Hate Crime

by William Bernhardt

  “Christina…”

  “Please, Ben. Please. For me?”

  As they looked at each other, decades seemed to pass in the space of seconds.

  After a while, Dee reappeared. “Another cup of tea, Ben?”

  “No,” he said slowly, speaking to Dee but looking at Christina. “We need to get out of here. We’ve got a flight to catch. And a ton of work to do.”

  28

  The man sitting on the other side of the desk was wearing that same gray suit. “I don’t understand what the difficulty is. I’ve had nothing but good reports about you.”

  Well, that was good to hear. Charlie the Chicken could still deliver.

  “Do you have some complaint about the hours?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “I admit, I have kept you busy, but I thought that was what you wanted.”

  “It was.”

  “Is it the kind of work? The clients?”

  “No. All that has been fine.”

  “I know that last job was… somewhat unusual.”

  That would be one way of putting it. If the words sick, twisted, and demented weren’t available.

  And what a job it was. He’d known something was up from the moment he’d opened the door. For one thing, she wasn’t nearly as old or as unattractive as most of his new lady friends had been. And what was that thing she was wearing? Pink and diaphanous, it was like a sarong designed by Victoria’s Secret. She was very direct, forward, not a bit embarrassed. She took him not to the bedroom, but into the main parlor.

  Where another woman was waiting.

  “Would you mind taking off your clothing?” the first woman said, while the second, a brunette wearing a black teddy, giggled.

  “I aim to please,” Charlie answered, and he complied. He’d thought they were ready to start the action, and was already envisioning how he would arrange things so he could delight them both simultaneously, dealing with the complexities of multiple breasts, a plethora of private parts…

  “And would you mind putting this on?”

  Charlie stared at the limp rag she held in her hands.

  “If it’s not a problem. The man on the phone didn’t seem to think it would be.”

  He took the thin leopard-skin loincloth from her and wrapped it around his hard thighs. Jungle-man suit, that’s what it was. Tarzan of the Bordello.

  “Oh, wow. He looks good in it,” said the woman on the sofa.

  “He looks good, period,” her friend replied. “Check out that six-pack.”

  Would you like me to open my mouth so you can examine my teeth? he wondered.

  “Just stay right there,” the woman on the sofa said. “Where I can see you.” She squealed. “Oh, Marcia. Did you see those muscles ripple?”

  Her friend grinned. “Do you work out?”

  “When I get a chance.”

  “Well, your chance has arrived.”

  “You want me to work out?”

  “Sort of.” She handed him a long pink feather duster. “Start with the top shelves, would you? Work hard. Get all hot and sweaty.”

  Ooo-kay… He went to work on the bookshelves just behind him. He wasn’t used to working in a costume, but he liked to think of himself as open-minded. “Hey, if you want, I can-”

  The two women were shoving their tongues down each other’s throats.

  If they wanted something, they’d let him know. Maybe a Tarzan yell or two. Whatever they needed.

  Not much, as it turned out. As his workout-and theirs-progressed, he came to feel increasingly irrelevant. Not that they would let him leave. But they didn’t want him on the sofa. So he dusted down the living room for an hour or so while the two women pleasured themselves with a variety of techniques and implements, then collected his loot and got the hell out of there.

  “They did pay you double,” the man behind the desk reminded Charlie. “One hundred each. Plus a very generous tip. Even after we remove our share, that still left you earning a per hour wage of-”

  “I know,” Charlie said. “It’s not the money. I’m still desperate for money.”

  The man made a minute adjustment to the lie of his desk blotter. “Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry. If you could just pay me what I’ve earned.”

  The man sighed heavily and passed him the money. “All right, then. I’m sorry, too. Best of wishes.”

  Charlie stared at the disappointingly small stack of cash. “Could you possibly loan me some money?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I have to blow town-and make sure I’m not followed.”

  “Ah. Trouble with the law.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just-”

  “Charlie, I’ve offered you some wonderful opportunities to earn money.”

