Perfect Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Was there anyone at ASP who felt differently about the use of violence?”

  Dunagan took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “Well … I hate to talk about my own men. …”

  “You’re under oath,” Swain reminded him.

  “Right. Well … there was the defendant. Donald Vick.”

  In the corner of his eye, Ben could see the jurors leaning forward, straining to pick up each word.

  “Vick favored the use of violence?”

  “Vick is a hothead. Always was. I’ve known him for years, and he’s always been the same.”

  Ben stared at Dunagan in disbelief. What on earth was going on? Dunagan was selling his old buddy Lou Vick’s boy right down the river.

  “What did Vick want to do?”

  “Oh, there were so many nasty cockeyed ideas. … Let me think.” He paused for a moment. “Well, he was a big fan of planting burning crosses in Vietnamese front yards.”

  The connection wasn’t lost on the jury. The murderer was fond of burning crosses, too.

  “What else?”

  “He was always picking fights. Like he did with this Vuong fella. For no reason at all. He was just a mean SOB, to tell the truth. He liked to toss a Molotov cocktail or two, also.”

  “Like the one that exploded a car on Maple and burned three people?”

  “Well …” Dunagan said slowly. “Since that happened … I’ve had to wonder. …”

  Swain returned to counsel table and thumbed through his legal pad. Ben knew he didn’t need to check his notes. He was just taking his time, letting all this sink in before he moved on to the next topic.

  “Mr. Dunagan, do you know where Donald Vick was on the night of the murder?”

  “No.” He folded his hands calmly. “He left the camp early that afternoon. Told some of the boys he had something to do. Didn’t specify—acted real mysterious about it. Of course, now I realize he was going to pick that fight in the bar—”

  “Objection!” Ben interrupted. “Lack of personal knowledge.”

  “Right, right,” Judge Tyler said. “Sustained.”

  Swain picked up right where he left off. “Mr. Dunagan, do you stock crossbows at your camp?”

  “Oh, yes. As I said, we have to defend ourselves.”

  “Have you seen the particular crossbow that has been identified as the murder weapon in this case?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Do you have an opinion as to where that crossbow came from?”

  “I’m afraid I do.” He sighed, then looked directly at Vick. “It came out of our armory.”

  “And who would have access to your armory?”

  “It’s not a prison camp. Anyone could get in if they really wanted to.”

  Swain leaned in for the clincher. “Including Donald Vick?”

  Dunagan looked as if his answer filled him with regret. “Including Donald Vick.”

  Ben saw the jurors settle back in their seats. He had the disturbing feeling they thought they had heard enough.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dunagan.” Swain turned toward Ben and smiled. “Your witness, Mr. Kincaid. Good luck.”

  52.

  BEN CONSIDERED WAIVING CROSS-EXAMINATION altogether. Dunagan apparently was determined to destroy Donald Vick, and if that was the case, the sooner he was off the stand, the better. But Ben had to try to keep the jurors from making up their minds before the defense called its first witness.

  On the other hand, there was no point in pretending he was friendly with this man. So he didn’t.

  “Are you trying to tell this jury that ASP is just a peace-loving, civic-minded bunch of regular guys? Kind of like the Peace Corps? Or the Boy Scouts?”

  “Well,” Dunagan said, “I see no cause for sarcasm.”

  “Grand Dragon Dunagan, isn’t the ASP motto ‘The only good gook is a dead gook’?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And of course, Ben couldn’t prove he was lying, since he hadn’t pocketed any of the man’s propaganda.

  “Isn’t it true that you and your followers are expecting a big race war any day now?”

  “Some people do believe that will happen, including people who are not members of ASP. I just hope it doesn’t come to pass.”

  “Come on now. Isn’t it true you’re setting up all these armed camps so that when the big war hits, you can take over and turn the South into a gigantic whites-only country club?”

  “Your honor,” Swain complained, “I don’t see the relevance of this. Mr. Dunagan is not on trial.”

  “Agreed. Move on, counsel.”

