Capitol Offense (10 page)

“With respect, Jim, I think that question is a typical argument ad absurdum and we both know it. This is not the first insanity plea. They go way back to General Dan Sickles in the first half of the nineteenth century. The previous cases did not trigger a wave of insanity slayings and this one will not either. Insanity is not contagious. Successful insanity defenses are rare. But this case presents unusual circumstances. We have a model citizen, a man without a blot on his record, driven by the most horrifying events to actions that would normally be far beyond his ken. That doesn’t happen every day and it never will, thank heaven. But it is exactly why the temporary insanity plea exists. And we should not be hesitant to use it.”

“May I have a few words?”

Ben turned and saw DA Guillerman standing behind him. Where had he come from? This was really in poor taste—crashing another man’s press conference.

“Mr. Kincaid speaks very eloquently, but I think he misses the main point. I don’t plan to argue my case here, in the media, in the full view of prospective jurors,” he added, eyeing Ben sharply, “but I will make one point clear. My job as district attorney, the job to which the good people of Tulsa have elected me, is to ensure justice. And I will do that. No hocus-pocus. No—” He took a deep breath. “—fancy experts and psychobabble. Just justice.” He leaned closer to the microphone. “No one will get away with killing a police officer on my watch. That’s a promise.”

Ben saw countless hands spring in the air, but Guillerman had the sense to ignore them. He’d made his point. He was done.

“Thanks for getting all these folks together,” Guillerman said, slapping Ben on the back. “Appreciate the use of the microphone.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ben mumbled back.

All at once, shouting burst out from somewhere in the midst of the assembled crowd. Ben turned and saw a path being carved through the reporters, but he couldn’t tell what was happening. The reporters themselves seemed caught unawares. The minicams swung one way, then the other, trying to capture the action.

“Killer! Killllller!”

In the blink of an eye, Ben saw a wiry, dark-haired man spring out of the melee. He was waving a gun wildly back and forth.

“Murderer!”

Ben tackled Dennis, knocking him to the marble plaza. An instant later, the first shot rang out, followed by two more in rapid succession. Screams broke loose, then chaos. He heard the click of heels, police officers running forward.

Dennis was huddled in a pile beneath him. “Are you okay?” Ben asked.

“I seem to have escaped the bullets, although I think you may have fractured my arm.”

“Just as long as you’re breathing.” Ben scrambled to his feet. Three police officers had the man face-first on the ground. One had captured his gun.

“Christina!” From the back, despite her height, or lack thereof, he could see her swinging her arms in the air. She was okay, thank God.

“He’s a murderer! In cold blood!” The man was still screaming, even as the police hauled him away. “An eye for an eye! An eye for an eye!”

As he watched the crowd disperse, Ben felt Guillerman ease in beside him. “So, Ben, tell me again that part about how insanity isn’t contagious.”

Ben had no reply.

The instant Ben passed through the front doors at Kincaid & McCall, he could see Jones was in one of his moods. He tried to ease past as quietly as possible, but Jones still spotted him.

“This phone has been ringing all day!” Jones shouted, his voice dripping with exasperation and perhaps, Ben thought, more than a dollop of self-pity.

“Isn’t that usually a good sign? Business on the upswing and all? I would think you’d like that.”

“These aren’t calls from prospective clients, Boss. It’s all about the Dennis Thomas case. Reporters. Radio hosts. Cranks with an axe to grind. It’s making me crazy. My arm is tired just from picking up the phone.”

“Maybe you should get one of those little phone receivers that clip behind your ear. Then you wouldn’t have to pick up the phone.”

“What, and sit around looking like Lieutenant Uhura? No chance.”

“Right. Might disturb your macho image.”

“You even got a call from Nancy Grace!”

Ben took his pink message slips off the spindle. “Should I know who she is?”

Jones slapped his forehead. “No, of course not. Not if you’ve been living in a cave for the past ten years.”

“I like the name. She sounds spiritual.”

“Not exactly. She has a show on CNN. Former prosecutor. Comments on pending cases, usually criminal. She’s aggressive and opinionated, and she has a voice that makes you want to slash your wrists. But somehow that works for her.”

