In the corridor, Ben pushed Matthews up against the wall and got quite literally in his face. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, Matthews, but—”
“The only thing I’m trying to do is my job. I’ve been told to investigate. So I’m investigating.”
“You can’t handle this case. You’re too close. You have too much animosity toward me—and my staff.”
“Says who?”
“Don’t play games. We both know it’s true. And that goes for you and all your Blue Squeeze buddies.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bull. Listen to my words, Matthews. I do not want you on this case.”
“Then file a complaint. Ain’t gonna break my heart if I have one less case to handle. But until I’m transferred, if I’m transferred, I have to do my job.”
“I’m taking this straight to Chief Blackwell.”
Matthews chuckled. “Oh yeah, that’ll do it. You two are so close and all. Listen to me for a minute, Kincaid, before you go flying off the handle. I know you don’t like me, and that’s okay. You ain’t exactly at the top of my hit parade, either. But understand this—I’m a cop. And I’m a good cop. Always have been. I get the job done. And I don’t like seeing crooks and killers get away unpunished. That was true with Joe McNaughton. And that’s true with this librarian woman, too. If you care anything about catching the bastard who cut her, you should be glad I’m on the case.”
“That sounds great in theory,” Ben said, his words even and measured. “But what if the bastard who did this is one of your cop buddies?” He leaned in so close Matthews couldn’t possibly escape his gaze. “Or you.”
27
THE FIRST DAY OF trial was always Ben’s least favorite, although in a case like this, picking a favorite was like trying to choose the least offensive from a smorgasbord of deadly poisons. All his usual nemeses were present: the reporters stalking a sound bite, the spectators fighting off boredom by entangling themselves in the drama of other people’s tragedies, the judge who would rather be anywhere else, and of course, the district attorney, who acts as if his prosecution is God’s Own Work, a characterization which inevitably casts the defense attorney in the role of the Prince of Darkness.
Well, Ben was feeling rather satanic at the moment, as the judge rattled through the preliminaries that launched the monster modern-day trials have become. Christina was sitting at the defense table—between Ben and Keri. Every time Keri so much as leaned in Ben’s direction, Christina shot her an evil look that could probably hold back an advance of the demons of hell. LaBelle was keeping his distance, not shaking Ben’s hand, not even glancing in his direction, as if his very touch or gaze might somehow contaminate him. Ben knew it was a show for the benefit of any potential jurors who might be around or any potential voters who might be watching on television, but it didn’t make him love the judicial system.
Judge Cable seemed particularly crabby this morning and Ben didn’t know why. It was impossible to tell with judges. It could be that he didn’t get the kind of cereal he liked for breakfast that morning. Or it could be his unhappiness at actually having to hear this miserable Take-Two case. Ben had been trying to contact Mike, but no one was willing to give him any information about where his friend had gone. He was beginning to doubt that anyone knew. And even though he needed to focus his full and total attention on the trial at hand, it was almost impossible not to keep thinking back to the hospital room where Paula’s life hung in a delicate balance.
For Ben, getting into the trial mind-set was a process of submersion. It was as if the courtroom was a submarine, and the further the trial progressed, the deeper they sank beneath the waves. The whole trial experience was one of separation, apartness from the real world. As Ben became more and more consumed by the incredibly complex trial process, he lost touch with almost everything that was a part of his normal life: fun, friends, family—hell, even his cat.
Why did he do it? Ben had asked himself on more than one occasion. In many respects—in most respects—he hated being in trial. And yet, at the same time, there was something elusively thrilling about it. Granted, there was the opportunity to actually do some good in the world, to be of service to other people, and Ben knew he had been, on more than one occasion. But there was something else, something hidden away beneath all the objections and legal obscurities and lies. Being in the courtroom was like being in the arena. It was unmasked conflict, one man against another. It was a small sort of warfare, and yet it was sanctioned by law. If it was true that all men, even civilized sorts like Ben, had a spark of the warrior in their heart, this was an occasion when that instinct was truly revealed.