  “Your honor,” Ben said. “Mr. Swain opened the door to this line of questioning. It goes to the witness’s credibility.”

  “I said move on, counsel!” Tyler’s bushy eyebrows moved together till they formed a straight line across his face.

  Ben gritted his teeth and changed the subject. “Didn’t you tell me that your armory didn’t have any bolts that fit the crossbow that was stolen?”

  “It seems I was mistaken. After I talked to you, I was informed that—”

  “I don’t want to hear any hearsay,” Ben said, cutting him off. He didn’t know what Dunagan was about to say, but it didn’t sound helpful. “Is a crossbow difficult to fire?”

  “Hell, no. All you do is point it and pull the trigger. A five-year-old could do it.”

  “Do you train your men in the use of the crossbow?”

  “Of course. Including Donald Vick.”

  “Despite your haste to single out Donald, the fact is, all your men had access to the crossbow and knew how to use it, right?”

  “That’s true.”

  “Thank you. I have—”

  “But of course, all the other men were in camp, where they were supposed to be, at the time of the murder. The only man missing was Donald Vick.”

  Ben squeezed his eyes tightly closed. It would be pointless to object. The jury had already heard it.

  He couldn’t think of any more questions to ask. And every second Dunagan remained on the stand, prospects looked a little dimmer for Donald Vick. “No more questions, your honor.”

  Ben returned to his seat at defendant’s table. He just hoped that he had sewn enough seeds of uncertainty to keep the jury from making up their minds.

  But he doubted it.

  53.

  AFTER LUNCH, THE COURTROOM reassembled itself with relative calm. Or at any rate, this time no rocks came through the windows.

  “Any further testimony from the prosecution?” Judge Tyler asked.

  “One more witness,” Swain said. “But he’ll be brief. The State calls Richard Litz.”

  Richard Litz was a nondescript man with brown curly hair and a bushy brown mustache. He was wearing glasses with tinted lenses. Ben didn’t have a clue who the man was. And judging from the expressions on the other faces in the courtroom, neither did anyone else.

  Except Henry Swain. “Mr. Litz, would you please tell the jury what you do for a living?”

  “I’m the order clerk for Domestic Soldier in Hot Springs.”

  “And what is Domestic Soldier?”

  “Domestic Soldier is a mail-order supplier of equipment for outdoorsmen. Tents, compasses, hiking boots. You name it, we carry it.”

  “Would your inventory include weapons?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “Crossbows?”

  “Definitely. All shapes and sizes.”

  “And bolts?”

  “Wouldn’t be much point in selling the crossbows without the bolts, would there?” He chuckled at his own little joke.

  “Have you ever supplied any equipment to the ASP camp just outside of Silver Springs?”

  Ben was beginning to see where this testimony was leading. And he didn’t like it a bit.

  “Yes, many times. They’re regular customers.”

  “Do you carry the bolts for the”—he held up Exhibit A and read the label—“KL-44 Carvelle crossbow?”

  �
��Yes. We’re one of the few in this country that do. It’s a fairly rare item.”

  “Do you sell those bolts to the ASP camp?”

  “Normally not. But we did get an order from them for that item just a few weeks ago. First and last time ever.”

  “Now, this is important, sir, so please take your time before answering.” Of course, Swain wasn’t really telling the witness this next bit was important; he was telling the jury. “When did this order come in?”

  “July twenty-first. They were delivered on the twenty-fourth.”

  “Right. And the crossbow murder occurred on the twenty-fifth.” Swain nodded thoughtfully, then returned to counsel table. He was almost there when he suddenly stopped and pivoted around to face the witness. “One last question, Mr. Litz. Who placed the order for the crossbow bolts on the twenty-first?”

  “A man named Donald Vick.”

  The murmur in the courtroom crescendoed. Judge Tyler banged his gavel and demanded silence.

  “That’s all,” Swain said. “Pass the witness.”

  Ben strolled to the witness box, thinking all the way. “You take phone orders for a mail-order company, right?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “So you didn’t actually see Mr. Vick when he ordered?”