“And the relevance of all this is …?”

“She wants you to do her show.”

Ben stared at the message slip and mulled. “Do you think I should?”

“How can I say this?” He leaned across his desk. “She’ll eat you for lunch, Ben.”

“Well, then. No Nancy Grace.” He saw his burly investigator heading down the opposite corridor. “Loving!”

The barrel-chested man paused and waited for Ben to catch up.

“Have you got anything for me?”

“Not yet, Skipper. None of my friends on the force know anythin’ about it. Other’n what everyone knows. And they’re not real keen to talk with me, either. They don’t take too kindly to us representin’ someone who killed a cop.” He paused. “Allegedly.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Not real keen on it myself.”

“I know you’re not. But I need your help. There has to be someone who knows something. Do you have any idea who the guy in the police station was? The one Dennis thinks vetoed any search for Joslyn Thomas?”

“Not yet. But I’m workin’ on it. If I get lucky, I might pick somethin’ up.”

“Then get lucky.”

“Do my best. I got a report on that loser who tried to shoot your guy at the press conference.”

“Yeah? Who was he? Cop? Cop relative?”

“Not even close.” He handed Ben a report. “Name’s Lars Engle. Student in the English department. Had some classes with Dennis Thomas. Apparently knew his wife, too, at least a little. In fact, he said he wanted to work with Thomas on his master’s thesis. He was like, a fan.”

“Those are always the dangerous ones.”

“You’d think a fan would be supportive. Not dangerous.”

“And if that were true,” Ben said, thumbing through his messages, “John Lennon would still be alive.” He slapped Loving on the back as he headed on down the hallway to his office. “Get someone to talk, Loving. Pour on some of that homeboy natural charm.”

“Well, if you put it that way …”

“I do. Get me something I can use.”

Ben was pleased to see Christina and Dennis waiting for him in the main conference room. Dennis looked better every day. Much of the debilitating residue of his stay in jail had washed away. He was a healthy young man and Ben knew he had been exercising regularly, getting fit, getting tan, getting ready to make a good impression in the courtroom.

Dennis spoke first. “Have they found out anything more about that nut at the press conference?”

“Not much.” He quickly scanned Loving’s report. “I’m surprised you don’t remember more about him. He was certainly into you in a big way. Spends most of his spare time reading or on the Internet. Likes to go to the
Tulsa World
website and post anonymous opinions on their bulletin boards. With zero accountability, he was free to say anything. Apparently he posted messages about you more than twenty times with increasing bitterness. Course, no one noticed. Until he pulled out a gun.”

“I don’t even know why those pages exist,” Christina said, throwing down her pencil. “They’re just catnip for people who feel powerless and voiceless. ‘No one else will listen to me, so I’ll post uninformed opinions on this unmonitored bulletin board.’”

“I think the key word is
anonymous,”
Ben replied. He remembered a few threatening emails he’d received that had not amused him at all. “Anonymous messages are the last refuge of the cowardly.”

“And apparently,” Dennis added, “the psychotic.” He flipped a page on his legal pad and changed the subject. “Thanks for giving Christina and me a chance to get to know each other better, Ben. I think we’ve managed to bond.”

Ben glanced at Christina, but he wasn’t seeing a bonded expression on her face.

“I want Christina to appear at trial with us,” Dennis continued. “In fact, I’d like her to sit beside me. Close beside me. I want the jury to see that she likes me. That she isn’t scared of me. If she isn’t scared of me, why should they be?”

“We can arrange that,” Ben said.

“But I’m charging double for the liking part,” Christina added.

“From what I read,” Dennis continued, “more than half the jurors will likely be women, so having a woman at our table is prudent. Can we get someone black?”

Ben’s lips parted, but no words came out.

“To sit at the table with us. A big chunk of the jury will also likely be black. And Hispanic. The Tulsa jury pool tends to draw disproportionately from the north side.”

Ben took a deep breath and scribbled on his pad. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I mean, it’s important that the jury feel commonality with me, right? Makes it easier for them to sympathize?”

