometimes late nights. Very late.”

  Charlie spread wide his hands. “Hey, I’m at your disposal.”

  “Splendid. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “No. Unfortunately, I’ve had to scale back a bit of late. Cut out the nonessentials.”

  “I understand entirely.”

  The most remarkable part, all things considered, was how utterly respectable this office seemed. From all outward appearances, he might as well be interviewing for a job as church secretary, perhaps the mayor’s aide. But this sort of thing had to be low-key, he supposed. Couldn’t attract attention. A big neon sign reading PIMP would probably be a mistake.

  “Do you have any hobbies? Other than your theater work?”

  “Well, I haven’t had too much time for it lately, but, yeah, I love to read. Haunt the libraries, you know. Learned most of my best tricks and techniques there, courtesy of the Cook County taxpayers. And I make boxes.”

  “Boxes?”

  “Hard to explain. I got the idea last time I was in Santa Fe. It’s kind of like painting, except on a three-dimensional surface. Sometimes I follow a theme, sometimes I go more abstract. I got one in a gallery on Michigan once. Never sold, though.”
<
br />   The man smiled pleasantly. “My late wife was fond of miniatures. Little dollhouses, I called them.”

  Charlie tried to suppress his urge to barf. “Well, that’s… somewhat similar, yeah.”

  “Where are you living?”

  “I’m kind of between places at the moment. I’d been rooming with a guy for years but… well, you know how these things shake out sometimes. It didn’t work anymore. Then I left town and, since I’ve been back, I’ve been squatting in a real dive. One of those rent-by-the-week joints. I think some of my neighbors may be renting in five-minute increments.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yeah. So you can see why I’m interested in making some cash. I got things to take care of.”

  “But of course you do.” He scanned a form that lay on the desk before him. “Just a few more things we need to cover…”

  None of this get-to-know-you BS fooled Charlie for a moment. The man cared about only two things: how much are you willing to do, and how big is it? And if Charlie wanted work, it’d better be big.

  “Are you active in sports?”

  “Oh yeah. You may not be able to tell-I’ve always been on the skinny side-but I love to get outdoors and work up a sweat. I play racquetball several times a week.” Which was total bull, but it was the most big-dickish answer he could come up with off the top of his head. “We were in the state finals last year.”

  “Impressive. Could we talk a moment about your professional qualifications?”

  Here we go. “Of course.”

  “You say you’ve done this sort of thing before.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “So you wouldn’t be uncomfortable with the general parameters of escort work.”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Then let me ask. Are there any activities you wouldn’t be willing to engage in?”

  Charlie hesitated. “I’m not sure. Perhaps if you could give me some idea…”

  “For instance, many of our clients are older women. Considerably older than yourself. Would that be a problem?”

  Charlie’s face brightened. “I love older women. Bring on the grandmas.”

  “And some of our clients are rather… large.”

  “Fine, fine. More to love.”

  The man did not crack a glimmer of a smile. “What about men?”

  “Men?”

  “Yes. Would that be a problem?”

  “I’d… probably prefer not to do men. I just… it’s not my thing, you know?”

  “Are you certain about that? We get many requests from male clients. With relatively few outlets for that sort of thing or places to meet men with similar interests, many do find themselves turning to us for assistance. If you were willing to take male clients, we could provide you with a great deal of work. And you did say you needed funds…”

  Charlie thought long and hard. It was tempting, no doubt about it. If he could score some big money, fast, he could buy some fake ID, get his records altered. Make himself untraceable. Maybe even fly off to Rio and disappear once and for all.

  But then he thought about Dean, and that first hideous, painful night…

  “No. I’m sorry, I can’t do that. But bring on the women, and I’ll give them something they never dreamt-”

  “Are there any acts you would not be willing to engage in? Any positions?”

  “With the grandmas? Nah. I don’t care.”

  “Well, then, that just about covers it, I think.” He stacked his papers and punched a perfectly placed staple in the upper left corner. “I don’t see why you can’t start immediately.”

  “Great.”

  “My secretary will issue you a pager. Please keep it on your person at all times. If we buzz you, proceed to a telephone as soon as possible for your instructions.”

  “Roger.”

  “Now there are a few rules we should review. First-”

  “Get the money up front.”

  The man’s lips thinned. Was that what passed for a smile with this guy? “Yes. There are others, however. Our clients must always be treated with respect. Be punctual. Never argue. The customer is always right. And most important-”

  “Get the money up front. I understand. Believe me-I’ve been there.”

  “Good. We shouldn’t have any problems. May I validate your parking?”

  “Uh, no. I took the bus.” Which was true, even though it didn’t leave often and never went exactly where he needed to go. But he felt safer in a bus than he did walking the streets. Anything could happen to you when you were walking alone on the street, Charlie thought, a sudden chill running down his back. Like with Tony Barovick. He knew what had happened to that poor kid-like no one else did.

