“If we prove the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and we will—is there anyone here who would be unable to apply the maximum sentence mandated by law for this heinous crime?”
No hands. But just in case there was some doubt about the sentence to which the DA was referring …
“Is there anyone here who feels he or she might be unable to issue a sentence of death, if the law and the circumstances commanded it?”
After a long pause one young man on the far end of the first row raised his hand.
“Mr. Clemons,” Swain said.
How did Swain know his name? Ben wondered. He couldn’t have memorized them all when the names were called. No—small town, Ben reminded himself. Small town.
“Mr. Clemons, would you be able to issue a sentence of death?”
“Well … I just don’t know,” Clemons said awkwardly. He was aware that half the town was watching him. “I mean … death—that’s an awful harsh sentence. I just—I just don’t know if I could do that or not.”
“I see,” Swain intoned. His disapproval was evident. “I appreciate your honesty.” He glanced at the judge. Swain wouldn’t ask for Clemons to be removed now, with everyone listening in, but as soon as they were in chambers, Clemons was a goner. “Anyone else?”
Apparently the possibility of becoming executioners didn’t trouble anyone else enough to speak up.
“Very well,” Swain said. “ ’Preciate your cooperation.” He returned to his table.
What is this? Ben wondered. He’s done? Jury selection in capital cases often went on for days. Sometimes selecting the jury took longer than the trial. Swain had barely been up there for five minutes.
Definitely not a good sign. Either Swain knew the jurors personally and believed they were already predisposed in his favor, or he considered his case so strong he didn’t care who sat on the jury. Or both.
“Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Tyler said, “you may inquire.”
“Thank you.” Ben scrambled to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are probably familiar with the words District Attorney Swain just used—beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s the standard he has to meet. If you don’t think he’s proved his case beyond a reasonable doubt, you must find my client, Donald Vick, not guilty.”
“Counsel,” Judge Tyler interrupted, “this isn’t closing argument. Get on with the voir dire.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” Ben assured him.
“Well, maybe they allow you to plead your whole case during jury selection over in Tulsa County,” he said sternly, “but I don’t.”
A small tittering emerged from the gallery. And just in case the jurors didn’t already know Ben was the out-of-towner, the fact was now abundantly clear.
Ben approached the jury box. It was hard to know where to stand. He tried to position himself as close to them as Swain had been, but when he did, he saw the front row of jurors instinctively shrink back in their chairs. They didn’t want him that close; he was invading their personal space. The message was obvious: Swain was their friend; Ben wasn’t.
“My first question is this,” Ben said. “Do you feel that if you are called to this jury, you will be able to apply the reasonable-doubt standard?”
No hands. No reactions.
“Perhaps I should explain what I mean by that. Beyond a reasonable doubt means—”
“Now I’ll object to that,” Swain said. He popped a suspender for effect. “He’s not allowed to define reasonable doubt. He can’t even do that in closing argument. That’s your honor’s job.”
“The objection will be sustained,” Judge Tyler pronounced.
Ben frowned. He was getting nowhere fast. “Let me try it this way. How many of you have heard or read anything about this murder case?”
Eighteen hands shot into the air.
“Your honor,” Ben said. “Under these circumstances, my motion for change of venue—”
“Will be denied. Proceed, counsel.”
Ben sighed. “Well, how many of you have already made up your mind about what happened?”
Eighteen hands fell. Which made sense, of course. This was an exciting case. These people wanted to sit on the jury, except perhaps Clemons. They weren’t about to admit they were prejudiced.
“Do any of you know the defendant? Have you had any contact with him at all?”
Only a middle-aged woman in the third row raised her hand.
“Thank you,” Ben said. “And you would be Ms. …”
“That’s Mrs. Conrad,” Swain informed him.
Thanks, Mr. District Attorney, for reminding us that you know everyone here and I don’t. “Mrs. Conrad. How do you know Donald Vick?”