“You are very well informed, Dennis. As usual.”

“And coldly logical about it, to boot,” Christina noted quietly.

“I understand you’re going to appear on
Nancy Grace,”
Dennis said, changing the subject.

Christina’s eyes widened. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. I think that’s a very bad idea.”

Ben averted his eyes. “I, um, haven’t made a decision yet.”

“Ben, she’ll tear you apart.”

“I don’t think that matters,” Dennis said. “Everyone expects Nancy Grace to be Nancy Grace. You can still make your case. Few potential jurors are likely to be watching CNN at that particular moment.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“The point is that the
Tulsa World
will almost certainly run an article about the fact that you will be or were on
Nancy Grace
, right?”

Ben considered. “Probably so.”

“And they’ll call you for your comment. And they’ll run it just as you give it to them. And six-tenths of the people in the potential jury pool will read it.” He folded his hands. “That’s the point.”

Ben wasn’t sure whether he should be very impressed or very afraid. Or whether, if Dennis avoided prison, Ben should hire him as a jury consultant.

Dennis continued. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to our affirmative defense. Temporary insanity.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced we should argue that I entered a dissociative state.”

“Why don’t we wait and see what the psychiatrist has to say?”

“Why don’t we plan out our defense and tell him what to say?”

“That’s not the way it works.”

“Oh, please. Offer him a lot of money.”

“I won’t buy testimony.”

“Can’t you prepare him to testify? Honestly, we’re just talking about giving him an idea what terminology he should use. I don’t see why that should bother him.” Dennis paused. “Especially if he’s getting paid a fortune. Make him earn his fee. Everyone else does.”

Christina pushed herself out of her chair. “This is about as much of this as I can take.”

Dennis appeared wounded. “What? Just when I thought we were starting to get along.”

“I will not be a part of this charade! This man is not grieving. He’s scheming! He’s got the whole thing worked out to the finest detail. Probably had it all worked out before he came to your office that first time and before he—”

“Christina!” Ben cautioned. “This is our client.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I think it’s time we had a serious come-to-Jesus meeting. Long past time, actually. This cold, calculating approach doesn’t persuade me.”

Dennis raised his chin. He looked at her firmly, steadily, but Ben had a hard time determining what was going on behind his eyes.

“Did it ever occur to you, Ms. McCall,” Dennis began, “that it might be easier for me to focus on the details of trial preparation than to think about what happened? Than to think about my wife, trapped in that car, bleeding to death, crying out for me, for some rescue or comfort, but no one coming, not me, not anyone else, for seven days? Did it ever occur to you that I might need a distraction from her voice, the one I hear screaming for me all night long, every moment?”

Christina fell silent. Ben supposed that meant he had made his point. At least for now.

“This does raise something we have to discuss, though, Dennis.” Ben laid his pad down on the table. “Listen to me and listen carefully. It doesn’t matter what Christina and I think. Or the media. But if that jury thinks for one moment that you’re trying to pull a fast one over them, you’re blowfish. History. And nothing I can do will salvage you. That’s all she wrote.”

“At the end of the day,” Christina said, “the most important thing is not that the jury believes you. The most important thing is that they like you. If they like you, they can forgive a lot. If they don’t like you, they won’t forgive anything.”

Dennis nodded thoughtfully. “I appreciate the heads-up. So we have to make sure they don’t get the idea that I’m shamming.”

Ben leaned forward. “They have to think—no, they have to
know
that you’re sincere. Understand me?”

Dennis beamed. “Great. I can do sincere.”

Christina threw down her pencil and left the room.

This was the most difficult jury selection Ben had tackled in his entire career.

Of course every potential venireperson empaneled had heard of the case—how could they not? And of course most said that although they might have formed some opinions about the case they still felt they could weigh the evidence presented in a fair and impartial manner. A few had already made up their minds—guilty as charged—and they were removed. But that still left a big pool that somehow had to be whittled down to eighteen people who might lend a sympathetic ear to Dennis’s story. Ben had no idea how to do that. All the traditional questions were useless.