Capitol offence bk-17

by William Bernhardt

  "This phone has been ringing all day!" Jones shouted, his voice dripping with exasperation and perhaps, Ben thought, more than a dollop of self-pity.

  "Isn't that usually a good sign? Business on the upswing and all? I would think you'd like that."

  "These aren't calls from prospective clients, Boss. It's all about the Dennis Thomas case. Reporters. Radio hosts. Cranks with an axe to grind. It's making me crazy. My arm is tired just from picking up the phone."

  "Maybe you should get one of those little phone receivers that clip behind your ear. Then you wouldn't have to pick up the phone."

  "What, and sit around looking like Lieutenant Uhura? No chance."

  "Right. Might disturb your macho image."

  "You even got a call from Nancy Grace!"

  Ben took his pink message slips off the spindle. "Should I know who she is?"

  Jones slapped his forehead. "No, of course not. Not if you've been living in a cave for the past ten years."

  "I like the name. She sounds spiritual."

  "Not exactly. She has a show on CNN. Former prosecutor. Comments on pending cases, usually criminal. She's aggressive and opinionated, and she has a voice that makes you want to slash your wrists. But somehow that works for her."

  "And the relevance of all this is…?"

  "She wants you to do her show."

  Ben stared at the message slip and mulled. "Do you think I should?"

  "How can I say this?" He leaned across his desk. "She'll eat you for lunch, Ben."

  "Well, then. No Nancy Grace." He saw his burly investigator heading down the opposite corridor. "Loving!"

  The barrel-chested man paused and waited for Ben to catch up.

  "Have you got anything for me?"

  "Not yet, Skipper. None of my friends on the force know anythin' about it. Other'n what everyone knows. And they're not real keen to talk with me, either. They don't take too kindly to us representin' someone who killed a cop." He paused. "Allegedly."

  "That's understandable."

  "Not real keen on it myself."

  "I know you're not. But I need your help. There has to be someone who knows something. Do you have any idea who the guy in the police station was? The one Dennis thinks vetoed any search for Joslyn Thomas?"

  "Not yet. But I'm workin' on it. If I get lucky, I might pick somethin' up."

  "Then get lucky."

  "Do my best. I got a report on that loser who tried to shoot your guy at the press conference."

  "Yeah? Who was he? Cop? Cop relative?"

  "Not even close." He handed Ben a report. "Name's Lars Engle. Student in the English department. Had some classes with Dennis Thomas. Apparently knew his wife, too, at least a little. In fact, he said he wanted to work with Thomas on his master's thesis. He was like, a fan."

  "Those are always the dangerous ones."

  "You'd think a fan would be supportive. Not dangerous."

  "And if that were true," Ben said, thumbing through his messages, "John Lennon would still be alive." He slapped Loving on the back as he headed on down the hallway to his office. "Get someone to talk, Loving. Pour on some of that homeboy natural charm."

  "Well, if you put it that way…"

  "I do. Get me something I can use."

  Ben was pleased to see Christina and Dennis waiting for him in the main conference room. Dennis looked better every day. Much of the debilitating residue of his stay in jail had washed away. He was a healthy young man and Ben knew he had been exercising regularly, getting fit, getting tan, getting ready to make a good impression in the courtroom.

  Dennis spoke first. "Have they found out anything more about that nut at the press conference?"

  "Not much." He quickly scanned Loving's report. "I'm surprised you don't remember more about him. He was certainly into you in a big way. Spends most of his spare time reading or on the Internet. Likes to go to the Tulsa World website and post anonymous opinions on their bulletin boards. With zero accountability, he was free to say anything. Apparently he posted messages about you more than twenty times with increasing bitterness. Course, no one noticed. Until he pulled out a gun."

  "I don't even know why those pages exist," Christina said, throwing down her pencil. "They're just catnip for people who feel powerless and voiceless. 'No one else will listen to me, so I'll post uninformed opinions on this unmonitored bulletin board.'"