“Well, it’s like this,” she explained carefully. “After that tornado last spring took the north wall off my house, I moved into a boardinghouse where this man was also staying.”
“I see,” Ben said. “Would that be Mary Sue’s place?”
“Why—yes,” she said, obviously surprised. Score one for the out-of-towner.
“Did you get to know Mr. Vick during that time?”
“Well, not too much. He was a quiet one. Kept to himself. Rather morose. Always seemed like he was … thinking. Or planning—”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Conrad, I think I’ve got the idea. Anyone else?”
Ben continued voir-diring the veniremen for another half hour, but he acquired no fresh information. All of them knew enough about the case to have preconceived conclusions, but no one would admit it. Ben would have to proceed on instinct.
Unfortunately Ben knew his instincts were lousy. This was a part of the trial where he typically depended on Christina. She had a knack for puncturing the subterfuge and perceiving what was really on people’s minds. But Christina wasn’t helping today. She wasn’t even in the courtroom.
In chambers, Swain used only one of his preemptory challenges, to take Mr. Clemons off the jury. Ben removed Mrs. Conrad and four other older women. Older women tended to be harsher judges and to give harsher sentences. A statistical generalization, to be sure. Barely better than a stereotype. But at the moment it was all Ben had.
And that left twelve jurors. No recalls were necessary. In barely more than an hour they had selected the twelve men and women who would decide Donald Vick’s fate.
The judge and lawyers returned to the courtroom. Judge Tyler charged the final twelve jurors.
“I’m glad we got that taken care of,” Tyler said. “Lawyers tend to be a long-winded bunch. Anytime we can select a jury in less than a day, I feel accomplished. The rest of the veniremen in the courtroom are dismissed.”
Tyler glanced at his watch. “We’ll call it quits for the day and let you all get home and make the necessary arrangements with your employers and families. Be back at the courthouse at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Tyler glanced at the counsel tables. “That includes you gentlemen, too, of course. Have your opening statements ready, and let’s keep them down to half an hour, tops. And then, ladies and gentlemen, we shall see what we shall see.”
44.
“DON’T FORGET DINNER,” BELINDA said as she and Ben left the courtroom. “You promised.”
“And it’s a promise I don’t intend to break,” Ben replied. “But I have tons of work to do before the trial resumes tomorrow. And there’s another stop I want to make before it’s too late.”
“How about you pick me up outside the Hatewatch office around eight-thirty?”
“Deal.”
Ben walked three blocks down Main Street, past the autoparts store, Ed’s Gas’M’Up, and the Bluebell Bar. He resisted the temptation to stop in and chat with Mac. He had a hunch Mac wouldn’t be that happy to see him; in fact, he might try to bill Ben for the damage to his pinball machine. Instead Ben kept walking until he arrived at the offices of The Silver Springs Herald.
Unfortunately The Herald saw him coming. As he approached the streetfront window, a middle-aged man in a twee
d suit jumped up and made a beeline for the entrance.
Ben managed to get his foot in the door just before it was shut.
“Sorry,” the man said. “We’re closed.”
“I want to speak to the editor,” Ben said.
“He’s not in!” the man insisted. He was wearing a name tag: HAROLD MCGUINESS—EDITOR.
“You’re McGuiness!” Ben shouted. “You’re the man who keeps writing about me. I have a bone to pick with you.”
“I write all the articles for The Herald. What of it? We’re still closed.” McGuiness tugged on the doorknob, trying to pull it shut.
“My name is Ben Kincaid.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t read my own paper?”
“I’ve been misquoted in your distinguished journal. Repeatedly. I want you to print a retraction.”
“Sorry. Can’t be done. Now, if you’ll kindly remove your foot—”
“I’ll remove my foot when you agree to print the retraction. Bad enough you’ve convinced everyone in town I’m a sleazebag. Now you’ve got the judge thinking I’m badmouthing him. I never uttered a single syllable that you attributed to me.”
“Never said you did.” McGuiness yanked the door so hard the glass rattled in its frame. “Now get out of here.”
