“Give him a hug for me, okay?” Mike said.
“I will,” Ben answered as he walked outside. The sudden glare of sunlight made him squint.
I’ll give him a hug, he thought. But when will Joey hug back?
Chapter 13
THE INSTANT BEN OPENED his apartment door, he was assaulted by the distinctive and unusual smell of seafood. Ben hated seafood. It made him break out in hives.
“Hi, Joni,” Ben said as he laid his briefcase on the kitchen table. Joey was in his playpen fiddling with a busy box. “Thanks for picking Joey up at school.”
“No problemo.”
“I had to run down some information on a possible new case—”
“I know. The mayor. Wowzah!”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“Oh, right. Mayor Barrett assembles his own dream team, and you’re it. No biggie.”
“It’s really not—”
“I always tell my sister, Jami—I say, you underestimate our Benjamin. He might make something of himself one day.”
“Well, how nice.”
“Granted, he is a lawyer, and he does spend a lot of time hanging out with cops, but still, give him a chance—”
“I get the drift. By the way, I haven’t seen Jami lately. How is she?”
“Oh, very slack.”
Ben blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, maybe I never noticed so much before I became a responsible caregiver, but she’s not exactly making a difference in our society. She’s been very gloom-ridden since she lost her job at The Body Shop. Can’t get those discounts on exotic herb shampoo anymore. She mostly sits around on the sofa in the same skanky clothes and channel-surfs. She’s become a mistress of time suckage.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Thanks again for picking up the kid.”
“I was glad to do it. Gave me a great excuse to borrow the family wheels. I had a few errands to run.”
Ben’s head tilted a tiny degree. “Errands?”
“Right.”
“And you took Joey along?”
“Right.”
“Uh … Joni …” He loosened his tie. “You wouldn’t take Joey anywhere … inappropriate, would you?”
“Inappropriate? What did you have in mind? An adult book store? An opium den? A biker bar?”
“Joni, be serious. You know I’m responsible for him.”
“Boy, you can say that again.” She dropped her spoon and turned the heat up. “Exhale, Ben. What do you think I am, some tweaked-out bimbo? We went to Bud’s for groceries.”
Relief washed across his face. “What’d you get?”
“Paprika. For the shrimp tarragon.”
Ben leaned over her shoulder and stared into the pot. “I suppose that has … shrimp in it?”
She smiled. “There’s that keen analytical mind of yours again, Ben. Sometimes it’s scary.”
“Ha-ha.” He inhaled the aroma emanating from the stove. Yup, definitely seafood.
“Dinner will be on in five minutes. I can’t wait to see what you think. I’ve never tried anything like this before.”
“Really.”
“I hope it’s good. I mean, I’ll be so disappointed … But I don’t want to apply any pressure. I want an honest appraisal.”
“You know, Booker might be a better judge …”
“He’s working all night. And Mrs. Marmelstein has a cold. Nope, you’re my man, Ben.”
“Oh, gee.” He decided to change the subject. “How’s Joey?”
“His usual quiet self. I do have some concerns about him, though.”
Ben felt a tiny clutching at his heart. “What, has he been unhappy?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
“Doesn’t seem to fit in? Doesn’t follow instructions?”
Joni turned away from the stove. “Ben, what’s wrong with you?”
“Then it isn’t—”
“The only concern I have is about Joey’s clothes.”
“Oh.” Ben plopped down in a chair. “What about them? We just bought him several outfits.”
“That was five months ago, Ben. He’s a kid. He grows. And he wears them out. Look at the knees on those overalls he’s wearing.”
“All right,” Ben said, “what are my choices?”
“There are no choices. Only a single imperative. Baby Gap.”
Ben appeared perplexed. “Is that a store?”
Joni’s eyes rolled. “Jeez, Ben, you are totally clueless.”