  "I think the key word is anonymous," Ben replied. He remembered a few threatening emails he'd received that had not amused him at all. "Anonymous messages are the last refuge of the cowardly."

  "And apparently," Dennis added, "the psychotic." He flipped a page on his legal pad and changed the subject. "Thanks for giving Christina and me a chance to get to know each other better, Ben. I think we've managed to bond."

  Ben glanced at Christina, but he wasn't seeing a bonded expression on her face.

  "I want Christina to appear at trial with us," Dennis continued. "In fact, I'd like her to sit beside me. Close beside me. I want the jury to see that she likes me. That she isn't scared of me. If she isn't scared of me, why should they be?"

  "We can arrange that," Ben said.

  "But I'm charging double for the liking part," Christina added.

  "From what I read," Dennis continued, "more than half the jurors will likely be women, so having a woman at our table is prudent. Can we get someone black?"

  Ben's lips parted, but no words came out.

  "To sit at the table with us. A big chunk of the jury will also likely be black. And Hispanic. The Tulsa jury pool tends to draw disproportionately from the north side."

  Ben took a deep breath and scribbled on his pad. "I'll see what I can do."

  "I mean, it's important that the jury feel commonality with me, right? Makes it easier for them to sympathize?"

  "You are very well informed, Dennis. As usual."

  "And coldly logical about it, to boot," Christina noted quietly.

  "I understand you're going to appear on Nancy Grace," Dennis said, changing the subject.

  Christina's eyes widened. "This is the first I've heard of it. I think that's a very bad idea."

  Ben averted his eyes. "I, um, haven't made a decision yet."

  "Ben, she'll tear you apart."

  "I don't think that matters," Dennis said. "Everyone expects Nancy Grace to be Nancy Grace. You can still make your case. Few potential jurors are likely to be watching CNN at that particular moment."

  "Then what's the point?"

  "The point is that the Tulsa World will almost certainly run an article about the fact that you will be or were on Nancy Grace, right?"

  Ben considered. "Probably so."

  "And they'll call you for your comment. And they'll run it just as you give it to them. And six-tenths of the people in the potential jury pool will read it." He folded his hands. "That's the point."

  Ben wasn't sure whether he should be very impressed or very afraid. Or whether, if Dennis avoided prison, Ben should hire him as a jury consultant.

  Dennis continued. "I've been giving a lot of thought to our affirmative defense. Temporary insanity."

  "Why am I not surprised?"

  "The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced we should argue that I entered a dissociative state."

  "Why don't we wait and see what the psychiatrist has to say?"

  "Why don't we plan out our defense and tell him what to say?"

  "That's not the way it works."

  "Oh, please. Offer him a lot of money."

  "I won't buy testimony."

  "Can't you prepare him to testify? Honestly, we're just talking about giving him an idea what terminology he should use. I don't see why that should bother him." Dennis paused. "Especially if he's getting paid a fortune. Make him earn his fee. Everyone else does."

  Christina pushed herself out of her chair. "This is about as much of this as I can take."

  Dennis appeared wounded. "What? Just when I thought we were starting to get along."


  "I will not be a part of this charade! This man is not grieving. He's scheming! He's got the whole thing worked out to the finest detail. Probably had it all worked out before he came to your office that first time and before he-"

  "Christina!" Ben cautioned. "This is our client."

  "Well, I'm sorry, but I think it's time we had a serious come-to-Jesus meeting. Long past time, actually. This cold, calculating approach doesn't persuade me."

  Dennis raised his chin. He looked at her firmly, steadily, but Ben had a hard time determining what was going on behind his eyes.

  "Did it ever occur to you, Ms. McCall," Dennis began, "that it might be easier for me to focus on the details of trial preparation than to think about what happened? Than to think about my wife, trapped in that car, bleeding to death, crying out for me, for some rescue or comfort, but no one coming, not me, not anyone else, for seven days? Did it ever occur to you that I might need a distraction from her voice, the one I hear screaming for me all night long, every moment?"