“I could sue you for libel. You put quotation marks around a statement I didn’t make.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s an exact quote. Least that’s what the United States Supreme Court says. And as long as I didn’t act with malice, I’m well within the bounds of the law.”
Unfortunately, Ben was familiar with the current case law on libel. “Look, I don’t want to sue anyone. I merely want to set the record straight. Why don’t you interview me—”
“Thanks, don’t care to. Got what I need from secondary sources.”
“You’ve ruined my reputation. Everyone in town thinks I’m going to use city-slicker tricks to put a murderer back on the street.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“My goal is to see that Vick gets a fair trial. And your newspaper is making that almost impossible.”
“If that’s supposed to make me shed tears for your client, it doesn’t.” He kicked Ben in the shin. Ben’s foot involuntarily drew back and McGuiness slammed the door shut.
Ben picked up Belinda around nine, and together they walked arm in arm to Bo-Bo’s Chinese Restaurant. It was the only place still open other than the Bluebell, and Ben definitely wasn’t taking her there. He did have some doubts about Bo-Bo’s authenticity, however. First, there was the question of the owner’s name. Second, Bo-Bo’s was the first Oriental restaurant Ben recalled that also served red beans and rice, grits, and fatback.
As Ben and Belinda waited to be seated they stood behind a middle-aged Vietnamese woman who was picking up a carry-out order. The teenage girl who was supposed to be the cashier was standing in the doorway to the kitchen fighting off (not very hard) the amorous advances of a boy about her age in a chef’s cap. Eventually the Vietnamese woman captured her attention. The girl passed the woman a plastic-wrapped bundle of cardboard cartons, still giggling at the boy in the back.
“Seventeen fifty-two, please.”
The Vietnamese woman passed a bill across the counter.
“Seventeen fifty-two out of twenty. Your change will be two forty-eight.” The girl pulled two ones out of the cash register and counted them into the Vietnamese woman’s hand. “That’s one, two—”
She glanced down at the register. “Wait a minute. You gave me a ten, not a twenty.”
The Vietnamese woman stared blankly at the girl.
“What are you trying to pull? You can’t take seventeen outta ten.”
“Seven dollar,” the Vietnamese woman said. “Paid.” She reached out for her ten, still lying on top of the cash drawer.
“Oh, no you don’t.” The girl slammed the drawer shut. “Now give me back that food.”
The woman clutched the food package tightly in her arms. “Paid already.”
“My daddy was right,” the girl said. “He told me you people have to be watched every single second. Sneaky gooks. Barbara!”
An older woman with a beehive hairdo emerged from the back of the restaurant. “What’s going on?”
“This lady tried to pass a ten off as a twenty. Now she won’t give back the food.”
The older woman frowned. “I’ll call Sheriff Collier.”
“Now just a minute,” Belinda said, interrupting. “This poor woman didn’t try to pass off anything. She obviously barely knows the language and probably misunderstood you.”
The teenage girl pressed her fists against her hips, annoyed at this interloper. “She tried to pass off a ten—”
“She thought you asked for seven dollars, not seventeen. You assumed she would give you a twenty and didn’t notice when she didn’t.”
“Who do you think you are telling me—”
“The fact is, you were flirting with that boy in the kitchen and you weren’t paying enough attention to your job. And now you’re trying to make this innocent woman take the blame for your screwup.”
The teenage girl shot daggers at Belinda with her eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re sticking up for this stupid chink.”
Barbara, the older woman, pushed the girl aside. “The lady still owes us seven dollars and fifty-two cents. Do you have that much, ma’am?”
The Vietnamese woman stared back expressionlessly. It was obvious she wasn’t following any of this.
“Here’s ten more bucks,” Belinda said, tossing the bill across the counter. “Keep the change.”
The teenage girl stomped back into the kitchen.
After they were given a chilly seating by Barbara, Ben said, “Well, that was disturbing.”