“I’ve just never cared for clothes shopping. My mother used to take me on these endless expeditions to—”
“Please! Don’t burden me with the nightmarish tale of a rich kid forced to buy beautiful clothes against his will. My heart doesn’t bleed for you.”
“You never had to go to a birthday party wearing a cravat.”
Joni returned to her cooking. “Just leave me some money, Ben. I’ll take the little darling out to Woodland Hills tomorrow and fix him up.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Remember, Ben, we’re not just caretakers. We’re responsible for his inner being. We have to make sure he can evolve.”
“Right.” Ben lifted Joey out of his playpen. “How’s my little man evolving today?”
Joey didn’t appear displeased to escape the playpen, but he didn’t show any great happiness in it, either.
“C’mon, Joey. How ’bout a little smile for Uncle Ben?”
No smile was forthcoming.
“Okay, how ’bout a tiny titter of merriment?”
No change.
“A modest display of enthusiasm?”
Nope.
“Could you wink your right eye for me?”
Joey began picking his nose.
Ben swung the boy through the air and deposited him in his high chair. “There you go. Almost time for din-din.”
Ben leaned close to Joey’s ear and whispered. “You are glad to see me, though, aren’t you, pal?” Ben peered deeply into the child’s bright blue eyes. What he wouldn’t give to see a flicker of recognition in there, a glimmer of appreciation, a tiny reflection of his own love. But he couldn’t kid himself. He didn’t see it. He didn’t see anything at all except his own desperate face reflected in the iris.
“Here it is,” Joni announced. She placed the main course in the center of the table, laid plates, and gave Joey his vegetable platter. “Eat up. Oooh! This is so exciting!”
Ben calmly scraped a reasonable portion of shrimp tarragon onto his plate. Well, what were a few hives among friends?
After dinner, Ben made a few unsuccessful attempts to play with Joey, then settled for playing the piano for him, which Joey seemed to like, or not dislike, anyway. Ben played some Mozart (because he had read that children’s IQs could be raised by listening to Mozart). Then he played a Christine Lavin tune, “Old-Fashioned Romance,” and a James Taylor favorite he and Mike had performed back in their college days, “If I Keep My Heart Out of Sight.” By the end of the last, he noticed Joey’s eyelids beginning to droop. He gave his nephew a quick bath, tucked him into bed, and read several storybooks to him. When Joey was asleep, Ben turned on the Natural Sounds comforter (hear high tide in your own bedroom!) and left the room.
Ben was tired, but he knew he couldn’t sleep yet. He had a decision to make first. He would’ve liked to have had more time, but it wasn’t fair to keep Mayor Barrett in the lurch. He had to decide immediately if he was taking the case.
Not that it was necessarily so hideous to represent someone who was guilty. He’d taken cases before for people he—well, if he didn’t know they were guilty, he certainly had strong suspicions. But this was different. The charge was murder. Murder of the defendant’s own family. A heinous, absolutely unforgivable crime. The thought of being in the same room with someone who could do such a thing made Ben’s blood run cold.
The media exposure was another factor. Mike was right; it was going to be a circus. He’d dealt with the press befor
e, usually ineptly, but never on this level. Of course, publicity might be advantageous for a struggling attorney. On the other hand, he couldn’t stand the thought of being labeled by millions as the guy who represented the Family Killer. The Baby Murderer. He’d rather go broke.
And why not admit it? He’d thought about it often enough during the day. What would his mother say?
He knew there were ethical reasons why he should take the case, but he still didn’t want to do it. He wanted to be on the side of the angels.
So why hesitate? Just say no and be done with it. But there was something nagging at him, something he hadn’t quite put his finger on yet.
Sighing, he pulled his box out from under his bed and sorted through his childhood treasures till he saw what he needed. He lifted the black orb with both hands and flipped it upside down.
“Oh, Oracle of the Magic 8-Ball, guide me in this moment of crisis. Should I take this case?”
He peered down at the white letters shimmering through the inky blue fluid: NO ANSWER AT THIS TIME.
