Naked Justice

by William Bernhardt

  And then he started on the forensic evidence. Ben could see the jurors’ eyes dart, their heads nod, as he reminded them of some of the most compelling, seemingly unrefutable points. The blood traces—could anyone deny that Wallace Barrett’s blood was on his wife’s body? DNA blood typing might not be precise, but the odds against that blood coming from anyone else were enormous. And then there was the skin sample found under his wife’s fingernail, the sample that DNA testing proved had almost certainly come from Barrett. How could he possibly explain that? And then, of course, there was the devastating testimony of the coroner—that Caroline Barrett was pregnant at the time of her death, a two-month-old fetus who had died with her.

  “In the light of such overwhelming evidence,” Bullock said, “how can you possibly be misled by a few trivial inconsistencies, by some unconvincing speculations about cameras and e-mail and a secret rendezvous in the park? Ladies and gentlemen, conspiracy theories are always appealing. It’s more comforting to believe that great acts of evil are committed by vast unseen forces than to believe that one man—a husband and father—could be so evil, so cruel. We would rather believe in unknown bogeymen than believe in a real-life monster who could kill his own wife, his own children. But that’s what happened.”

  He walked to the easel and retrieved the three enlargements. “I could try to melodramatize the horror of the crime that this man committed. I could go on and on, I could rant and rave. But what would be the point? A picture is worth a thousand words. And ladies and gentlemen, these pictures say it all.”

  Wordlessly, he held up the exhibits: first the enlargement of the crime-scene shot of Caroline Barrett, soaked with blood and draped over a dining room chair, then the picture of Annabelle Barrett, lying mummy-like on her bed, then Alysha Barrett, lying dead in a bathtub awash in blood.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in a voice barely more than a whisper, “I ask you to do your duty as responsible citizens and jurors. I ask you to find Wallace Barrett guilty of first-degree murder. Please.”

  He folded up the exhibits and returned to his seat.

  Judge Hart gave Ben the nod, and he took his place before the jury. How could he follow a presentation like that one?

  Slowly Ben made eye contact with each of the jurors. “This is not a game. It is not a contest. It is not a duel between Mr. Bullock and me. It is not a horse race, where you try to bet on the winner. And it is not a circus, media or otherwise. This is a murder trial. A man is on trial, and make no mistake, the action you take today will irrevocably change the course of his life, and the lives of others, for all time. In your entire lives, you may never again do anything as important as what you do today. I do not want to make your job any harder than it already is. But given the gravity of the situation, you must be certain that you have considered all the facts. You must be certain that you have considered all the evidence. And you must be certain that you are right.”

  Ben pressed his hands together. “What is it the prosecution would have you believe? First, that Wallace Barrett, successful athlete, businessman, and politician, is really a heartless, twisted, violent man with a temper he can’t control. Well, I don’t doubt that Wallace has a temper. We all do. He’s probably even lost it once or twice. I know I have. In fact, I’ve lost my temper once or twice since this trial began.” The jury smiled appreciatively. “But, ladies and gentlemen, this crime required far more than a temper. This crime required a callous, cold-hearted disregard for human life, even children. Have you heard or seen anything that suggested that this man was capable of destroying his entire family? I don’t think so.

  “And even assuming that he could commit this crime, why would he? Just because he got mad one day? Because he was jealous? Because they had an argument at an ice-cream parlor? I find that impossible to believe. This man loved his children. You can hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. He wouldn’t hurt them for any reason, much less a trivial one. The prosecution would have you believe he was furious because his wife was pregnant, a fact he didn’t even know, because being pregnant would make her ugly. Is that credible? He loved his children, and he has always wanted a son. They’d been trying to have another child for years. Bizarrely enough, the prosecution would twist what should have been a blessed event into a motive for murder. Does that even make sense?”

