Hate Crime (34 page)

“What were you doing?”

“After dinner, I read a novel. The new Anne Tyler.”

“Would you please tell the jury where you live?”

“At the corner of Madison and 21st. Near campus.”

“And near Remote Control?”

“Yes. Very near.”

“Did you have any visitors that night?”

“One.” She paused. “My son. John Christensen.”

“And what time was it when he came by?”

“I can’t say exactly, but I remember my grandfather clock striking 11:00, so it was a little later than that. About 11:10, 11:20, I’d guess.”

There was a discernible rustling in the gallery. Now the crowd—and the jury—understood the importance of her testimony. While she had their attention, Christina thought it would be an advantageous time to establish a little essential background information.

“Have you been close to your son in recent years, Mrs. Christensen?”

Ellen’s gaze went downward, not toward the jury, as Christina would’ve preferred. It was acceptable to seem a little nervous—jurors expected that. But Christina didn’t want it to be too extreme—especially not with a witness whom they were likely to be skeptical of from the outset. “We were close for many years. After I married his father. I loved him—I love him—just as if he were my biological son. In my mind, he is. But after Larry died . . . he seemed to change. He became distant. It was almost as if he blamed me for Larry’s premature heart attack. He started spending less time at home and more time with his friends—often friends I did not approve of. When he finished high school and wanted to go to college, it was a relief.”

“Did you know about his involvement with the fraternity? And the Christian Minutemen?”

“Yes, even as little as I saw him, he made sure I knew about that.”

“Did you approve?”

“Of course not. Larry and I were always very liberal in our thinking. In a way I think perhaps that was why he did it. It was the ultimate way of punishing me, of rebelling. By being a part of something I found truly appalling.”

“How did he look when he came to see you that night?”

“Horrible. Strung out. His hair was a mess, he was drenched in sweat. His clothes were dirty and there were . . . splatters of blood on his shirt and hands. And he reeked of alcohol.”

“Why did he come?”

“He said he needed to talk to someone—someone he could trust. I was pleased and flattered of course, but that died fast. When he told me what he’d done.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he’d been with a friend. They’d both been drinking. Johnny is not a good drinker. It turns him into someone . . . someone entirely different from himself. He said they kidnapped a man in a parking lot and beat him. It wasn’t his idea, he said, it was his friend’s—but he felt as if he had to go along with it. He said they hurt this poor man—for a long time. Johnny said he had tried to stop his friend, but the friend wouldn’t listen.”

“Why would he tell you this?”

“Because he felt awful about it. The alcohol had worn off, his friend’s influence had diminished—and he was riddled with guilt.”

Out the corner of her eye, Christina checked the expression on the jurors’ faces. They were skeptical—understandably so. This was directly contradictory to everything they’d heard so far, and the first hint of remorse they’d heard in the entire trial. It was coming too late to be readily convincing.

“How so?”

“He knew they’d done a horrible thing. He hadn’t forgotten everything his father and I taught him. It had just been . . . buried somewhere. Somewhere deep. But now it all came pouring out of him.”

“What did you do?”

“Not much. I just held him. Tried to comfort him. Told him . . .” She paused, drawing in her breath. Christina sensed she was struggling to retain her composure. “Told him I still loved him and always would. No matter what. And then he left.”

“Did you notice what time he left?”

“I did. By then, I knew it might be important. It was 11:28, according to the clock in my kitchen. He’d only been there about ten minutes.”

Christina closed her notebook. There were only two more questions left, and it was important that her witness get them both right. “Ellen, in the aftermath of the tragedy, you spoke to the police, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Several times.”

Rather than let the prosecution make a fuss about this on cross, Christina knew it was best to raise the issue on direct. “Did you tell them what you just told us?”

“No. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have lied about it. But I couldn’t volunteer that he had come to my house and . . . basically confessed. I didn’t know then that Johnny himself would admit what he had done. I didn’t know then that the principal remaining question would be where he went when he left the bar a little after eleven. When that became an issue—I knew I had to come forward.”

