Naked Justice

by William Bernhardt

  What she’d forgotten was to protect herself. Now, as a result, she’d been forced to go into that courtroom every day. Been forced to stare out at that man sitting at the defense table, stricken, scared, on trial for his life. Been forced to harden her heart and to try not to think about what this must be doing to a man accused of committing a nightmarish crime she was almost certain he had not committed.

  Because she was almost certain she knew who had.

  It was just too much to be a coincidence. The camera, the photos. Buck’s constant flow of unearned wealth. His presence in the neighborhood at the time of the killings. He may not have acted alone; in fact he almost certainly was acting at the instruction of some other, richer person. But he was definitely involved.

  It had been painful sitting in the courtroom today, watching that man plead to be believed. Watching the prosecution cut him and hurt him in all the most vulnerable, most personal ways. Despite the way the prosecutor battered him, she thought he did an amazing job of maintaining his dignity, of refusing to play the prosecutor’s games. He was a noble, honorable man. Surely that would be enough, surely the tide would turn and the other jurors would see him as she did.

  But she knew that was not the case. She had heard two of the jurors whispering in the elevator, had heard a telling remark from another in the food line. They thought Barrett was guilty. They were leaning toward conviction.

  And she knew why, too.

  Bullock had brought all their reasonable doubts to a standstill by asking that one overwhelming question.

  If you didn’t kill your wife and children, Mr. Barrett, who did? Who could have?

  That was the question that dominated the trial now. And that was a question that she could answer.

  She could remain quiet. She could say nothing, but refuse to join in a guilty verdict, hanging the jury. But what would that accomplish? Everyone would still believe he was guilty, just as they did now, conviction or not. He would always live with the stain, and eventually they would retry him and get a conviction, and he’d be executed or spend the rest of his life in jail. She wasn’t sure which would be worse. Put the man out of his misery, or let him live fifty or sixty more years with the knowledge that the world believed he had killed his own wife and children.

  And if by some miracle they didn’t convict him? Then the investigation would continue, they would find Buck, and then Martha. And for that matter, they’d find Deanna, and they’d realize why she had refused to convict Barrett when she’d been on the jury. That she’d been withholding information.

  Great. Maybe she could share a cell with her daughter.

  If she went to the judge and told her what she knew, she didn’t know what would happen. Maybe a mistrial. Maybe some criminal charge. And there would certainly be an investigation of Buck.

  And Martha.

  But if she didn’t …

  She kept thinking of that man, that face, those two brown eyes peering out from the witness stand, begging people to believe him, to believe that he did not and could not have committed this hideous crime.

  And no one believing him. Not because of anything he had failed to do, but because she had failed to tell them what she knew.

  Deanna threw the pillow down on the floor. She still wished she could talk to Martha first. She wished she could consult a lawyer, or at least a friend. But as she had told her daughter so many times before, if wishes were horses …

  She cracked open her hotel-room door. A deputy was posted in the corridor outside, just a few feet from her door.

  “Is something wrong, Ms. Meanders?”

  “No. Well, yes. I mean—”

  He stepped toward her. “What do you need?”

  She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I need to see the judge.”

  The deputy frowned. “Now?”

  She nodded. “Right now.”

  Chapter 60

  BEN ARRIVED AT HIS apartment just before nine, late, although the earliest he had made it back since the trial began. Joni was sitting on the floor in the living room with Joey, who was arranging irregularly shaped puzzle pieces to make a perfect square, over and over again.

  “The warrior returns from the battlefield,” Joni said as he stepped through the door. “Look, Joey, it’s Uncle Ben.”

  Joey continued putting the pieces into his puzzle.

  “How’s the trial going?” Joni asked. “I didn’t have time to watch it on television today.”

  “Not good,” Ben replied. He flung his coat and briefcase onto the sofa.

  “Barrett flopped on the stand?”

  “No, he was actually very good, for the most part. Problem is, he’s all we’ve got. And it wasn’t enough.”