  Ben nodded toward the prosecution table. “Now, Mr. Bullock has made much of the fact that Wallace Barrett told you he was at home the afternoon of the murders, but left after an argument and was gone when the murders took place. Isn’t that convenient? they say. Well, I say, convenient for whom? For Wallace? Or for the man who had been stalking his family, the man who we know was in the neighborhood watching, waiting for his opportunity. When he saw Wallace Barrett leave the home, right after a noisy argument, he saw the chance he had been waiting for, not only to commit the murders, but to guarantee that Wallace would be blamed. That was part of the plan, after all. They didn’t just want him dead. They wanted him to suffer. They wanted him destroyed.”

  Ben gestured toward the prosecution exhibits, still leaning against the central podium. “The prosecution has made much of the forensic evidence in this case, because that’s really all they have. But let’s face it. It’s all circumstantial. At best, some of it proves that Wallace Barrett was at his home the day of the murders, a fact he has never denied. None of it proves that he was the one who killed his wife and children. Moreover, you’ve heard from the lips of the prosecution’s own witnesses how tainted the crime scene was. Dozens of people tramped through that house, touching things, leaving tracks, covering others. These shoddy police procedures call into question the credibility of any evidence taken from the crime scene. And ask yourselves this: If proper procedures had been followed, what other evidence might have been discovered? Evidence pointing to Buck Conners, perhaps? Or even Councilman Bailey Whitman?

  “The prosecution has suggested that this trail of evidence pointing to the city council is speculative and unconvincing. Can you say the same? It doesn’t matter, actually, because that is not the question the judge will put before you. The important question is: Can you say that this evidence does not create a reasonable doubt in your mind? You’ve seen the evidence. Buck Conners admitted he was in the neighborhood at the time of the murders. He admitted that he worked with Councilman Whitman. He admitted their secret rendezvous at a secluded park in the middle of the night. Then he clammed up— because he didn’t want to incriminate himself.

  “What about Councilman Whitman himself? He admitted hiring Conners, he admitted meeting him in the park, he admitted Conners was in Barrett’s neighborhood. He gave you some cock-and-bull story about a marketing brochure. Ask yourselves this: If that’s true, where’s the brochure? It’s been weeks since the murders took place. Shouldn’t it be done by now? The truth is there was never any brochure. There was only this—a cold-blooded plan to eliminate a political opponent, engineered by a man who has admitted that he hated Barrett, admitted that he has hated Barrett for years. Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is a motive you can believe.

  “The proof of the pudding is in the documents. Whitman took the Fifth—so as not to incriminate himself—but he couldn’t deny the truth spelled out by his own e-mail messages. Those messages prove he was plotting with Conners, prove he met Conners on the street where Barrett lived. If there is any doubt whatsoever in your mind about the complicity of Conners and Whitman, ask yourselves this question: What did he mean when he asked Buck Conners on the day of the murder—‘Did you get the nigger?’ What did he mean? What else could he have meant?”

  Ben lowered his hands and took a step back from the jury box. “Ultimately, you do not have to determine who committed this crime. You do not even have to determine whether you think the defendant committed this crime. The question before you as jurors is simply this: Is there a reasonable doubt? Regardless of what you think likely or probable—is there a reasonable doubt? Given all that you have seen, all the lies and deceit
, sloppy police work and Fifth Amendment cover-ups and secret e-mail messages that drip with hatred, can you honestly say that there is no reasonable doubt? And if you cannot, if you are willing to admit that there is a reasonable doubt, then, as the judge will instruct you, you have only one choice. You must find the defendant not guilty. If you are not absolutely certain, if there is a reasonable doubt in your minds, you must agree with what Wallace Barrett said the day he was indicted for this horrible crime. He said that this monstrous crime made him sick at heart. But he was absolutely not guilty.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to follow the facts, follow the evidence, follow the judge’s instructions, and follow your hearts. This man would not commit this crime. He could not commit this crime. I ask you to return a verdict of not guilty.”

  Bullock’s rebuttal was brief, to everyone’s relief. He did not attempt to rehash the whole trial, nor did he directly refute anything Ben had said in his closing. Instead, he approached the jurors holding a smashed picture frame in a plastic evidence bag.