  “I can’t wait. I’ve already screwed around way too long.”

  He held up his hands. “Then I don’t see how I can help you.”

  Damn everyone! he thought, as he made his way to the bus. How did he ever get started in this stupid business?

  That question was easy enough to answer. Dean. He was the man who put me on the road to chickendom.

  When Charlie had first left home, he’d had no idea where to go or what to do. The friend of a friend he was supposed to stay with bailed, and he couldn’t hook up with any theater groups. He was trying to decide whether to give up and go home when he heard that ultradeep voice behind him.

  “You got a place to stay, kid?”

  Dean was a big man, tough, wiry, with a voice like the Grand Canyon. He took Charlie to the Sizzlin’ Sirloin for a great meal. He was so warm, so sympathetic. Listened to all of Charlie’s stories-why he had to leave home, how he just couldn’t live with his parents any longer. Dean understood. Told him he could stay at his place. Which seemed like a great deal.

  Until Charlie woke up in the middle of the night. In pain.

  Dean was on top of him, hurting him, pinning him down, punishing him, tearing him. Charlie felt paralyzed; he’d never experienced anything so intense, anything so ungodly painful in his life. Dean’s hot breath was on his neck and his body was all over him and there was nothing Charlie could do about it.

  When it was over, Dean rolled over and sighed. “Thanks, punk.”

  Charlie should’ve left then and there. But where would he go? He had no money, no place to stay. Maybe those were just excuses. Maybe there’s always an alternative, but he sure as hell couldn’t come up with one.

  A week later, Dean invited Charlie to meet some of his friends. Friends with similar interests. After a while, it didn’t hurt anymore. After a little longer, he was barely aware it was happening.

  It had been maybe a month, living with Dean, when the man said, “Charlie, do you know what a chicken is?”

  “Yeah. They sell ’ em at KFC.”

  “That’s not what I mean. On the street, a chicken is a young punk like you who sells his body for money.”

  “You mean, like a hooker?”

  “ ‘Cept it’s a good-lookin’ hunk of a boy. Like you.”

  “Why are you tellin’ me this, Dean?”

  “Well, Charlie, you been livin’ here for more’n a month now. And I’ve took care of you. Took good care of you. Haven’t I?”

  Charlie remained silent.

  “But time comes a boy’s got to be a man. Got to take care of hisself. That time is here, Charlie. You got to carry your share of the load.”

  In time, he moved out of Dean’s place, but never changed his line of work. It was just so easy, and it left so much spare time for other things. And he was good at it! He made women happy. There wasn’t anything trashy about it, not most of the time. He loved those ladies, and they loved him. What could be wrong with that? If only he’d stuck to the chicken work, and not gotten tangled up in the other mess…

  But he had. And now that mistake could cost him his life.

  He’d been trying to make enough scratch to get somewhere, but he
didn’t have time for that now. The savings plan was on hold-it was fly or die. Even if he had to leave town on foot, he had to go. Because this person was smart. This person had some amazing resources.

  He had to get to the bus station. He had enough to get somewhere, anywhere.

  He climbed onto the city bus. He was beginning to feel calmer now. He wasn’t out of the woods, but at least he had a plan of action. He had options. He had hope.

  All of which died the instant he sat down and looked out the window. The bus pulled away, but the face he dreaded most was back at the bus stop, smiling at him.

  He’d been found.

  29

  “So you’re the guy my mom wanted in the first place?” Johnny Christensen said, peering through the protective acrylic panel.

  Ben didn’t reply.

  “Mr. Kincaid will be acting as my second-chair, Johnny. He’s doing it as a favor to me.”

  “I see.” He rubbed a hand against his stubbled chin. “As opposed to doing it for me.”

  “Or your mother,” Ben said, in a low tone.

  “So how do you think our chances look?”