  Christina fell silent. Ben supposed that meant he had made his point. At least for now.

  "This does raise something we have to discuss, though, Dennis." Ben laid his pad down on the table. "Listen to me and listen carefully. It doesn't matter what Christina and I think. Or the media. But if that jury thinks for one moment that you're trying to pull a fast one over them, you're blowfish. History. And nothing I can do will salvage you. That's all she wrote."

  "At the end of the day," Christina said, "the most important thing is not that the jury believes you. The most important thing is that they like you. If they like you, they can forgive a lot. If they don't like you, they won't forgive anything."

  Dennis nodded thoughtfully. "I appreciate the heads-up. So we have to make sure they don't get the idea that I'm shamming."

  Ben leaned forward. "They have to think-no, they have to know that you're sincere. Understand me?"

  Dennis beamed. "Great. I can do sincere."

  Christina threw down her pencil and left the room.

  10

  This was the most difficult jury selection Ben had tackled in his entire career.

  Of course every potential venireperson empaneled had heard of the case-how could they not? And of course most said that although they might have formed some opinions about the case they still felt they could weigh the evidence presented in a fair and impartial manner. A few had already made up their minds-guilty as charged-and they were removed. But that still left a big pool that somehow had to be whittled down to eighteen people who might lend a sympathetic ear to Dennis's story. Ben had no idea how to do that. All the traditional questions were useless.

  He did learn that none of them had seen him on Nancy Grace. But 60 percent of them had read about it the next day in the Tulsa World.

  Dennis was right again.

  "Let's have a show of hands. How many of you have had some kind of encounter with the police at one time or another?"

  Most of them had. A few of them were related to police officers, and one woman was a former police officer herself. They would probably have to be removed by a peremptory challenge. But where to go after that? Upon closer questioning, Ben learned that most of the encounters were simple traffic infractions and no one was particularly angered or frustrated by the police. Yes, the cops were self-righteous jerks, but that was to be expected, they seemed to be saying. No one carried any serious grudges, much less murderous intent.

  "How many of you are married?"

  Most were.

  "How would you feel if your spouse or significant other were in danger-or in pain-and there was someone who could help, but they refused to do so?"

  He had hoped this question might stir up some strong feelings, but he was disappointed. Of course they cared about their partners, but it all seemed very abstract. No one would admit they might be moved to extreme action. They'd go through proper channels, they said. Friends and family first. Then police. Perhaps the media. But nothing else. Certainly no recourse to violence.

  "I know that for many of you, your faith, or religion, is very important. Do any of you believe that your faith might make it impossible for you to view the case fairly?"

  Predictably, the initial response was, No way, dude. All but two of them said that faith was an important part of their lives, but their faith made them stronger and smarter, better able to serve on a jury. Ben continued to press. He knew Guillerman would remove anyone opposed to the death penalty, so he didn't bother asking questions down that line. He did find three who believed that "an eye for an eye" was God's law, and that most likely spelled trouble. Ben used the Good Samaritan story to suggest that the police were lousy Samaritans and didn't help when they could, but it wasn't working. He was pleased to see that many said forgiveness was important. Jesus came to forgive us and wanted us to forgive each other as well, et cetera. But when it came time for them to retire to the jury room, would the Old Testament trump the New Testament? Or the other way around? How could he possibly know?

  By the end of the third day of questioning, Ben felt he had targeted the most dangerous ones, the people who absolutely had to be removed. But he had no sense of who the good ones were, which jurors might actually help his case. And he had no idea how to find them.

  He was almost prepared to sit down and flip a coin when Christina passed him a scrap of paper.

  He glanced down. Ask if they have a cat.

  Huh? He gave her a puzzled look. And she returned a look that he recognized as meaning: Just do it.

  "I was wondering," Ben said, clearing his throat, "how many of you have a pet?"

