"I didn't know he was planning to kill Sentz!"
"Your report says you knew he was packin' a gun. Did you think that was for huntin' rabbits?"
"You know as well as I do that carrying a concealed weapon is not illegal in Oklahoma."
"So you let the guy ride up and shoot your friend."
Shaw's fists clenched. "You sorry-" He almost swung, but caught himself at the last moment. "I want you out of here, Loving."
"Gee, you own this place now? Ousted Jake with a hostile takeover?"
"I don't have to own the place to police it. That's what I do."
"I hope you do it better here than you did at the Marriott. Otherwise everyone in the joint is doomed."
This time Shaw's arm swung around, but one of his heavyweight buddies caught it just before it impacted on Loving's face.
Loving did not flinch, did not even blink. Instead, he smiled. "What are you tryin' to hide, Shaw?"
Shaw launched himself again, but his friends still held him back.
Behind them, toward the big screen, Loving heard someone clearing his throat. It was Jake, the owner.
"You know, Loving," he said calmly but firmly, "maybe it would be a good idea if you headed out."
"You sayin' I'm not welcome here anymore?"
"No, no, of course not. But maybe just until this thing blows over?"
"I think Shaw's the one who needs to blow over."
"Just for tonight, Loving. As a personal favor to me."
"Well. If you put it that way." Loving stood and brushed himself off. "What's a little favor for an old friend?" He nodded toward the three huge men eyeing him with venom. "Been a pleasure, boys."
Loving strolled out of the bar, glad once again that he had parked a distance away, this time because if Shaw had known where he parked, he might be walking home.
That hadn't been as productive as he'd hoped. But it hadn't been a total waste of time, either. He'd laid his groundwork. Rustled the bushes. Now he had to wait and see what shook out.
Shaw knew he was being watched. Perhaps he would make a mistake. And everyone in the bar knew Loving wanted information. Eventually someone would produce some. He hoped.
Loving didn't begin to know what was going on here. But the two conversations convinced him that someone was covering something up. Probably several somethings.
Tomorrow night, he'd be back. And the night after that and the night after that. Until he had what Ben needed.
13
Ben let Christina out on Denver, just as close as it was possible to get a vehicle to the front door of the courthouse. He helped her unload the large quantity of materials they would be using at trial. It was their usual pretrial trade-off. She would have to maneuver the loaded dolly through the metal detector, up the elevator, and into the courtroom. He would have to find a parking space. His job was worse.
This time, Ben didn't even attempt to park in the minuscule courthouse parking area maintained by the adjacent Central Library. The parking lot was a great fund-raiser for them, and he liked to support libraries, especially the one where Jones's wife, Paula, worked, but he knew there would be no open spaces. He drove next door to the Civic Center parking lot, and even then he had to hunt a good long while before he found a space. He plugged the meter to the max but he would still have to send someone to plug it two more times during the course of the day.
"Hey, Cassandra." A female officer he knew well was posted at the metal detector just beyond the front door of the county courthouse. He began the usual undressing ritual-off with the watch, the belt, the pocket change. "Christina been through here yet?"
"Of course. She's looking good. You've got a fine woman there, Ben."
"Don't I know it. How's your George?"
"Gets by. Arthritis acts up from time to time."
"Sorry to hear that."
"Rumor around the courthouse is you're running for reelection."
"Election, technically. I was appointed the first time."
"Does that mean it's true?"
Ben stepped through the detector, then began reassembling himself. "Can't think of anything that sounds more unpleasant than campaigning for office."
"You don't seem the type." She looked at him sharply. "But I notice that wasn't an actual denial."
"You're a smart cookie, Cassandra. Have a good day."
She grinned. "Good luck at trial. You're going to need it. The reporters are camped out on the second floor. I'd go in through the judge's chambers."
"Will do."
The Tulsa County Courthouse had been dramatically improved by a series of renovations in recent years. Best of all, there were now several alternatives to what Judge Peterson and others had deemed "the slowest elevators in all creation." Ben decided to take the escalators.