Whether Ben cared to admit it or not, being in trial was like nothing else in the world.
“The State versus Keri Louise Dalcanton, Case No. C-01-874.” Judge Cable rattled the papers from which he read. “Court is now in session. Are the parties ready to proceed?”
Ben and LaBelle both indicated that they were.
“Gentlemen, let’s pick a jury.” He redirected his attention to the bailiff. “Please call out the first twenty names on the list, Brent.”
Brent the bailiff called out the names of the potential jurors—“driver’s licenses,” lawyers liked to call them, because of the keenly scientific basis by which they were chosen. Brent had a clear, bass voice; he would’ve been good on radio, Ben mused. But in the courtroom, his voice gave a sense of authority and gravity to what was basically a mundane procedural matter.
The lucky twenty took their seats in and around the jury box. They knew the case for which they were being called. Ben could see it in their eyes; he could feel it in their movements, in the way they carried themselves, the way they looked at one another.
LaBelle knew it, too, and he made no bones about the fact when he began his juror examinations. “You know why you’re here,” he said, positioned still as a statue just beyond the rail demarking the jury box. “I won’t go into a lot of details about the cruel, inhuman crime that lies at the heart of this case. You’ll hear plenty enough about it later; I won’t describe the horror any sooner than necessary. It isn’t fair to you.”
That, Ben thought, plus it would draw an immediate sustained objection and mess up his whole voir dire.
“You know why you’re here, but do you know why you’re here?” LaBelle paused, letting the words sink in, as if he had uttered some great profundity. “You’re here because you have been asked to be part of the most important branch of our government. The branch that keeps us safe. The branch that strives to see that justice is done, that virtue is rewarded, that evil is punished.”
This was a bit heavy-handed, even for LaBelle, Ben thought. He wondered if the man was making a tactical error, coming on so strong when the evidence wasn’t yet on the table. Still, LaBelle had tried more cases than he had; Ben had to assume he knew what he was doing.
“When you become a part of the judicial process, you enter something larger than yourself, something greater than all of us combined. You become a part of society’s quest for correction and perfection. A never-ending battle. A crusade, if you will. You probably already know this, but I want to remind you of it now, at the outset, so you will remember that you must take your duties seriously and perform them to your utmost ability, with honesty and fearlessness. In short, you must not be afraid to do what is right.”
Christina leaned into Ben’s ear and whispered. “The trial hasn’t started and he’s already pressuring them to convict. Shouldn’t we object?”
“No,” Ben whispered back. “The jury will be suspicious if you try to shut him down every time he starts to talk about the defendant, and Judge Cable is the sort of judge who is only going to tolerate so many objections, whether they’re right or wrong. Save it for something that matters.”
LaBelle began his direct questioning of the jurors, first as a group, then individually, particularly when a raised hand gave him answers he didn’t li
ke. Most of his questions appeared designed to weed out potential bias and preconceived ideas that might not be to his advantage. “I want you to understand that I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” he emphasized. “But my job is to root out candidates who might not be appropriate for this jury. Doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. Just means this isn’t the right trial for you to hear.” Because you’re a bigoted moron, presumably, but LaBelle omitted that part.
He mercilessly quizzed anyone who’d had prior problems with law enforcement, or anyone who’d witnessed such troubles in their immediate families. He trolled for jurors with grudges against police officers—a sensible precaution, since most of his witnesses would be cops. And he looked for people who didn’t believe in the trial process, either for philosophical or religious reasons. When Juror Number Fourteen, a heavyset woman in her late forties, explained that she believed all people should follow the Word of the Lord and “turn the other cheek,” Ben knew she would be the first one LaBelle yanked. Forgiveness was not on his agenda.