  “Like I mentioned before,” he said quietly, “a picture is worth a thousand words. Here’s one more picture I wanted to show you.” He held it up so the jury could see. “This is the smashed framed photograph of Caroline Barrett found at the scene of the crime. It must’ve been smashed by the murderer. Certainly, neither Wallace Barrett nor any other defense witness has ever suggested otherwise.”

  He paused, took a deep breath. “Ask yourselves this question, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Would a hit man have any reason to smash Caroline’s picture? Would Councilman Whitman have any reason to smash her picture? Would anyone—other than him?” Bullock whirled around and pointed directly at Wallace Barrett. “Only one man would have smashed her picture. The man who hated her, the man who was so overcome by jealousy and rage that he lashed out and destroyed everything in sight. Forget these fairy tales and contrived fantasies. We all know who killed the Barrett family. We all know! He’s sitting right over there!”

  Bullock turned back around and closed his eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen, do the right thing. Find this man guilty. Not because you have to. Certainly not because you want to. Because he is.”

  When Bullock took his seat, the courtroom was still, but for the barely audible whirring of cameras and the soft intake of breath. The trial, everyone realized, was finally over. All except for the final act.

  After closings, all that was left was the part of the trial that Ben hated most. Waiting. Judge Hart calmly and deliberately read the instructions to the jury. It was one of those irrational, unfathomable eccentricities of the jury system that the instructions—which basically told the jury what was important and what they should be listening for—were read only after all the evidence was completed. The sun was just beginning to set when the bailiff escorted the jury into the deliberation room.

  Ben sat in the courtroom with Wallace Barrett while Christina and Jones made a run to Coney Island for dinner. It was a tradition of sorts for the lawyers to go into the judge’s chambers while the jury deliberated and to swap war stories, but Ben wasn’t in the mood. And he thought Wallace might prefer to have some company.

  “So,” Barrett said, with a painfully unconvincing smile on his face, “what do you think?”

  Ben shook his head. “I never try to predict what a jury will do.” Especially not this time.

  Barrett nodded. “Sure. I understand.” He pressed his hands together. “Well, however it turns out, I want you to know—you did a good job. No matter what happens, I’ve got no complaints. I’ll pay your fee in full, as promised.”

  Ben smiled. “Well, that will make my creditors happy, anyway. Not to mention my staff. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even be able to get a new Honda.”

  Barrett grimaced. “Honda? Ben, think big. You’re a celebrity now, man. How about a BMW? Better yet, a Jag.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not the type.”

  “So you say. Try driving my XJS convertible for a week. You’ll never go back to Hondas, believe me.”

  Ben leaned back in his chair. “Well, we’ll see.”

  There was a long pause. Barrett stared at his hands for a long time.

  “Ben,” he said quietly, “do you think they believed me?”

  Ben closed his eyes. “I hope so, Wallace. I really hope so.”

  It was barely two hours later when they got the word that the jury was returning.

  “Wow,” Barrett said. “I thought we’d be here all night. At least.”

  “So did I,” Ben echoed.

  “How did they make up their minds so quickly? What does it mean?”

  Ben didn’t answer. The O. J. Simpson case aside, traditional trial lawyer wisdom was that a speedy return meant a guilty verdict. He opted not to share that nugget of wisdom with Barrett.

  The jurors took their places. The television cameras came on and white-hot lights burned across the courtroom. The tension and suspense in the room were almost unbearable.

  Just get it over with, Ben thought. Just get it done.

  The piece of paper went from the foreman of the jury to the bailiff to the judge. Unfortunately, Judge Hart did not use color-coded jury forms; Ben had no way of knowing what it said till it was read aloud. He tried to scan the jurors’ faces, hoping to pick up a clue. But every face was set and solemn. No one was telling. And, he noticed, no one was making eye contact with Wallace Barrett, either.

  Judge Hart’s eyes scanned the verdict form. The judge then returned it to the bailiff, who passed it back to the foreman.

