He knew it wasn’t safe to peer over the top of the cars, so he crouched down and looked beneath. Sure enough, one double row away, he spotted a pair of sneakers: blue-striped Nikes.
Mustering all his strength, he threw the briefcase forward, aiming for where he knew the sniper had to be. He heard a grunt, followed by a sudden clatter. A quick check under the cars told him the sniper’s weapon had fallen to the ground.
This was his chance. Ben raced forward, barreling around the cars. He poured on speed, whipped around the line of parked cars…
The sniper was gone. The gun lying on the pavement was the only evidence that he had ever been there.
Ben scoured the parking lot, trying to get a lead on him, but found nothing. He collected the gun and returned to Christina.
“I think we’re clear,” he told her. “Let’s get help.” He ran up the steps and through the front doors of the office building-then froze.
The lobby had been trashed. Shattered glass was everywhere. The information counter had been destroyed, hammered to bits. Phones had been ripped out of the walls. Tiles broken. Lights ruined. Elevator doors destroyed.
But what most commanded Ben’s attention was the display in the center of the room, hovering where the information counter used to be. A tableau dangling from the ceiling, two figures hanged in effigy, obviously constructed from department store mannequins, so crude that they didn’t really resemble anyone. But one was branded with Greek fraternity letters.
And the other had a red-dyed mop on its head for hair.
LIVE BY THE SWORD; DIE BY THE SWORD read the placard dangling from the feet of the figure that was supposed to be Johnny. The one hanging beneath the representation of Christina read: YOU’RE NEXT.
The owner of the mail-order revolver purchased under an assumed name watched Ben Kincaid and his friends scurry about from a safe distance. Everything had gone as planned, except that the lawyer turned out to be considerably braver than word on the street suggested. No matter. The point had been made. They’d be looking over their shoulders constantly now, wondering if this was the magic moment when the sniper would reappear and give them the drilling they had barely escaped.
And with good cause. Because the sniper would return-sooner than they expected.
30
H urry! Charlie thought as the bus driver dawdled in the turn lane.
Did he not understand that this was a matter of life and death? Of course, he didn’t. You’re not thinking rationally, he told himself. But who would expect him to think rationally at a time like this? His stomach was in knots and his hands were trembling. He’d been a basket case since he saw what he saw-who he saw-when he got on the bus.
Think it through, Charlie. Having seen me get on this bus, it would be no trick to find out where it’s going. Follow it, make sure no one gets off. Or head for downtown. Anyone with a car could move faster than this bus. And therefore…
He gazed out the window, searching in all directions for the face he most dreaded. There were no more stops before the bus arrived at the downtown terminal. He had considered creating a disturbance, forcing the driver to stop the bus so he could get off. But in the long run, what would that get him? Where would he go? What would he do? He’d been found once. He could be found again. He had to get off the city bus and onto one that would take him far, far away.
It was the Chicken’s last stand. All those days of servicing Chicago’s high-society dames were done. They’d have to find someone else to fill the slot in their leather-bound Filofaxes between getting their hair done and making the society tea. His illustrious career was drawing to a close. Maybe he’d even go back home, go back to being just plain old Charlie.
It was hard to imagine, after all this time. Could he possibly return to his former life? Did he want to? Would his parents accept him? It might sound all sweet and bucolic, but he suspected he would soon miss life in the big city. The glamorous world of palatial mansions and Henredon furniture and… and…
And the Tarzan suit. Most of all, he would miss the Tarzan suit.
When they arrived at the terminal, Charlie stepped cautiously off the bus. He scanned the parking lot, the station-everything and everyone. He was so close. If he could just get out of town-surely that would bring this horror story to an end.
He went inside the station and got in line for a ticket. He didn’t have that much money, given the paltry share the escort service let him keep, but he had enough to get somewhere. Anywhere.
After purchasing his ticket, he took a seat in one of the clamshell chairs near the ticket booth. These seats must’ve been designed to discourage loitering, because they were as uncomfortable as anything he’d ever experienced. He had almost half an hour before his bus left. If he spent it here, he might incur permanent spinal injury.