  “I won’t lie to you,” Ben said. “The evidence has been stacked against you from the start, and we haven’t found much to counteract it. As I told you before, my cop friend is in Chicago and he has some interesting theories, but so far nothing that’s likely to help us in court.”

  “Then you think… I’m gonna lose?” The color drained from Johnny’s cheeks. “You think they’re gonna fry me?”

  “I can’t predict the penalty-”

  “Well, I can. I’ve read the papers. If they find me guilty, I’m gonna be executed. I know I will.”

  Ben couldn’t argue with his conclusion, especially given the Illinois hate crime statute. “Johnny, we’ll do everything we can.”

  “I’m only seventeen. I don’t want to die.”

  “We’ll do everything-”

  “I’m so scared. All the time, scared. I can’t sleep. You know how much weight I’ve lost?” His eyes began to well up. “I don’t want to die.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you attacked Tony Barovick.”

  “I didn’t kill him, man.”

  Why pull punches? “Even if your story is true, the things you and your friend did were cruel beyond measure. You tortured a poor boy who never did anything to you.”

  “I can’t help what I am,” Johnny said, his voice surprisingly tender. “The way I was brought up.”

  “Your mother would never-” Ben choked his words off. “I can’t believe anyone ever taught you to hate people just because of who they are.”

  “Are you kidding? At my church, the preacher used to come down on fags every other week! He told us homosexuals are all going to hell. That as Christians, it was our duty to try to lead people away from lives of sin.”

  “So that’s what that beating was? A Sunday school lesson?”

  “Since when were Christians ever afraid to use force? Even Christ tossed the moneylenders out of the Temple.”

  “Did he break their legs?”

  “Look, opposing homosexuals is part of my religion. You can’t criticize me for following my religion.”

  I might, Ben thought silently. “Is religion important to you, Johnny?”

  “Hell, yes. I sang in the church choir, you know. Even taught a Sunday school class. The Bible specifically speaks out against homosexuality. A hundred years ago, no one would’ve questioned it.”

  “Yeah,” Christina said. “And schools were segregated. And women weren’t allowed to vote. And children went to work at the age of eight.” Having been down this road before, Christina knew it was a dead end. “Look, Johnny, we don’t have a lot of time, and we didn’t come here for a socioreligious debate. I just wanted your approval to add another lawyer to the case. And to ask you if you remember seeing anyone else at Remote Control the night you confronted Tony Barovick. Maybe someone who left the bar about the same time you did? Or Tony did?”

  “There was another guy. He was hanging around the bar for a long time. I remember because… well, we talked about going after him. What he does is almost as disgusting as what Tony Barovick did.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Probably not his real name. But everyone at Remote Control called him Charlie the Chicken.”

  “Do you know where Mr. Chicken lives?”

  “Nah. Why?”

  Christina craned her neck. Talking into a phone receiver for so long made it stiffen up. “Just following every possible lead. If there’s anything else…”

  “Look-” Johnny said, before she hung up the phone. “I know what the score is. I know you two don’t like me. You think I’m an ignorant putz. But I’m telling you-I did not kill that guy. Brett did not kill that guy. He was alive when we left him. I promise you. I promise.” His eyes began to well up again. “I’ll pay the price for what I did, but please don’t let them kill me for something I didn’t do. Please. Please.”

  “I just don’t get it,” Ben said as they emerged from the detention center. “How Ellen could raise a kid like that.”

  “She’s only his stepmother,” Christina replied. “Maybe the damage was done before she was involved.”

  Just as she had during the flight out of Tulsa, Christina continued to bring Ben up to speed on the case as she led him across the parking lot to their temporary offices in Kevin Mahoney’s suite. “I’ve got angles on all the prosecution witnesses,” she explained, “and I think I can deal with, if not totally defuse, most of them. But what I don’t have is a real defense. An alternate explanation. Kevin didn’t have one, either.”

  “Any theories?”

  “You know what Mike said. There may be a connection between his murder and ours-and it may have something to do with drugs.”