Some of the prejudices LaBelle tried to unearth were not exactly on the standard ACLU list. “Now there’s another subject I need to address with you good people,” LaBelle explained. “This is a delicate subject, and I apologize in advance if this discussion causes you any discomfort. It’s always awkward to discuss matters that are … sexual in nature, but I’m afraid in this case, it can’t be avoided.” This, of course, was an introduction that ensured every juror would be listening to him with rapt attention.
“This relates to the defendant, Keri Dalcanton,” LaBelle continued. “As the subsequent evidence will show, prior to this trial, and at the time of the crime in question, Ms. Dalcanton was employed as …” He let his head hang low, as if he somehow bore part of her great shame. “… as a stripper. For those of you who don’t know what a stripper is—”
Ben rolled his eyes. Right.
“—a stripper is a woman who removes her clothing—in a public place in front of a group of men—for money. Usually this takes place in a smoky crowded bar that does not exactly cater to the highest strata of our society. It’s my understanding that loud music and, well, frankly erotic dancing are usually a part of this performance.”
Christina looked at Ben sharply. “Would this perhaps be the time to object?”
Ben shook his head “Not yet. She was a stripper, like it or not, and they’re going to find out sometime.”
LaBelle continued “But I must caution you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that no matter how distasteful you find these … elements of the defendant’s life, you must not let them prejudice you. The decision that you ultimately reach—that I am confident you will reach—must be based upon the evidence, and nothing else. I want to make sure you do not allow these unpleasant realities to bias your verdict unfairly.”
Which of course was a gigantic crock LaBelle was bringing up Keri’s status as stripper for the sole purpose of prejudicing the jury—principally composed of older women—against her. He knew they wouldn’t “meet” Keri, so to speak, on the witness stand, until well after he had finished putting on his case—and maybe not even then. He would take advantage of that fact by attacking her well before she could defend herself. He wanted the jury disliking her from the get-go.
“Ben,” Christina said, “I think this is getting—”
“Not yet.”
LaBelle placed his hand against his brow, his expression suggesting that there were even more unpleasant topics yet to come.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “our discussion of matters pertaining to … sex … cannot end there. In the trial to follow, there will be considerable discussion of … uh, sexual activities involving the defendant and the victim, which could be equally prejudicial. The evidence will show that Ms. Dalcanton regularly enjoyed sexual practices that many of you will find strange or even … aberrant. That she promoted and enjoyed—”
“Now?” Christina asked.
“Oh yeah,” Ben replied.
Christina jumped to her feet. “Objection, your honor. This has gone well past the scope of proper voir dire.”
The judge agreed. After a brief bench conference, Cable instructed LaBelle to get off the defendant and back to his own case. LaBelle acquiesced easily. Presumably he knew he was on dubious ground and was just trying to see how far he could get.
LaBelle questioned the jury on a few more miscellaneous topics, then finished up with a tremendous push-and-pressure routine on the subject of the death penalty. Needless to say, with a gruesome, public, torture-murder and dismemberment, LaBelle wanted the ultimate sanction, and he was determined to uproot any juror not capable of delivering.
“Most of us are, at heart, I believe, good Christian people,” LaBelle opined. “We are generous and forgiving. We want to be kind. And therefore, it goes against the grain to issue the greatest of all penalties the law allows, the one that permits no second chance. And statistics show we are particularly hesitant to issue that sanction when the defendant is a woman.” He paused, leaning against the rail for dramatic effect. “But I will suggest to you, ladies and gentlemen, that it is not the gender of the defendant that matters, not the goodness of your hearts. There are some crimes so extreme—so abominable—that they cry out for justice. An eye for an eye. To preserve our principles—and our safety—there are times when the death penalty cannot, and should not, be avoided.”
He called for a show of hands of those who would, if the right facts were presented, be capable of delivering the death penalty. He was not disappointed. He quizzed many of them personally, leaning on them ever so subtly. Again, he was not disappointed.
When all was said and done, LaBelle had the death-qualified panel he wanted.