  “You know, Ben,” Joni said gently, “all you can do is your best. The facts are what they are.”

  Ben shook his head. “Wallace Barrett is innocent. He may not be a perfect human being, but he didn’t commit those murders. If I can’t convince the jury of that, I’ve failed.”

  Joni changed the subject. “I took Joey to Woodland Hills Mall again today. He rode the carousel.”

  Ben half smiled. “Yeah? How’d he like it?”

  “Well, you know, it’s always hard to tell with Joey. But I think he enjoyed it.”

  Ben stared down at his taciturn, emotionless nephew, obsessively putting the puzzle pieces into their slots. What was going on in that mind, anyway? Surely there was some way to break through. “He’s up kind of late, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah. But I thought you might want to spend some time with him, since you’ve been so busy all week. I hope you’re not upset.”

  “Of course not. You’ve been a lifesaver, Joni. I don’t know how I can thank you.”

  “Well, since you brought it up …”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you suppose you could get Wallace Barrett’s autograph for me?”

  “You want his autograph?”

  “Yeah. And maybe your buddy Jack Bullock’s?”

  “Bullock? What do you want with his autograph? He’s just a lawyer.”

  “Just a lawyer? Ben, where have you been? He’s a celebrity now. You’re all celebrities.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous. Who’s had more television time lately than you guys? Good grief, Kato Kaelin was only on the stand for a few days, and he became a celebrity—for a little while, anyway. You guys are on every day.”

  “Celebrity should be based on merit, not exposure.”

  “Maybe that’s the way it should be, Ben, but that’s not the way it is. You should give some thought to how to make the most of this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You ought to get, you know, an agent.”

  “An agent? Lawyers don’t have agents.”

  “You should. You might get some talk shows, a legal commentary spot on the news, maybe a contract for a book of trial memoirs. Who knows—you might even get on one of the daytime talk shows.”

  “Great. Me and the transsexual hermaphroditic Siamese twins who love too much.”

  “Seriously, Ben. You could make a lot of money.”

  “What would I do with a lot of money?”

  “Well, for starters, you could give me a raise.” She beamed.

  “I’ll take that under consideration.”

  “And you could buy Joey some of those classy Little Tikes toys. And you could get a new, better office. And you and Christina could get serious and settle down.”

  “What?”

  She looked down sheepishly. “Just a suggestion.”

  “I think you have the wrong idea.”

  “Uh-huh.” She pushed herself off the sofa. “Still, Ben, opportunity is knocking. Don’t forget to open the door.”

  “Open the door? I think I’m going to put in a dead bolt.”

  After Joni left, Ben gathered all the toys and books and games and everything else he could muster that might possibly capture Joey’s attention. He wa
s resolved; one way or another, he was going to get a reaction out of that kid.

  “Look, Joey, puppets!” He put his hand up a green frog which played a computer chip version of “Over the Rainbow” that seemed to go on forever.

  Joey did not appear remotely interested.

  “Hello, Joey,” Ben said, using a deep, croaking voice that he imagined was something like the way a frog would talk. “Would you like to play with me? Ribit.”

  Joey pushed the puppet out of his face and reached for his puzzle.

  Well, Ben reasoned, that’s sort of a response. Not the one I was hoping for, but …

  He turned on the Smart Little Driver, a noisy computer toy shaped like a plastic dashboard that played songs. “Look at this, Joey. It talks!”

  Joey did not look.

  Ben pushed a button, treating them to another burst of computer chip “music,” this time playing “Pease Porridge Hot.”

  “Isn’t that neat, Joey? Look, I can sing along! Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold …”

  Ben proceeded to sing along with the Smart Little Driver, not that Joey appeared to care.

  “What about this?” Ben said, pulling out two Bert and Ernie dolls. “Remember these?” He dangled the dolls in front of the boy’s face. “Remember? These used to be your favorite toys!”