  “That’s not much to go on.”

  “Agreed. Without concrete evidence, the jury will just think we’re grasping at straws, trying to complicate an open-and-shut case. I’ve asked Vicki to go over the arrest records for-”

  “Excuse me!”

  Across the parking lot, Ben saw a young black man waving at them. “Could I speak with you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ben said, “but I’m really pressed for time and-”

  “Don’t mean to interrupt,” the man said, as he caught up to them. “But it’s the lady I want to talk to. Are you Christina McCall?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re handling the Christensen case?”

  “We both are,” she answered.

  “I’m Roger Hartnell,” he said. “I-I knew Tony Barovick. Well.”

  Christina remembered reading about him in one of Loving’s reports. “Do you know something about what happened to him?”

  “No, sorry-I didn’t mean to mislead you. I haven’t come as a friend of Tony’s. I came in my capacity as regional director of ANGER.”

  “You’re the creeps who redecorated our elevator lobby.”

  “We’re not responsible for that. Our press release merely said that we sympathized with those who did it.”

  Ben frowned. “So you’re not here to help us with this case?”

  “No, sir. I’m here to ask you to drop it.”

  Ben took Christina by the arm. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for-”

  “Listen to me. What you’re doing is wrong.”

  “Sure,” Christina replied. “We should just let the posse string Johnny up.”

  “I don’t mean that he should have no representation. Let the court appoint someone, if necessary. But when it comes from attorneys of your stature-it seems like an endorsement.”

  “It’s how the legal system works. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

  “Please just give me one minute. You don’t understand everything that-”

  “I’m sorry,” Ben said, “I think I do understand your position. And I admire you for trying to combat hate and prejudice-up to a point. But we have a job to do-”


  Ben was cut off by a sudden crack of thunder-except the skies were clear. It was a gunshot.

  “Get down!” he shouted. He grabbed Christina and pushed her behind a low retaining wall.

  Another shot followed. Where was it coming from? Ben scanned the horizon, while simultaneously scrambling for cover behind a parked car.

  “Get out of the way!” he shouted at Roger, a moment too late. A bullet caught the man in the right leg. He tumbled to the ground.

  “Ben,” Christina asked, clinging to the pavement, “have you got your cell phone?”

  “Left it in my bag,” he said bitterly. He tried to pull Roger to safety, but another shot fired; the bullet bounced off the sidewalk just inches from Ben’s hand. He gave it another try and this time managed to pull Hartnell behind the car. The three of them huddled there, pinned in place.

  “Any idea where the shooter is?” Christina asked, huddling close.

  “Somewhere in the parking lot. Not far. Not far enough.” Another shot rang out. Ben raised his head just enough to see movement about four rows of cars away. Their sniper was even closer than he’d imagined.

  “Give me your briefcase,” Ben said.

  “Why?” She didn’t comply. “Don’t do anything stupid, Ben.”

  “Hartnell is bleeding to death.”

  “We’re just off a busy street in downtown Chicago. Someone will call for help.”

  “Maybe. But help won’t be able to get to him as long as there’s a killer trying to pick off anyone who comes close. Give me the briefcase.”

  With profound reluctance, Christina passed him the hard-shelled attaché case. Ben took it to the front of the car, aimed himself toward the next row, and dove.

  Just after he appeared in the open space between rows, another shot rang out, but by that time Ben had already scrambled behind another sedan. Still not close enough to do anything.

  His heart was pounding so intensely it was hard to think. “Here goes nothing,” Ben muttered, then dove again.

  This time the sniper was ready for him. The shot came much sooner. Ben heard the shrill whine, then felt it rip through his suit jacket.

  “Damn!” He rolled behind the next row of cars, patting himself down, making sure he was still intact. His right side stung. He pulled up his shirt and saw that he was bleeding. Just a scrape, but that was way too close. If he tried that stunt again, the sniper was bound to get him.