He was surprised to see Loving at the base, apparently waiting for him. He didn't stop walking.
Loving held out his hands to stop him. "I know. You don't have any time because your trial starts today."
Ben banged his forehead. "Is that today? Holy cow!"
Loving frowned. Ben was never quite sure if sarcasm eluded him or just irritated him. "I found out somethin' last night. I think there may be some nastiness going on in the police department."
"Like what?"
"Don't know yet. I may have to step on some toes. Some big, important toes."
"That's never stopped you before."
"Nope. Just thought you should know."
"Appreciate it. But I really-"
"There's one more thing, Ben."
He stopped, obviously impatient.
"I think the cops-and maybe your client-might've been involved in something bad."
That got Ben's attention. "Like what?"
"I don't know. But those cops were at the hotel on a stakeout. Must be some kind of illegal trade. Smuggling."
"You mean drugs? Narcotics?"
"That would be the obvious. But I don't know yet. My sources didn't spill any specifics."
"Illegal golf clubs smuggled into Southern Hills?"
"I dunno. But it occurred to me… your guy was on the premises. It might not help your case."
Ben nodded thoughtfully. He wished he had more time to consider the ramifications. But he didn't. "Find out what you can. I'll deal with my client."
"Got it."
Ben rode the escalator up. By this time, he expected Christina would have all their materials assembled in the courtroom and ready for use. Her background as a legal assistant still proved useful.
He poked his head into the conference room beside the judge's office and was not surprised to find both Christina and Dennis waiting for him.
"Is it soup yet?"
"The prosecutor thinks so," Christina said. "He dropped by to repeat the same offer. We turned him down again."
"Sorry I missed that." He gave Dennis a quick once-over. "You look good."
"I did okay?" He was referring to the suit, which was brand-new. Christina had taken him on a shopping expedition to Utica Square and found him a trial wardrobe courtesy of Sak's. It was more than Dennis would normally spend on clothing, but Ben told him to think of it as another legal fee.
He had chosen a blue suit and red tie for the first day, very similar to what Ben was wearing himself. "You did very well."
"Yes," Dennis said, "but do I look sincere?"
Ben's lips thinned. "I hope so."
"I've been practicing sincere expressions in the mirror. Want to see them?"
"No. No expressions in the courtroom."
"Should I cry? I can, you know."
"No expressions whatsoever. Remember the cardinal rule: the jury must never think you're trying to pull the wool over their eyes. They will discount any scornful reactions or protestations. They will not be impressed by emotional outcries. The best course is to maintain an even keel. Be cool. Unfazed. They already know you dispute the prosecutor's evidence. Show them you're not a hotheaded killer. Show them you don't have a violent
bone in your body."
"Show them you're not insane." Christina said, adding quietly, "Anymore."
"Insanity is in the eyes of the beholder," Dennis remarked.
"I'll handle the defense," Ben said. "You just keep a straight face. Were you able to get your neighbor to come to trial?"
"Yes, she'll be there. In the front row. Right behind me."
"Good." Normally Ben tried to plant an adoring spouse just behind the defendant, but in this case, obviously, that wasn't possible. Furthermore, Dennis had no living family in the area or, apparently, any close friends. But he did have an attractive neighbor who was the right age to be his mother-even if she wasn't. Ben wanted her right behind him throughout the trial. She could do the facial expressions of scorn and disapproval that Dennis could not. Most importantly, she could look at Dennis with loving eyes. It was important that the jury see that the people around him, all the people who actually knew him, liked him.
"I just hope that helps," Dennis said softly. "I–I've been reading the press coverage of the case. The press acts as if I've already been convicted. Like the trial is just a formality."
"It isn't," Ben said firmly. "The media know that implications of guilt, like close elections and celebrity tittle-tattle, increase their ratings. You should ignore it. Focus on the trial. I think we've got a good jury."