  “Madame Foreperson, have you reached a verdict?”

  Juror Number Six rose. “Yes, your honor. We have.”

  Judge Hart nodded. “The defendant will rise and face the jury.”

  Wallace Barrett did as instructed, Ben at his side.

  “Well,” the judge said, turning back toward the jury, “the whole world is waiting. Give us your verdict.”

  Chapter 66

  THE FOREWOMAN CLEARED HER throat, and her hands began to tremble, as if, given the judge’s instruction to proceed, she suddenly became aware of the enormous number of people listening to her words, breathlessly awaiting what she had to say.

  “We the jury, duly formed and constituted pursuant to the laws of the great state of Oklahoma, having heard the evidence set forth against the defendant, who has been charged with murder in the first degree of Caroline Barrett, Alysha Barrett, and Annabelle Barrett, three human beings and citizens of this state, do hereby find and declare the defendant to be—”

  She paused, catching her breath, while everyone in the courtroom held theirs in suspense.

  “Not guilty!”

  Ben gripped Barrett by the shoulders. Barrett slapped Ben’s hands, his eyes closed, and his face relaxed for the first time since the trial had begun. “Thank you,” he said, just under his breath. “Thank you for believing me. Thank you so much.”

  The courtroom went totally out of control. Pandemonium ensued— a flurry of shouts, cries, and rushing feet. The gallery was blanketed by a blinding glare of flashbulbs and key lights.

  Judge Hart pounded the gavel, trying to reestablish control. “Is that your verdict?” she shouted.

  The jurors nodded.

  “So say you one, so say you all?”

  Again, there was no dissent.

  “Marvelous.” She thanked them, then dismissed them, warning them that they were not required to speak to the press, the lawyers, or the parties unless they chose to do so. Finally she looked down at Barrett, smiled, and said the magic words. “Mr. Barrett, you have been found not guilty of the charges against you. You are free to go.”

  There were cheers from the back of the courtroom. Judge Hart dropped her gavel and stepped down from the bench.

  Barrett embraced Ben, his face overcome with relief and joy. “Did you hear that? Did you hear it?”

  Ben smiled and clasped his shoulder. “I heard it. Congratulations!”

  “Congratulate me? Hell,
you did all the work. I oughta carry you outta here on my shoulders!”

  “A handshake will be fine, thanks.”

  Ben held out his hand, but Barrett gave it a yank, pulled Ben close, and gave him a huge bear hug. “I can’t thank you enough, Ben. I really can’t. You’ve saved my life. I owe everything to you.”

  “Nonsense. You were innocent, so you weren’t convicted. It’s that simple. Despite what some people think, the justice system does work. At least most of the time.”

  Barrett pulled away, wiped his eyes, and straightened his tie. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll have a few words with the press.”

  Ben nodded. He supposed Barrett had earned that right. For weeks now, he’d been living with biased reports that implied, if not declared, his guilt. How could he possibly resist the opportunity to ram all those words down their throats?

  Ben heard a voice, barely discernible above the clamor. “So you got another one off.”

  Ben closed his eyes. “Bullock, I’ve had about as much of you—”

  He whirled around. It wasn’t Bullock. It was Judge Hart. And she was smiling. “Just teasing,” she said.

  “Oh. Right.” Ben tried not to appear puzzled. The joking judge? “Is there … something I can do for you?”

  “No.” She seemed hesitant, as if unsure herself what exactly she was going to say. “I just wanted to … congratulate you.”

  Ben blinked. What? Since when? “Thank you, your honor.” Congratulations from the judge? What on earth was going on?

  “There was something else …” She glanced over her shoulder, obviously making sure none of the media reps were listening in. “When we were in chambers this morning … you remember?”

  Ben nodded. He did, although it was hard to believe that it was only this morning. It seemed like a million years ago.

  “When that juror—Ms. Meanders—told us what she knew, gave us the names of her daughter and her boyfriend, Buck … I noticed how astonished and surprised you were.”