“And you’re absolutely sure that Johnny was with you at the time of approximately 11:10 to 11:28?”

“Absolutely. And there wasn’t time for him to go anywhere else.”

Christina nodded. So far, so good. Only one more hurdle to jump. “Mrs. Christensen, as you know, the main question before this jury at present is not whether your son beat Tony Barovick, but whether he killed him. When he visited you that night, did he refer to that at all?”

“He did.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that his friend Brett had wanted to kill him. As he described it, Brett had been consumed with something like a blood rage, had all but lost his mind. He wanted to murder the boy in some horrible fashion. But my Johnny stopped him.”

“So you’re certain Johnny didn’t kill Tony Barovick?”

“More than that. As ironic as it might seem, Johnny saved that boy’s life.”

“Thank you. Pass the witness.”

That had gone well, Christina thought, as she returned to her seat. Better than she’d expected, actually. She couldn’t gauge whether the jury was buying it, but the points had been established. Whether they made an impact, ultimately, would depend on whether the jury believed Mrs. Christensen was telling the truth. At any rate, she hadn’t left any openings for Drabble’s cross, at least as far as she knew.

Drabble slowly approached the podium. Christina could only imagine what he had up his sleeve. She had cautioned Ellen not to become restless; this cross could easily go on for hours.

Drabble gazed at the witness for a long time. When he finally spoke, it was with a sort of sigh. “Mrs. Christensen, aren’t you the defendant’s mother?”

She hesitated a moment. “I’m his stepmother. I said that.”

He continued to look at her for a long while. “Mrs. Christensen,” he repeated. “Aren’t you the defendant’s mother?”

“Y-yes. Yes, I am.”

Drabble smiled, nodded, closed his notebook. “Thank you, ma’am. I have no more questions.”

42

Mike finally found Special Agent Swift in the basement firing range, protective earphones over her head. She was pouring long-range automatic ammunition into a man-shaped figure fifty feet away, and she looked as if she was enjoying herself. Which Mike didn’t doubt.

She didn’t hear him coming, no surprise, given the earphones and the thunderous clatter. He lifted the cushioned cones over her ears and said, “Boo!”

She started, but quickly recovered herself. “Mike! What’s up, sugah? Come to take out your frustrations on a cardboard target?”

“No. Came looking for you.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows danced. “You finally gonna take me up on my offer?”

“Yes, but possibly not the one you have in mind. Remember when you said you were going to come clean with me?”

“Ye-esss . . .”

“Well, now you really are.” He guided her into a nearby room and closed the door. “I want to know why you came down to Tulsa and started messing around in my murder investigation. And this time don’t give me any bull about drugs.”

“But Mike—”

“Mind you, I’m not saying there aren’t drugs running around that club or that Manny Nowosky wasn’t peddling them as a sideline. But that’s not enough to get a top Feeb wrapped up in an Oklahoma murder.”

“I’m certain that your murder was connected to our Chicago murder.”

“I am, too, but that still wouldn’t bring it under federal purview. What’s the real reason you thrust yourself into this case?”

She locked a finger around one of the buttons on his shirt. “With you involved, Mike, I didn’t need much of an excuse. For thrusting myself into things.”

He slapped her hand away. “Oh, give me some credit. I’m not so blind that a little flirting will turn me into an unquestioning idiot.”

“But I—”

“You’re not working any drugs case. You’re working the same case you were always working. The Metzger kidnapping.”

The humor drained from her face. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because I finally realized where I’ve seen that guy before. Charlie the Chicken. I knew I’d seen his face, but the image was slightly different, and I couldn’t figure out why. Until I did.” He paused. “It seemed different because the last time I saw him, I was way down looking up at him. Through the crosshairs of a sniperscope.”

“Indeed.”

“Yeah. That creep was one of the thugs who kidnapped the Metzger boy, and I’m willing to bet that Manny Nowosky was in on it, too. And Tony Barovick. My hunch was right about them being co-conspirators in some crime—I just had the wrong crime.”

“What a theory.”