"We'll see," Dennis said, pushing himself to his feet.
"Yes," Christina said, doing likewise. "We will."
Dennis took Ben's arm. "I want to thank you for doing this. I know how much work a trial is. And I know you had… reservations about taking my case. I appreciate it. More than you can possibly know."
Ben nodded. He peered deeply into Dennis's eyes and saw… what? Hard to know.
He patted Dennis on the back. "Let's go win this thing."
14
This was simply excruciating, Ben thought, waiting for the trial to begin. It was already ten past nine. What could be taking the judge so long?
He sat at the blond library table that would be his home away from home for the next many days, probably weeks. As usual, Christina had everything so well organized a blind man could find his way through it, which was good, because once the trial began, a blind man is exactly what Ben felt like.
To his right, he saw the prosecutor assembling his team and his materials. For all he had heard about the financial disadvantage the state supposedly had when mounting a trial, it looked to Ben as if they had far more geegaws than he did. Each of the three attorneys sitting at the table-Guillerman, Patterson, and another guy Ben didn't know-all had laptops in front of them, ready to pull up a piece of evidence or testimony with a click. He also knew they had spared no expense assembling witnesses and evidence.
"You think Guillerman will do the opening himself?" he asked Christina quietly.
"I don't think he has any choice, after so much publicity. Besides, it never hurts to get media attention just before an election." She paused. "Well, in this case, it will probably hurt you."
"I'd feel better if he had passed this off to an underling."
"Me too. When the DA himself is on the job, you can be certain of one thing: he doesn't expect to lose. And he will do everything in his power to make sure he's not mistaken."
To their right, Ben saw the all-important jury box, empty for the moment, but soon to be filled with the most important people in the whole drama. Their chairs were rudimentary, and by all accounts uncomfortable, as they were packed shoulder to shoulder in a varnished plywood box. There they would sit in judgment, trying to make sense of conflicting testimony and facts, not to mention complex psychiatric testimony, without even the benefit of being able to take notes. It was a daunting duty, but one, in Ben's experience, that most jurors took very seriously.
Behind them was the gallery, two sections of twelve rows of churchlike pews. They were completely filled, and Ben knew there were many outside who had not been seated but who would be allowed to watch the proceedings on closed-circuit television in the vacant courtroom next door. There were a few people Ben recognized as prosecution witnesses, but not many. Most would come when they were needed. In many cases, they were not allowed to hear the testimony of other witnesses. Most of the people in the gallery were media professionals. They had the know-how to secure a seat, and the people running the court system wanted to keep them happy. Media coverage tended to be pro-prosecution, if only because they heightened the drama by assuming anyone arrested was probably guilty but might not be convicted. They could say the word allegedly all they wanted; it was like white noise in the background, a sound barely registered and usually ignored.
The players were all assembled, except the one who would be sitting atop the raised bench, front and center. Ben wondered if he had time to run to the bathroom. No, better to tough it out. Although intestinal distress was an unwanted companion to an opening statement, as he knew from experience.
The door from the deliberation room opened and the jurors entered the room. Most of them glanced at Dennis but did not stare. That might be a good sign. Or it could just mean that, given the enormous media coverage, they had no need to stare at a face they already knew quite well. Ben would be watching them carefully once the prosecution started offering its testimony. That could be supremely telling.
The door from Judge McPartland's chambers opened. The bailiff came in, which for a trial was the equivalent of a raised curtain. The show was about to begin.
"All rise." The instant the bailiff said the words, McPartland entered and headed toward his chair. He was seated by the time the spiel was over. "The District Court of Tulsa County is now in session, the Honorable Judge Leland McPartland presiding. Please turn off all cell phones and pagers immediately or be held in contempt. This court will now come to order."