Ben’s questioning was considerably briefer than LaBelle’s had been, but by the time he got the jury, they were tired of this routine and most of the obvious inquiries had already been made. And at heart, even though he knew other attorneys would never agree with him, or admit it publicly anyway, he thought the whole jury-selection process was a big crap shoot. He could question these people for a month; he’d still not really know anything about them. He couldn’t predict how they would rule in a trial; no one could. All he could do was watch their eyes, listen to their answers, and hope for the best.
He started with his usual spiel on the importance of the four magic words: beyond a reasonable doubt. It might not be exciting stuff, but Ben knew it was the most important point he could make at this stage of the trial—maybe at any stage of the trial. LaBelle could rant about the death penalty all he wanted; if Ben could convince these twenty people that the defendant really was presumed innocent, and that the burden of proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt was as tough a standard as it sounded, the penalty stage could become irrelevant.
Unfortunately, what he soon learned was that virtually everyone on the jury already had, via the media, some passing familiarity with Keri Dalcanton—and that they didn’t need LaBelle’s influence to dislike her.
“I heard she was after the guy’s money,” Juror Number Eight admitted, after Ben pressed her for details on what she had read about this case. What he got from the other jurors was no more encouraging.
“I knew a woman who stripped once. She was nasty.”
“A nice girl would not have been involved with a married man.”
“She had to be pissed when he broke it off with her. Look what happened to the body.”
“My cousin’s girlfriend’s mother saw her once in a restaurant. She said she was wearing black leather.”
“I heard this wasn’t the first. Like she’s got chained and dismembered victims buried all over the state.”
Ben tried to suppress the deep despair he felt. The media saturation on this case was greater than he had imagined. Keri Dalcanton appeared to have been turned into some kind of nouveau urban legend. He didn’t have nearly enough preemptory challenges to remove all the problems on this jury panel.
Ben questioned those w
ho had negative preconceptions about whether they could still be fair and unprejudiced. If anyone indicated that they could not, Ben could get the judge to remove them for cause, thus saving his precious and limited preemptory challenges. But so long as they indicated they thought they could be fair, no matter how unlikely that seemed, the judge would not remove them from the jury panel. One woman admitted she might have troubles (probably because she had other things to do and wanted off the jury), but the others insisted they thought they could still evaluate the case without prejudice. Which ironically enough, at that point, was exactly what Ben did not want to hear.
By the end of the day, the jury had been selected LaBelle predictably removed young females and anyone else he thought might be wobbly on the death penalty. Ben removed older women and people with strong fundamentalist leanings—anyone whom he suspected might never get past the fact that Keri was a stripper with an active sex life. When all the shouting was done, fourteen people remained—a jury of twelve, plus two alternates.
Ben had done the best he could, but he knew this jury was far from ideal. Many of them had come into the courtroom assuming Keri was guilty. He saw them looking at her, catching furtive glances, like children who didn’t want to be caught staring at the scarlet lady. Sometimes, Ben knew, impressions were more important than evidence, and this could well be one of them. As long as they thought Keri was a bad person, a harlot, a temptress, a Jezebel—all negative female stereotypes LaBelle would be reinforcing at every opportunity—Keri didn’t stand a chance.
28
KIRK FELL TO HIS knees and flung himself prostrate across the stone bench that flanked the north side of the prayer garden. His arms cradled his head. He thrashed back and forth, riddled with torment, unable to stop the flow of tears that poured forth from his eyes.
“My God, my God,” he moaned to himself. “What have I done?”
He turned his head up, just enough to see the statuette of St. Francis of Assisi. The saint had kindly eyes; he seemed to look at Kirk sympathetically, as if he truly cared about him, as if he shared the torment that wracked Kirk’s soul. St. Francis loved the little animals, right? Would he love Kirk, too? He felt like an animal, torn and battered, barely surviving from one day to the next, isolated from everyone he ever knew or … loved.
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