  Well, almost no one. One did. The one who was undoubtedly searching the streets of the city, night and day, looking for Charlie the Chicken. So he could do it again.

  14

  Christina and Loving sat in a booth, casing the joint as they huddled over two longneck beers and a video monitor. Loving preferred to get the lay of a place before he barged in asking questions. And it was just as well, because Remote Control was not your average singles bar.

  “So this is how they do it in the big city,” Christina said. “Back in Tulsa, they’d just have a debutante ball.”

  “That would be an improvement,” Loving replied.

  “I suppose this is better than trying to meet someone in an online chat room.”

  “ ‘Fyou say so.”

  “You can tell if a guy is really a guy.”

  “Mebbe.”

  “I suppose you preferred it when you could just club a woman over the head and drag her by the hair back to your cave.”

  He shrugged. “Did simplify things.”

  Christina scoped out the crowded bar. It was filled with people using video monitors, all of them hooked up to a single camera network. From the relative privacy of your booth, you could channel surf-for people. Keep switching from channel to channel till you saw someone you liked, then push a button to let your obscure object of desire know you’re watching. If there is no objection, you pick up the phone and chat. A meat market for the Nintendo generation.

  “I know we’re working,” Christina said, “but I won’t object if you want to try it out. After all, a good investigator has to get a feel for the environment.”

  “Pass,” Loving said.

  “Too chicken?”

  “Too smart.”

  There was a buzzing sound, followed by a pop-up message on their screen. “Channel 42 says, ‘Hi!’ Would you like to reply? Press A to initiate contact. Press B to send them packing.”

  Christina gave Loving a poke. “C’mon. Go for it.”

  “Nuh-huh. The message is from someone named Adam. He doesn’t wanna talk to me. Or if he does, I don’t wanna talk to him.”

  “Well, I’m game.” Christina pushed the A button. A head shot of a dark-complexioned man in his early thirties popped onto the screen. “Ten-four, Adam. This is Becky Sue.”

  Loving arched an eyebrow. Becky Sue?

  “Hi, Becky Sue,” the face on the screen replied. “I’ve been watching you.”

  “You yellow dog, you.”

  “I’m in one of the back caverns. Got a bottle of champagne and a chaise longue. Would you like to join me?”

  “I don’t know. Whatcha got?”

  Christina found his attempt at a seductive look all too amusing. “More than you can handle, sister.” He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

  “I dunno, pardner. I can handle a lot.”

  Adam was still unbuttoning. “That’s good to hear. Because I’ve got a lot for you.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Why talk at all? Come back to my cavern and I’ll give you a taste of my all-night sucker.”

  Christina pressed a hand to her throat. “Oh, my.”

  “Come on, gorgeous,” Adam cooed. “Let me show you what you’re missing. We’ll relax, pour a few shots.”

  “Sorry, slick
. I don’t do hard liquor.”

  “Do you smoke? I’ve got some joints.”

  Loving stiffened.

  “It’s quality stuff. Just in from Mexico.”

  Loving began to slide from their booth. Christina grabbed his arm. “Hold on, Starsky.”

  “What’s the problem?” Adam asked. “He doesn’t smoke?”

  “No, dear. The problem is he hates drugs and the people who promote them. Last guy who tried to pass him a joint ended up in the hospital for a week.”

  The screen went black.

  Loving got up. “I’m going after him.”

  “Don’t bother. He’ll be long gone.”

  Loving grimaced. “I got enough atmosphere. Let’s try some actual investigatin’. They’re expecting us. You want the owner?”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

  “I’ll do the barmaid. Word on the street says she was a close friend of Tony Barovick’s.” He moved toward the bar. “Don’t make anyone mad or go anywhere I can’t see you. I’m only lettin’ you in on this ’cause we’re so pressed for time. Push hard. Don’t let him weasel around with half answers. We’ll meet back here when you’re done.”

  “No doubt,” Christina said. “Unless I find a dark cavern with a chaise longue.”

  Christina hated being made to wait, but she might tolerate it from, say, the president of the United States. But from a greasy, overweight club owner? It didn’t sit well.

  Fortunately, she had the overhead monitors to amuse her. One was scrolling through a montage of images from throughout the bar: couples kissing, men’s butts in tight jeans, women’s cleavage-had a camera been pointed at her chest while she sat in the booth with Loving?-a rapid-fire succession of faces howling with gaiety or rapturous with passion. If this wasn’t a television commercial, it should be.

  At long last, Mario Roma put down his cell phone. “So you’re defending the guy who killed Tony.”

  “Accused,” Christina clarified.

  “We had cops and lawyers crawling all over the place, after what happened. I don’t remember you.”

  “I’m new to the case.” Christina took the open stool-then immediately checked to see if there were any cameras zooming in on her cleavage. “So you own this place?”