That wasn’t much help. He asked the question again and flipped the 8-ball. TRY AGAIN LATER.
Well, thanks a hell of a lot, Oracle of the Magic 8-Ball.
Maybe while he was at it, he should ask for advice on what to do about Joey. He still couldn’t believe that Joey was unhappy, that there was something wrong. Perhaps something serious. But the evidence was becoming harder to ignore. Tonight, when he had gazed into that little boy’s eyes …
Wait a minute. Something glimmered in the far reaches of Ben’s memory. Gazing into his eyes …
His memory hopscotched back past Joey, beyond the evening, to the Friday before. Back at Forestview, before Barrett was arrested, before the tragedy.
Of course. He could see it clearly now, almost as if it was happening all over again. He saw Barrett picking up his two little girls. He remembered it so well because he had been so jealous. Jealous of the adoring way those two girls beamed at their daddy.
And the way he beamed back at them.
Barrett loved those little girls. Loved them with all his heart, all his soul, all his mind. Loved them with every ounce of his being. It was as if all the love he had to muster crystallized and glistened in his eyes.
And the eyes don’t lie.
The man Ben had seen would never hurt his little girls. Absolutely never.
Ben put the 8-Ball back in the box. Wallace Barrett did not kill his daughters. He was certain of it.
And if Barrett didn’t, that meant someone else did. Someone who was still on the loose. Someone the police weren’t even looking for.
Well, someone should be.
Ben slid the box back under his bed, picked up the bedroom phone and dialed. “Christina? … Yeah. Yeah, we are. Look, here’s what we’re going to do.”
Two
The Eyes of the World
Chapter 14
NOTHING COULD HAVE PREPARED Ben for the reception that awaited him the instant he stepped out of his car in the courthouse parking lot. Reporters descended upon him from nowhere and circled tightly around, blocking his access to the courthouse door. His vision was obscured by microphones bearing the insignia of all five local television stations, one from Oklahoma City, one from New York, and one from CNN. The same journalists who had been bombarding his office with phone calls and interview requests since his decision to represent Barrett had been made public.
“Mr. Kincaid!”
“Can you give us a statement?”
“How are you going to plead?”
Ben tried to push his way through the mob, keeping his lips zipped. He was aware that any muttered comment or offhand remark would be picked up by one of the microphones currently thrust in his face and replayed continuously throughout the day.
“Can you give us a clue about what’s going to happen inside?”
Ben pushed through the electronic thicket and headed resolutely toward the front door of the courthouse.
“How do you feel about representing a guilty man?”
Ben stopped. “Who said that?”
The reporters quieted. They looked from one to another.
“Come on, this isn’t a playground. Who said it?”
One of the local reporters, a young man with blond permaplaqued hair, took a step forward. “That was me.”
Ben covered the microphone with his hand and blocked his camera with his briefcase. “Let me give you a little remedial Civics 101, pal. Here in America, everyone is presumed innocent until proven otherwise. No one is guilty until a jury says so.”
“But—”
“No one. No exceptions. And suggesting otherwise could have some serious legal ramifications. Got it?”
The reporter nodded. Ben turned and walked into the courthouse, this time unimpeded.
Shouldn’t have done that, Ben told himself. You’ll regret it. The first time that blow-dried blowhard gets a chance to shaft you on the air, he will. But the guy could do a lot more damage if he went on the air blatantly assuming Barrett was guilty. Oh sure, he would never say it in so many words, but his coverage would be slanted and the feature would be structured and timed and edited in such a fashion as to make everyone watching suppose Barrett must be guilty. And some of those couch potatoes, the ones who still think the way to find out what’s going on in the world is to watch the local news, would end up sitting on the jury. He had to do everything possible to preclude that kind of reporting before the jury pool was irremediably tainted.