  “True …”

  “He was just a voice on the telephone.”

  “That’s true, but—”

  “Then it could’ve been anyone,” Ben said. “Anyone could’ve claimed to be Donald Vick.”

  “I guess that’s true,” Litz said. “But I know who picked the order up.”

  “What? I thought you said you delivered them.”

  “Right. I delivered them to the ASP man who came for them on the twenty-fourth. And that was the man sitting right there in the gray coveralls.” He pointed directly at Vick. “I saw him with my own eyes.”

  Swain jumped to his feet. “Let the record reflect that the witness has indicated that the pickup man was Donald Vick.”

  “It will so reflect,” Judge Tyler intoned. “Anything else, Mr. Kincaid?”

  Damn. Ben hated to end his cross on such a negative note. But he wasn’t prepared for a follow-up question. The coffin was nailed tightly shut.

  “No, your honor.”

  “Redirect?”

  “I see no need,” Swain said, displaying his understandable confidence to the jury. “And the prosecution rests.”

  “Very well,” the judge said. “We’ll start up again tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock with the defense case. Court is dismissed.”

  He banged his gavel, and instantaneously the silence was broken. The exodus from the gallery was swift. Only the jury remained seated. And their eyes, Ben noticed, all twenty-four of them, were focused on Donald Vick.

  Ben leaned forward, blocking the jury’s view, and whispered into Vick’s ear. “Why in God’s name did you pick up those crossbow bolts?”

  “That was my job. I made all the supply runs.”

  “You did?” If he had known that, he could have brought it out during cross. Now it was too late. “Why you?”

  “Who else? Dunagan always gave me the grunt jobs.”

  Ben observed that Vick invoked the name of the exhalted Grand Dragon with somewhat less reverence now. At least he realized what the man had done to him. “I’m going to have to put you on the stand, Donald.”

  Vick glared at him. “I already told you. I won’t talk.”

  “I won’t ask questions about any subjects you don’t want to discuss. I won’t ask you what you and Vuong fought about. But I have to get you on the stand so the jury can hear you say you didn’t kill him.” Ben glanced over his shoulder, just to make sure no one else was listening. “Otherwise, frankly, I don’t think you have a chance.”

  Vick stared back at him, his voice caught in his throat. Surely he realized the trial was going badly, but that probably wasn’t the same as having his own attorney tell him straight out that he was headed for death row.

  “I—I’ll think about. I’ll let you know.”

  “I’ll be outside your cell tomorrow morning bright and early. So we can prepare your testimony.”

  Vick nodded, and the deputies took him away.

  Ben watched as Vick faded out of the courtroom. Every time Ben saw him, he looked less and less like a hardened hatemonger and more and more like a scared little boy who thought he saw the bogeyman lurking underneath his bed. A terrified youth who didn’t know what to do next.

  And the tragedy was, his attorney didn’t know what to do next either.

  54.

  BEN REVIEWED HIS FIFTH draft of the direct examination he’d prepared for Donald Vick. He moved his lips as he read, trying each question on for size. It was the hardest direct he had ever written. Normally he would just take a witness through his story. What could be easier than that? In this case, unfortunately, Vick’s story was like a mine field. It was filled with dangerous subjects Vick refused to mention. Ben had to hone his questions to draw out responses on topics Vick would discuss without making the jury wonder about the topics he hadn’t.

  Jones and Mike dropped by, but neither had any new information to report. They hadn’t found a trace of the woman Ben rescued from the burning Truong home, and they hadn’t found any witnesses who were willing to testify on Vick’s behalf. Loving, they said, was at the Bluebell shooting pool, as he had been for the last several nights. They weren’t sure if he was onto something, or if the Bluebell crowd was just his kind of people.

  And Christina still adamantly refused to help.

  It was almost ten-thirty before Belinda quietly opened the front door and walked to the back desk where Ben was working. She sat in a chair several arm’s lengths away from him. It was a long time before she spoke.