He wandered over to the vending machines, bought himself a Coke and a Snickers bar. Comfort foods for the underprivileged, he told himself. And they tasted good going down, too. Maybe it was just the sugar rush, but his mood was definitely improving.
Any minute now, he’d see his bus roll up outside the front door and hear the caller tell them all to get on board. Best to take a quick bathroom break while he had a chance. He detoured into the men’s room, went to the urinal, took care of business, zipped up, turned around.
Surprise.
“Hello there. Long time no see.”
Charlie was so stunned he couldn’t think straight. He stuttered like an idiot. “W-w-what are you doing in here?”
“Looking for you, Charlie.”
He glanced at the door. A broom had been wedged through the handle. No one else could get in. No one could help him. He tried to edge away, but the obstruction in his path wasn’t budging.
“Look, I’m leaving town. I haven’t spoken to anyone and I don’t plan to. Keep the money. You can trust me.”
“My experience with trusting others has not been very good.”
Charlie could feel himself failing. His knees were wobbling so badly he could barely stand. “Just let me get on the bus. I promise I’ll be out of your life forever.”
“So you say. But what happens when you’ve been drinking too much at the local tavern, desperately trying to elevate the sex drive of some rich bitch in her late seventies? Perhaps you talk too much, say something you shouldn’t. What happens if the rich bitch trade dries up and you find yourself short of cash? Would blackmail occur to you?”
“I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t take that risk.”
Backed up against the urinal, porcelain jammed into his back, Charlie had nowhere to go. “If you try anything, I’ll scream!”
A second later, the butt of a gun cracked his jaw with such explosive force that he was stunned. His legs disappeared; he crumpled to the floor and lay there, his shattered jaw pressed against the foul-smelling tile. His head felt as if it were on fire; all he could see was white. He couldn’t move his mouth. Or anything else.
A perfectly aimed kick caved in his abdomen, smashing several ribs. Pain rippled through him like a river. Then he felt hot breath beside his cheek. “Just a tip, Charlie. If you’re going to scream, just do it. Don’t give the killer a warning.”
Somehow, from somewhere, he managed to find words. “Please… please don’t do this.”
“I recall a time when I was asking for your cooperation, Charlie. You were not so forthcoming, then. And now the time for discussion has passed.”
Another unbearable blow to his rib cage, then he felt himself being twisted around, turned onto his back. The pain was excruciating. Nothing could possibly hurt more, or so he thought, until he felt the hand on his face, forcing his shattered jaw open.
“Hungry, Charlie? Here’s a snack.”
Charlie felt cold steel pressed into his mouth, overwhelming his gag reflex. He tried to muster what remaining strength he possessed to do something, anything, cry for help, push the gun away. But he couldn’t. He clenched his eyes
shut, bracing himself against the inevitable.
In his final nanosecond of life, he was thinking about home.
Part Two. Crimes of Passion
31
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is a crime that-”
DA Drabble hesitated. It was a slight pause, but Ben noticed, just the same. The DA could be forgiven this bobble. The last time this court had heard opening statements in this case, they had been interrupted by a fanatic with a gun. At some level, Drabble’s subconscious mind had to be searching the room, looking for any indication of danger.
“This is a crime,” Drabble continued, “of the worst sort-cold-blooded murder. And as the evidence will show, it was committed for the worst possible reason. Not for love, money, jealousy, revenge, or any of the baser emotions that normal people can understand, if not condone. This was a crime of hate-pure, blind, unreasoning hate. Johnny Christensen did not take this life because of anything Tony Barovick did. He committed murder because of who Tony Barovick was.”
Drabble was good. As before, when Ben had seen him on television, Drabble impressed him with his unforced yet deliberate manner. He didn’t come off as rigid and self-righteous, as so many DAs did. He didn’t insult opposing counsel. He didn’t resort to melodrama-well, not much-and he skipped most of the cheap theatrics, waving bloody photographs in the air and such. It was probably not a sign of any innate superiority; truth was, Drabble didn’t need to resort to any of that. He knew how to communicate, how to make the jury listen and, hardest of all, how to make them believe.