  Of course, he thought to himself, that was before your mother abandoned you. That was before she dumped you on Uncle Ben, who in turn dumped you in a preschool and dumped you with a nanny so he could continue his brilliant legal career. That was before you shut yourself inside and refused to come out.

  Ben stood up and went to the piano. “Look, Joey. I can make music, too.” He wanted to play a Dar Williams tune he’d been trying to teach himself, but decided that Mother Goose was probably more Joey’s speed. He banged out “Yankee Doodle,” giving an extra boost to the chorus: “Yankee Doodle, keep it up, Yankee Doodle Dan-dy …”

  It was as if Joey was in another room, or perhaps another world. He continued working the puzzle. Trapezoid in the trapezoid space, semicircle in the semicircle space …

  “Look,” Ben said, “you’ve played with that long enough.” He snatched the puzzle away, pieces and all.

  Joey did not look at Ben, but he certainly reacted. He looked all around, as if searching for the puzzle. A panicked expression washed across his face. He began to bawl.

  “Joey, stop that!”

  Joey did not stop that.

  “You can have the puzzle back later. We’re going to do something else now.”

  Joey continued wailing at the top of his lungs.

  “Joey, look.” Ben began desperately running about, grasping at toys. “Look, it’s a Magna-Doodle. See, I wrote your name!”

  Joey sat with his hands in his lap, wailing. His face flushed beet red. Tears dribbled down his chin.

  “Okay,” Ben said, “how about a talking clown?” He desperately grabbed the doll and pulled its talk string. “ ‘It’s time to have fun, kiddies! Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!’ ”

  Joey was oblivious. He screamed like he’d lost everything, like there was no reason to go on living. Worst of all, he had not come out of his shell. He was still isolated, unresponsive, self-absorbed. He was just miserable as well.

  Ben began to feel seriously guilt-ridden. What right did he have to demand that the child react to him, anyway? Still, he tried to maintain his resolve. “Look, how about card tricks?”

  He reached down furiously for a deck of cards on the floor, but slipped on the area rug and fell into the nearby armchair. He hit the chair sideways, face first, rolled off it, and tumbled down on the hardwood floor.

  Ben lay flat on his back on the floor. As soon as his head cleared, he began taking a mental inventory. Everything seemed to still be attached, no major spinal damage, although he definitely had a sore spot on his backside. But something had changed. It took him a moment to realize what it was.

  Joey had stopped crying.

  Ben pushed up off the floor. Joey was looking at him.

  It took a moment to register. Wait a minute …

  Joey was looking at him!

  This was something he hadn’t seen in months. The boy was looking straight at him, and … and …

  And he was beginning to smile.

  “Gin,” Joey gurgled.

  Ben looked at him in amazement. “What? Did you say something? You did! You said something!” He paused suddenly. “What did you say?”

  “Gin,” Joey repeated, followed by something that sounded a lot like laughter.

  “Joey!” Ben said. “I can’t believe it! You’re—” He tried to listen closer. “But what are you saying?”

  “Gin!” Joey insisted.

  “Gin? You mean again? Do it again?” Joey’s pronunciation was far from perfect, but not bad considering that he had barely made a peep for the last six months. “But what do you mean?”

  Joey looked up at the armchair. “Gin.”

  “You mean, you want me to do it again? But, Joey, that was an accident.”

  Joey looked away. His smile faded.

  “But that’s okay!” Ben leaped to his feet. “If you want it ’gin, I’ll do it ’gin. I knew you’d like that. I meant to do it. Yeah, that’s my story. I’m a whiz with kids. Look, Joey, I’ll do it again.”

  Joey did look up. And Ben flopped forward, first into the armchair, then down onto the floor. Doing it on purpose, of course, made it a good deal less graceful than when he had fallen by accident, and he hit the floor a good deal harder, too. “Owww!”

  Joey giggled. His face lit up a like a candle. He clapped his hands together.