“It explains a lot. Like why a two-bit punk like Manny had fifty grand lying around. And it helps me figure why Charlie was leaving town—given what had already happened to two of his partners.”

“I’m not following you.”

“We always thought the kidnapping was handled by a gang of four, and we were right. The fourth man—the only one who isn’t dead—is still on the loose, having knocked off his former partners.”

“But—why?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to share the ransom they got away with. Maybe he knows they’re the only ones who can testify against him.” Mike turned, pacing around the tiny room. “But why am I telling you this? You’ve known all along these murders were linked to the kidnapping. That’s why you’re on the case. Right?” He leaned in closer. “Am I right?”

She stared back at him. “You are so hot when you’re mad.”

It was all Mike could do to restrain himself. “Am I
right
?”

She released a long stream of air. “Yes, you’re right.”

“Then why the hell—”

“But don’t start screaming at me. We had an anonymous tip linking the drill bit murder to the kidnapping, but I was under strict instructions from my superiors not to give you the lowdown. I didn’t like it, but it wasn’t my call.”

“Did it ever occur to you . . . pompous . . . goddamn white-shirts . . . that local law enforcement might actually be able to help you? If you’d give us half a clue what’s really going on!”

“I told you. It wasn’t my decision!” She stomped around a few moments. “But now that you know, I don’t see why I can’t tell you the rest.”

“Please do.”

“We think the fourth man—the remaining living kidnapper—is based here in Chicago. Now that he’s killed off his associates, assuming he has the ransom money, he should have no reason to remain. So we’ve got to catch him quick.”

Mike folded his arms across his chest. He still wasn’t pleased about this, but he was happier inside the loop than out. “And how do we do that?”

“Remote Control seems to be the nerve center of this operation, even after Tony Barovick’s death. Since we don’t have any leads and don’t know who Mr. Big is—we look for his shadow. Traces of his presence. Disruptions in the normal routine. People flashing a lot of cash who shouldn’t be. Signs of people being roughed up or acting in a strange—”

“Wait a second,” Mike interrupted. “Go back to the part about being roughed up.”

“You would like that part.” The corner of her lips turned up. “You know someone who’s been roughed up?”

His eyes seemed intensely focused, but not on anything in the firing range. “I think just maybe I do. Come on.”

She followed close behind. “Where are we going?”

“Out for a drink,” he said, putting on his coat. “Back to Remote Control.”

Hard to know what to think of that development, he thought, as he left the courtroom. Mother taking the witness stand. Pleading on her boy’s behalf. Surely the jury would take that for being exactly what it was. A desperate attempt by a loved one to save her son—by lying. Not to be believed. More sad than evil.

I should’ve killed those damn lawyers when I had the chance, he thought, as he crushed the newspaper between his hands. I had them in my sights. And I let them get away.

He’d been beating himself up about it ever since, not that that made the two any more dead. He’d screwed up—and now he was paying the price. Sure, he’d been reluctant to tote up another murder or two when there had already been so many. How long could the cops remain so ignorant? But it seemed as if every time he rested a bit, every time he thought he might be secure, could relax, prop up his feet and watch this case go away permanently—something happened. Something that made him worry that the whole mess was going to crumble all around him. Again.

He’d gotten another revolver, to replace the one he had dropped before. He was ready to go. He would content himself to watch and wait, for the time being. But when the time to move arrived—and given the way he felt at the moment, it wouldn’t be long—he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d go after them. The chick and her partner. If he got half a chance, he’d take out Christensen, too. Save the state the trouble.

Your days are numbered, he thought, as he passed through the courthouse doors and stepped into the sunlight. He had a plan now. One that was certain to solve his difficulties, once and for all. And leave the world with two less lawyers.

So much the better.

43

“Personally,” Christina said, taking her seat at the head of the office conference table, “I thought Drabble’s cross of Ellen was lame.”

Ben’s eyes fluttered closed. He hated these posttrial postmortems. “I thought it was brilliant. What did you think, Vicki?”

The petite intern couldn’t seem to bring her eyes up off the table. “I . . . did think he made his point.”