“That,” Belinda said, “was the entire race-hatred problem in a nutshell. It starts as a stupid misunderstanding. The stranger makes a mistake, the local makes a mistake. It’s a minor incident. But tonight that teenage girl will tell her daddy about how that Vietnamese lady tried to rob the restaurant, and how she got in trouble with her boss as a result. Daddy will say, yeah, I’m not getting paid as much for my chickens as I used to, either. Pretty soon, every time something goes wrong in their lives, it’ll be the fault of the Vietnamese.”
“And then ASP gets invited to town.”
Belinda nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”
Ben and Belinda maintained an animated conversation all through dinner. He was amazed at how much he had to say to her—and how easily the words came. He was not normally a smoothie with the fair sex; on the contrary, he was prone to stutter, trip over the carpet, and inadvertently insult his date’s mother, all in the first minute. But tonight seemed to be going fine. He and Belinda liked all the same books (Bleak House, Wuthering Heights) and the same movies (Twelve Angry Men, To Kill a Mockingbird). They believed in the same things.
They liked each other.
Ben was halfway through dinner before he noticed Christina was sitting two tables away from them. She was with a large group of people—fellow boarders at Mary Sue’s, probably. Contrary to his own chilly reception from Silver Springs, Christina appeared to be getting along famously with the local populace. They were chatting amiably, laughing at her jokes.
The kid sitting next to Christina looked familiar. Ben stretched forward to get a clearer view. It was Garth Amick!—the kid who slid on the brass knuckles every time Ben came into view. It seemed Christina had no such problem.
After finishing cashew chicken that contained more celery than cashews or chicken, and moo goo gai pan that was mostly rice, Ben and Belinda called for coffee.
“Actually that wasn’t bad,” Ben said, “although it wasn’t Ri Le’s. When you come to Tulsa, I’ll take you there.”
“I’d like that.”
The waiter returned with coffee and fortune cookies. “Can I take your plate?” he asked Belinda.
“Oh, not yet. I want
to save the leftovers.”
“I’ll bring you a doggie bag.”
“Never mind. I have my own.” She opened her purse, withdrew one of several small plastic bags, and scraped in the leftover moo goo gai pan.
“You carry your own doggie bags with you?” Ben asked.
“Waste not, want not. That’s what my aunt always said. I suppose I don’t really have to do this anymore, but old habits die hard.” She filled the bag, sealed it, and carefully put it back in her purse. “Deep down I guess I’m always afraid I’ll go bust, and I’ll be back to stealing candy bars from Mr. Carney’s drugstore just to get through the night.”
“You didn’t really do that, did you?”
“I’m pleading the fifth.” She stirred her slow-drip coffee and poured it over ice.
Ben followed suit. “How did you come to found Hatewatch?”
“After I managed to get through law school and survive my first marriage—which was a major-league disaster—I started looking for ways to use my degree to make a meaningful contribution. I’d seen how bad life was for some people, and I was determined to do what I could to make life better for them. I started at the Southern Poverty Law Center, then worked for some other organizations that are fighting hate groups and organized racism. I actually met Morris Dees—now there’s a modern-day hero if ever there was one. He does great work, but he can’t do it all alone. That’s why I started Hatewatch five years ago.”
“Only five years ago? For such a relatively new organization, it’s been amazingly successful.”
“Too successful, as far as some people are concerned. Such as Grand Dragon Dunagan. The Supreme Court said penalty enhancement for hate crimes was constitutional in Wisconsin versus Mitchell, and we’ve made the most of that in criminal and civil cases. This is the third time Hate watch has come up against one of Dunagan’s little hate camps. ASP has gone after Hispanics in Florida, blacks in Birmingham, and now the Vietnamese. Torture, rape, murder—they’ve done it all. Not exactly boy scouts. Hey, I haven’t opened my fortune cookie yet.”
She broke the shell and read the message. “ ‘Soon you will cross over the great waters.’ ” She frowned. “Well, I don’t care much for the sound of that.”
Perfect Justice Page 19