  “Joey!” Ben crawled up and swept Joey up his arms. “You’re paying attention! You know who I am! Don’t you? Say ‘Uncle Ben.’ Can you? Say ‘Uncle Ben.’ ”

  Joey giggled even more. “UngaBen.”

  “I knew you did! I knew if I could just get through to you—” Ben stopped talking and pressed the child close to him. “Thank you, Joey!”

  Joey smiled back at him. “Gin.”

  “Again? Oh, right. Whatever you say.” Ben got into position and took another swan dive into the armchair. He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. His back was beginning to ache, but he barely noticed.

  Because Joey was laughing. Happy, hysterical laughter.

  Ben smiled his biggest smile. His eyes were starting to water. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “It’s just—it’s not—oh, hell.” He stopped fighting and let the tears fall. “Joey,” he said, crawling close to him, “you’re the best little boy in the world, you know that? The best little boy who ever was.” He gave Joey another bear hug. “By God, if I can bring you around, I can bring that jury around, too.”

  Joey smiled back at him and clapped his little hands together. “Gin.”

  Chapter 61

  SOMEHOW BEN MANAGED TO avoid the now-permanent camp of reporters on the plaza outside the courthouse. They had erected a large tent to protect themselves and their equipment from the erratic Oklahoma weather. WallyWorld, the local wags were calling it.

  The reporters shouted out questions as he passed through.

  “Do you think anyone believed your client’s story?”

  “What about the blood and the DNA?”

  “Is it true Barrett gave you his bloodstained clothes and they’re hidden in a safe in your office?”

  Ben’s jaw tightened. “No comment.”

  “What are you going to do with yourself when this trial is finally over?”

  Ben stopped, then pivoted. “Actually,” he said, “I’m planning to go backpacking. I need to exercise something other than my lips.”

  He rode to the seventh floor and entered Judge Hart’s courtroom. As he walked to the front, he spotted a female network anchorperson sitting on the defense table. He recognized her—CNN, he thought—but couldn’t come up with her name. Her cameraman and his assistant were in front of her; obviously they were preparing to broadcast.

  Ben tried to cont
ain his irritation. After all, court was not in session and he didn’t own the courtroom. He just walked quietly behind her and started setting up.

  The anchorwoman whirled around. “Excuse me. You’re in my key light.”

  “Excuse me,” Ben shot back. “You’re on my table.”

  She did not appear to be amused. “Couldn’t you stand back long enough for me to tape this intro?”

  “Sorry, I have work to do.” He continued taking papers out of his briefcase.

  She placed her hands on her hips. “How am I going to tape this lead-in with you making that racket?”

  “Life’s hell sometimes, isn’t it?”

  “Look, can’t you give me five minutes?”

  “Sorry. This trial could start at any moment.”

  She looked perplexed. “Haven’t they told you yet?”

  “Told me what?” Ben did a quick scan of the courtroom. It did seem unusually empty. Bullock wasn’t here, nor any other member of the prosecution team, much less the judge. “What’s going on?”

  “I wish I knew. All I know is that the judge’s bailiff read a prepared statement explaining that the trial was on hold indefinitely, and that he would be meeting with all counsel in chambers as soon as they arrived.”

  Ben sprang out of his seat. “I’ve got to get in there.”

  “Thank goodness.” The anchorwoman turned back toward the camera and smiled. “Roll ’em.”

  When Ben burst into Judge Hart’s chambers, he found the judge at her desk and Bullock and his assistants sitting in chairs surrounding a brunette middle-aged woman. He couldn’t remember her name, but he knew who she was.

  Juror number twelve.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Kincaid,” the judge said. “Have a seat and we’ll get started.” She cocked her head to one side. “You’re walking a bit stiffly this morning. Did you hurt your back?”

  “Uh … yeah …” Ben said as he angled into the nearest available chair. “Several times.”

  Judge Hart appeared mystified, but didn’t pursue it. “Gentlemen, we have a problem.”

  Ben eyed the juror carefully. She was sitting with her hands in her lap, kneading them with such force that it was painful to watch.