“On that chilly spring morning just a short time ago, Tony Barovick left his place of business and headed for home. He was probably thinking about the usual things-getting some groceries for dinner, what he might watch on television that night. What he didn’t know-what he couldn’t possibly know-was that he was being stalked-yes, stalked-by two students, two fraternity boys he had served back at his club. What had he done to offend them? you might wonder. Had he insulted them? Stolen from them? Hurt them? No, Tony hadn’t done any of those things. Tony hadn’t so much as mixed up their drink order. They were out to get him simply because he was a homosexual. And they didn’t like homosexuals. Indeed-they hated homosexuals.”
Ben scanned the courtroom. It was packed, as he’d expected. A few of the spectators were the usual thrill seekers, but most of the gallery was taken up by the press. CNN and Fox News and some of the other national outfits had set up camp in the hallway outside, so it was no surprise that they were allocated many of the choice seats. Several on-air personalities and celebs had been spotted in the courtroom. Rumor was that Dominick Dunne had a contract to write a book about the case, and John Cusack was negotiating for the movie rights. Everyone wanted a piece of the action.
Boxer Johnson, the bailiff who’d been clubbed over the head by the killer of Brett Mathers, was back on the job. Ben knew he’d taken a lot of grief after the execution; the shooter had knocked him out in the men’s room and stolen his uniform and gun. He seemed none the worse for it today; he stood at attention at the rear of the gallery, calm, watchful. An assured, strong presence.
In addition to the media reps, Ben also spotted a few people he’d read about last night, after he and Christina recovered from the shooting incident and finished with the police and the medics and he began cramming every bit of relevant information about this case into his head. Many of the people Tony Barovick had worked with and the potential witnesses were here, including the owner of the club, Mario Roma, and Tony’s barmaid and friend, Shelly Chimka. Scott Banner, the president of Johnny’s fraternity, was sitting behind her. Roger Hartnell was in a wheelchair, thanks to the bullet wound, but he was here, against doctor’s orders. He said it was important that he make an appearance, both as the local director of ANGER and as Tony’s former partner. They all sat together, behind the DA’s table, presumably to show their support for Tony.
Only one person sat behind the defendant’s table by choice. And Ben had spent the entire morning studiously trying to avoid eye contact with her.
“They were driven by one motive and one motive alone,” Drabble continued. “Blind, unreasoning hate. Hate born of fear, of ignorance. The same kind of hate that sent six million Jews to the gas chamber. The same kind of hate that killed 168 people at the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City. The same kind of hate that killed thousands at the World Trade Center. The kind of hate that cannot be tolerated in any civilized society.”
Vicki, the new intern, whispered into Ben’s ear. “This seems unduly inflammatory. Are we going to let him get away with this?”
Ben eyed Christina carefully. They were both tempted to object-this was pretty over-the-top. But Kevin Mahoney had told them that Judge Lacayo was usually lenient about what he’d allow in openings and closings. And they couldn’t deny that this was a hate crime-a critical part of their strategy was to acknowledge up front what Johnny had done, and what he had not done. They both decided to let it pass.
“This is what they did,” Drabble continued, his voice darkening. “First, they beat him mercilessly, giving him no chance to defend himself or escape. Then they used a Taser to torture him. Then they cut him. With a knife. And finally, when Tony must have felt that he couldn’t possibly feel any more pain, when he was crying out for mercy, they put wooden blocks under his knees and ankles, took a five-pound iron maul hammer and shattered his legs-first his left, and then, after the initial shock wave of pain had subsided, the right.”
Ben checked Johnny’s expression. He was holding up pretty well, all things considered. He’d been a wreck when the marshals brought him into the courtroom this morning. Crying like a baby, shaking visibly, begging for help. Christina had taken him to a rest room to scrub him up and get him back in control before the jury arrived. She’d been largely successful, though he had no idea how she’d managed it. No one was going to leave this trial with a good impression of the kid, but at least now he didn’t look like guilt incarnate.