Four men from the sheriff’s office were waiting outside a courtroom on the seventh floor with the mayor, now defendant, Wallace Barrett. Today the mayor had eschewed his usual Armani pin-striped three-piece suit in favor of standard-issue loose-fitting bright orange coveralls, designed to attract attention in the event of an escape because they were so garish and ugly. Quite a comedown.
The instant Ben stepped into the frame beside Barrett, a flurry of flashbulbs illuminated the hallway. The page one money shot.
“How’re the boys treating you?” Ben asked.
Barrett smiled, revealing a tiny glimmer of the charisma that put him in office. “Not bad for city employees.”
“Well, they’re overworked and underpaid.”
“I know. I’ve been trying to get the council to approve a twenty percent wage increase for them for three years.”
The officers on either side of him studiously scrutinized their shoes. It was true; they all knew it.
Ben took Barrett by the arm and led him into the courtroom, sheriff’s men close at his heels. The instant they entered the courtroom, they were met by a loud, enthusiastic response—all of it negative. The courtroom was packed, no surprise, and with the exception of the press, everyone in the room appeared to be hissing and booing and snarling at their mayor, now the disreputable-looking defendant in the ugly orange garb. There were a few shouts from the far corner, a few loud calls for impeachment, a few racist slurs.
“Ignore it,” Ben commanded sotto voce. “Face forward. Don’t give them the satisfaction of responding.”
Barrett nodded his understanding.
Unfortunately, the judge was not yet in the courtroom, so there was no immediate demand for order in the court. They would just have to ride it out.
Jack Bullock was at the prosecution table, emptying his briefcase studiously. Ben wasn’t surprised; he had anticipated that Bullock would want to handle this one. Ben caught Bullock’s eye for a glimmer of a second; Bullock looked quickly away.
Too bad. Ben had known Bullock since he was in law school, back when he had interned at the DA’s office in Oklahoma City. They had worked together back then, two minds with a single idealistic goal: making the world a better place. But since they had both moved to Tulsa, and Ben had become known (to the extent he was known at all) principally as a defense lawyer, Bullock had refused to have anything to do with him. He had made it abundantly clear that he considered Ben a “disappointment,” a defector from the cause of the good and
the righteous.
Ben considered forcing himself on the man, but decided against it. He needed to focus on his client, and how he could best use this arraignment to his client’s advantage. He couldn’t get all caught up in his emotions about his former mentor.
A few moments later, the court bailiff instructed everyone to rise and the door opened on the Honorable Edwin H. Hawkins, affectionately known as Hang ’em High Hawkins. Hawkins, as Ben knew all too well, envisioned himself as a modern-day Judge Roy Bean, a hanging judge for the Nineties. The only good thing Ben could say about Hawkins handling the arraignment was that it guaranteed he wouldn’t be handling the inevitable trial.
Judge Hawkins ran briskly through his preliminaries, doing his best to cut the fine figure of a judge. Unlike his usual slouched, rather cynical demeanor, today he was sitting up straight, enunciating clearly, projecting his voice, and basically conducting himself in a dignified manner. Ben realized Hawkins had been tipped off to the fact that several rows of the gallery were filled with reporters, probably more press than he had seen in his courtroom for all his previous cases combined.
The bailiff called the case, and Hawkins asked Ben if his client would waive the formal reading of the charge. He did. This was all procedural rigmarole. Although required by the state constitution, the reading of the arraignment, usually long and cluttered with difficult to comprehend legalese, only slowed things down.
Judge Hawkins now peered down at the defendant. “Mr. Barrett, you have been charged with three separate counts of first-degree murder. Do you understand the charges that have been made against you?”
“I do,” Barrett answered in his usual deep baritone, like James Earl Jones with a head cold. Ben could answer for his client and usually did, but Barrett had told him beforehand that he could and would answer for himself. He was also apparently not unaware that there were reporters in the gallery.
“And have you been advised of your rights as the accused?”
“I have.”
“And have you had an opportunity to consult with counsel with regard to the charges that have been made against you?”
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