  “What are you working on?” she asked.

  “A direct examination for my client.”

  “You’re going to put him on the stand? Is that wise?”

  “Most defense attorneys prefer not to if it can be avoided. But I don’t have any choice. Vick doesn’t have any other witnesses. Even ASP appears to have turned against him. Our only chance is to put him on the stand and hope the jury believes him.”

  She nodded. It was obvious she wanted to discuss something other than the case, but couldn’t quite bring herself around to it. “Most of the evidence the prosecution put on is circumstantial.”

  “Most? All.” Ben pressed his hand against his forehead. “But there was so much of it. The jury can’t overlook so many links between Vick and the crime.”

  “You think the jury is leaning toward a guilty verdict?”

  “I’ve seen men convicted on less.”

  “Ben—” She paused, then started over. “Ben, I know you take your work seriously, and I admire that. But don’t forget who it is you’re representing. This is Donald Vick, the Vietnamese assassin. The man probably responsible for the car bombing that maimed three people. The man who tried to beat Vuong senseless at the Bluebell Bar. Even if he didn’t commit this crime, he’s probably committed others as bad or worse.”

  “If he didn’t commit this crime, he shouldn’t be convicted of it,” Ben said flatly.

  Belinda sighed. She fidgeted with her hands, turned them over in her lap. “Ben … this isn’t what I wanted to talk about. I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up. I figured, if that’s the way you want it, fine. If you already got all you want—”

  “Belinda! I promise you, it isn’t—” “But I couldn’t let it go. I just couldn’t. Maybe you can bury all your feelings. But I can’t.”

  “Belinda—” He gazed across the desk at her. Her eyes were wide and sparkling. “It isn’t that at all. It isn’t anything to do with you. It’s all me. All my problem.”

  “Then let’s at least talk about it!”

  Ben reached out and took her hand. “We don’t have to. I’m over it. I’ve decided. I’m not going to allow myself to wallow in the past forever. I’m over it.”

  �
��Are you hoping that if you say it often enough it will be true?”

  “No. It is true.”

  Belinda closed her eyes. “I was afraid I had done something wrong. I was afraid I was too aggressive, or too … I don’t know. Strident. I was afraid I had done something that … changed how you feel about me.”

  “I can’t conceive of anything that could make me feel differently about you.”

  “Really?”

  Outside, the red neon Coors sign in the front window of the Bluebell cast colored shadows across the street and through the undraped office window. The faint echo of Mary-Chapin Carpenter seeped through the doors and flowed down Main. Her voice was like the wind whispering in Ben’s ear. Come on, come on. … it’s getting late now. …

  Ben pulled Belinda closer. “I love you,” he said, in the instant before their lips met.

  Twenty minutes passed before either of them thought to pull the drapes.

  55.

  BEN SPENT THREE HOURS the next morning preparing Vick to take the stand. He wasn’t nearly as concerned about what Vick would say as how he would say it. His demeanor was critical. If the jury detected any hesitance, or uncertainty, or equivocation, they would assume the prosecution’s version of the facts was correct.

  As the jury filed back into the courtroom Ben patted Vick reassuringly on the shoulder. “Try not to worry,” he murmured. “You’ll be fine.”

  Vick smiled, but the smile was unconvincing in the extreme.

  Judge Tyler breezed through the preliminaries with unaccustomed dispatch. He appeared as anxious as everyone else to proceed with the day’s programming.

  Ben called Donald Vick to the witness stand.

  “Would you state your name for the jury?”

  “Donald Allan Vick.” He spoke in calm, clear tones. Confident, but not cocky. Honest, but not like he was working at it. Just as Ben had instructed him.

  Ben guided him through a general description of his background in Alabama: his childhood, his education, his family life.

  “When did you become a member of ASP?”

  “When I was eighteen.”

  “Why did you join?”

  Vick tilted his head to one side. “All the Vick men have been ASP members since the Organization was first formed a hundred and twenty years ago.”