"Please be seated," the judge said. He gazed out into the gallery, then frowned. This was a charade judges always went through, in Ben's experience, whenever there was a packed crowd. The judge evinced disapproval, as if somehow the presence of all these people might disrupt the serious business they had to conduct. In reality, Ben suspected, like most showmen, McPartland did not mind having an audience.
The judge nodded at the clerk, who nodded back. Then he did the same with the court reporter. Everyone was ready to roll. He read the case name and number, then read the indictment in short form. He noted that a jury had been selected, then gave the jurors a few preliminary instructions, mostly about the importance of arriving on time each day and not talking to the press. He was not going to sequester them; he expected them to use their own judgment and to stay away from anything pertaining to the case. And with that…
Ben gripped Dennis's wrist and squeezed it.
Here we go.
15
Ben knew that District Attorney Guillerman was a man who had earned his job. He hadn't achieved his current lofty position through connections or privileged birth. He'd made his own way through hard work, smarts, and determination.
Guillerman interned at the DA's office when he was still at TU law school. With a successful solo practice, he'd managed to generate the support he needed to run for office successfully. Twice. He had a fine record, was an excellent attorney and, perhaps even more important, could efficiently and effectively manage a large office. Although there had been talk about him running for governor, Ben knew he planned to run for reelection and didn't doubt he would succeed.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Guillerman began, "first of all, I want to thank you for being here. I know you have already spent many days in this courtroom and mostly likely will spend many more before we are done. Your seats are not comfortable and the food here is keenly mediocre, so for that and many other reasons, I thank you for your service." He smiled a little, something the jurors would not see again for some time.
"Sadly, we are here today on a very serious matter, perhaps the most serious offense in all of the criminal justice system. A blatant case of first-degree murder. The evidence we
present in this trial will show that the defendant, Dennis Thomas, did in fact with premeditation shoot with the intent to kill Detective Christopher Sentz, a distinguished officer on the Tulsa police force with an excellent record. He was a husband and the father of two daughters. The evidence will show that the defendant believed Sentz should have acted more quickly to investigate the disappearance of the defendant's wife, who unfortunately perished after a traffic accident. Although the evidence will show that Detective Sentz followed standard procedure at all times, that did not satisfy the defendant. And so on April twelfth of this year, he killed Officer Sentz in cold blood."
Guillerman pressed his hand against his mouth, then blinked rapidly, as if fighting back tears. After a few moments, he stopped, took a glass of water from his table, and sipped slowly. He was doing a good job and Ben knew it. He was showing emotion, showing he was moved by the tragic loss of Detective Sentz, as he should be. At the same time, he was not going too far. Oklahoma juries, for the most part, were a practical, sensible lot. They could sense a phony a mile away. Guillerman was reminding them of the central horror-a good man dead-without engaging in any obvious playacting.
"The evidence will show that on April twelfth, the defendant took a gun-his gun-to shoot Detective Sentz. He learned that Sentz was in a hotel room at the Tulsa Marriott engaged in an ongoing sting operation. The defendant followed him there, entered his room carrying the gun, and shot him at point-blank range. When the police apprehended him, he was lying on the gun and his prints were all over it. Detective Sentz was dead. Witnesses will testify that they saw the defendant enter the hotel looking angry, determined, and cold-blooded, but entirely in possession of his faculties. He knew what he was doing. And he killed a valuable member of our police department-just as he had planned."
Ben couldn't help but admire the flat but effective manner in which the DA had laid out the facts, mentioning everything that helped his case and ignoring everything that did not. He engaged in some speculation, but resisted the temptation to be argumentative, which at this early stage was likely to put the jurors off. He would save that for closing. Ben also noticed that he avoided the potential minefield of the blackout, the hardest aspect of the case for Guillerman to manage. Even if he didn't accept temporary insanity, he could not deny that something had made Dennis unconscious, unable to be revived for nearly two hours. No doubt he would have some answers. But he knew this was not his strength, so he waited to talk about it until he had no choice. For now, he would present his case as if it were perfectly simple and obvious.
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