Ben wondered what was going through Johnny’s mind as he heard the DA recount the list of horribles in which he had participated. Was he remorseful? Ashamed? Or was he secretly proud of himself, of what he had done in the name of his holy cause?
“Do you know what it feels like to have a thousand volts of electricity run through your body?” Drabble asked. “It isn’t pleasant. Your legs turn to rubber. You lose all control of your bodily functions. You can’t stop twitching. You can’t control your bladder. You lie on the ground and flop back and forth like a jellyfish.” Drabble leaned in closer. “But as bad as it is, it probably doesn’t compare with seeing someone take a knife to your flesh and cut it while you watch helplessly. And it certainly doesn’t compare to having your knees braced by two wooden blocks and seeing your legs destroyed with a five-pound hammer. Is it even possible for those of us who didn’t experience it to know what that would feel like? To measure the intensity of the anguish that poor boy suffered? To conceive of the magnitude of hate that would be necessary to commit such acts on another human being?”
Okay, Ben thought, so now he was being a little melodramatic. But it was an extraordinary crime-a brutal, hideous, inhuman one. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for any DA to discuss it without sounding intense.
“When Tony Barovick was found, just a short time after his destruction at these hands, in the fraternity house of which the defendant is a member, he was dead. Now the defense attorneys may try to suggest that Tony was killed somewhere else-but the evidence will show otherwise. The defense may suggest that the defendant beat Tony Barovick but didn’t quite kill him-but the evidence will show otherwise. What the defense will not deny is that Johnny Christensen attacked Tony Barovick, cruelly and mercilessly-because he did. Did Christensen want Barovick to die? Was that his intent?” Drabble paused. “I think his actions speak for themselves.
“Now I still remember the voir dire we did several weeks ago,” Drabble continued, “and I know many of you have mixed feelings o
n the subject of homosexuality. Some of you have deep-seated reasons, religious reasons, and we are not here to challenge those. But what I am here to say is-” At this point, Drabble whirled around and pointed at Johnny. “-what this man did was not an acceptable protest to another man’s lifestyle choice!”
He fell silent, letting his words reverberate in the jurors’ ears. “And it is important that we, as a society, make it clear that we will not accept this kind of conduct. As jurors, you swore to uphold the law, and that duty was never more important than it is today. Why? Because there are some people who hate women. Who hate children. Who hate people of other races, other religions. Who hate fat people. Bald people. There will always be those who hate. But this-this!” He grew quiet, finishing with barely a whisper. “This must never happen again. Never!”
After a measured moment of silence, Drabble took his seat. Judge Lacayo nodded in Ben’s direction.
“Here’s your outline,” Vicki whispered.
Ben smiled. Christina was right-he liked the new kid on the block. She was quiet, a bit timid, so unaggressive he wondered if she could ever possibly survive as a trial attorney-which was exactly what people used to say about him. Small wonder he liked her.
“Thanks, but Drabble didn’t use notes, so I won’t either.”
“You know what you have to do?” Christina whispered to him.
He nodded. “I’m going to be brief.”
“I think that’s best.”
Ben took his position before the jury. He knew he didn’t have the slickness, the imposing presence or, for that matter, the good looks of his opponent. But he had managed to learn a thing or two about talking to juries. He’d learned, for instance, not to lie to them, because contrary to popular belief, most jurors were not stupid, and they would pick up on a lie immediately-and never trust him again. And he’d learned that, for the most part, jurors weren’t really impressed by hyperbole or dramatic surprises or courtroom theatrics. The stuff that made good television did not necessarily make a good trial. In his experience, what juries really liked was someone who would just tell them what happened, tell it straight, and let them draw their own conclusion. Of course, as he also knew, if the story was told properly, the conclusion could be artfully predestined-without giving the impression of doing so.
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