  Almost all did. And even though he knew that, statistically, dog owners outnumbered cat owners, he found that was not true in this jury pool. Almost 70 percent of them had at least one cat at home.

  He started with the woman in Chair #1. She was in her mid-sixties, widowed, retired from school teaching.

  "How long have you had your cat, Mrs. Gregory?"

  "Almost ten years now. Since my sweet Henry died."

  Interesting juxtaposition of facts. "Do you spend a lot of time with…?"

  "Percy."

  "Yes. Do you spend a lot of time with Percy?"

  "Oh, land sakes. As if I have any choice. That little rascal follows me everywhere I go. When I do my crocheting, he drapes himself across my wrists and just lies there. Doesn't seem like a comfortable place to be, what with my constant movement and such. But he never seems to mind."

  "I gather you're pretty fond of your kitty."

  "I suppose so."

  "And I'll bet Percy is fond of you."

  "Well, you know cats. I feed him. That gives me an edge." She chuckled a little at her own joke.

  "How would you feel if someone tried to take Percy away from you?"

  "Mercy's sakes. Why would anyone do that?"

  "Just imagine. Maybe something happened to him. Maybe he was hurt. And someone prevented you from helping him."

  "Well… I wouldn't like that one bit."

  "What if someone knew where he was, or knew how to find him, but they wouldn't help you? What if Percy was suffering because someone else could help but refused? Would that make you angry?"

  "I should say so. I don't know what I'd do. I–I don't think I could keep my head together."

  Exactly. "And if you lost Percy, if he died, because that someone wouldn't help you, what do you think you'd do to them?"

  Her chest swelled. "I wouldn't let anyone get away with hurting my Percy. I'd-I'd run them through with my crochet needles if I had to!"

  Ben glanced at Christina. She winked back. This was what they needed. People might not be willing to admit to extreme, even uncontrollable emotions with regard to their spouses. But a kitty was a different thing altogether.

  By the end of the fourth day, the jury was finalized. They had two African Americans, two Hispanics, one Asian, and seven Caucasians. One chiropractor, two teachers, two retirees (including Mrs. Gregory), a software programmer,
an oil firm office secretary, and five housewives. Plus six alternates. For better or worse, the jury had been selected. The die was cast. The trial was ready to begin.

  After Judge McPartland dismissed them, DA Guillerman pulled Ben to one side.

  "I can't believe I'm doing this, because I think we've got a great jury and we're going to bury you at trial, but I've got an offer."

  "Go on."

  "I mean, I'd love trying this, but it comes at a bad time. I need to focus on getting reelected. Fund-raising. It takes a lot of money to mount a campaign these days."

  "You mentioned that before. So what have you got for me, David?"

  "Twenty years."

  "My client isn't interested."

  "In twenty years? Which means he could be out in ten. On a cop killing? That's as good as it's going to get."

  "Thanks. Not interested."

  "I can get him transferred out of state. Someplace cushier than McAlester. I know he's not a hardened criminal. There's no reason he should be hanging out with them. He can spend his time playing tennis and reading Proust. Maybe crank out some scholarly articles in his spare time."

  "His academic career is over if he goes to prison and you know it as well as I do. It's probably already in danger."

  He grabbed Ben's arm. "Your boy is not going to like the penitentiary. He seems pretty straight, bookish. Not in great shape. He won't last long. Especially not once word gets out what he did. You may think cop killers are popular in prison. They're not. Not with the guards or the inmates."

  "I believe you."

  "Frankly, I'm taking a risk here. You know the folks out in the sticks aren't going to think ten years is enough. But I'm willing to take that risk to get this thing out of my hair."

  "Because it comes at an inconvenient time."

  "Exactly."

  And so marches the American justice system. "I'm sorry, but my client already told me to say no."

  "Talk some sense into him, Ben. Do you know what a long shot temporary insanity is? Especially given the facts. He'd rather go to trial and almost certainly get death when he could be out by his forty-fifth birthday? That's insane!"