Naked Justice (45 page)

Fisher shook his head grimly. “Nothing could make her think she was safe from him. Not after the incident with the baseball bat.”

A deadly hush fell over the courtroom. No one twitched; no lips moved.

“The incident with the baseball bat?” Bullock asked finally.

“You heard right.” Fisher shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“When was this?”

“Two days before she was killed. Another one of his jealous fits. He ran into the house, screaming at the top of his lungs, calling her a bitch, a whore. Accusing her of things”—he shook his head—“horrible things. Unmentionable. Of course, both children were at home the whole time this was going on. She tried to protect them, but—”

He brushed his hand across his face, then continued. “The worst of it, she told me the next day, was that she realized how powerless she was against him. Powerless to help herself or her children.”

“You mentioned … a baseball bat?”

“That’s right. According to Caroline, he was swinging a baseball bat, one of those modern aluminum jobs. And he had a mean swing, too. He kept swishing that thing through the air at deadly speeds, shouting at the top of his lungs, ‘I’m gonna kill you, you fucking bitch! I’m gonna kill you, you filthy whore!’ Over and over again. ‘I’m gonna kill you!’ ”

Bullock spoke softly but audibly. “And two days later …”

Fisher nodded. “Two days later, she was dead. Killed. In a horrible, violent, brutal way.”

Bullock closed his notebook and turned slowly to face the bench. “No more questions, your honor.”

Judge Hart turned toward Ben. “Cross-examination?”

Ben nodded, then leaned into his client’s ear. “Wallace, tell me about this guy. ”

“Tell you about what?”

“About what he said! All those stories about you beating and mistreating your wife! Tell me how to prove he’s lying.”

Barrett’s voice seemed broken and emotionless. “I … can’t.”

“Mr. Kincaid, do you intend to cross-examine?”

Ben’s brain kicked into warp drive. He hated to leave the jury with this image of Wallace Barrett swinging a baseball bat through the air like a crazed maniac. But there wasn’t much to cross-examine Fisher about. None of his testimony actually went toward proving Barrett was the murderer. But the overall effect left by this testimony, on top of all that went before, was devastating.

“No questions, your honor.”

She did not look surprised. Apparently she saw the difficulties as clearly as Ben did.

“The prosecution rests,” Bullock said, wearing his usual graveside countenance. He must be relishing it—going out on a bang, letting the jurors return to their rooms with the image of Mayor Wallace Barrett and his baseball bat, swinging at his pregnant wife, to haunt their sleep.

Judge Hart pounded her gavel, gave the jury the usual instructions, and recessed the court for the day.

Ben made his way toward the judge’s chambers. He had to make the usual motions that came at the conclusion of the prosecution’s case—motions to dismiss, motions for mistrial, reurging motions in limine. But he knew it was futile. The prosecution had done its job. They had made the jury believe that this respected, educated, prosperous member of the community could be the coldhearted murderer of his own family. He knew it, and he could see it— could see it in the expression of each and every juror as they filed out of the courtroom.

The prosecution had done its job, all right. And unless he did his, unless he did something extraordinary when the defense put on its case, Wallace Barrett was going to get the death sentence.

B
ACK AT THEIR HOTEL-ROOM
headquarters, Jones and Loving were waiting for Ben and Christina. To Ben’s surprise, his friend, former brother-in-law, and recent prosecution witness Mike Morelli was there as well.

As Ben came through the door, Mike spread open his hands and smiled. “No hard feelings?”

Ben returned the smile. “None. Personally, I think you did more good for our side than you did for the prosecution.”

“So does Bullock. And boy, is he pissed. He’s been stomping all over the station, griping to Chief Blackwell, threatening to yank my badge. All the usual DA histrionics.”

Ben threw down his briefcase and grabbed a chair. “When did you find out you were going to testify?”

“Just found out for sure this morning. Called me in on my day off, no less. Which is a good sign for you.”

“Oh, yeah? How so?”

Mike’s head cocked to one side. “Ben, Bullock knows you and I are friends. He wouldn’t have called me in a million years unless he was worried.”

Ben shook his head grimly. “Maybe he had some doubts yesterday, but not today. He hurt us today.”

Jones chimed in with his color commentary. “I thought you did a great job of taking apart those high-priced so-called experts, Boss.”

“Ditto,” Christina offered.

Ben shrugged. “But when all is said and done, juries don’t make up their minds based on what experts say. They might use the testimony of experts to reinforce their impressions, but their minds are made up by the fact witnesses. Hearing what people have seen and heard. And what that last witness had seen and heard was devastating. Can you imagine? The mayor of the city swinging a baseball bat through the air and threatening to smash his wife’s head? How is the jury ever going to get that picture out of their heads long enough to even consider another suspect?”

“Don’t look to me for help,” Mike said. “I told you this was a loser when you took it. Is there any way you can dispute Dr. Fisher’s testimony?”

Ben shook his head. “No one was there except Caroline and the children. And they’re all dead.”

“Except,” Loving added, “for Wallace Barrett.”

Ben nodded. “He’s going to take the stand. I know there are risks. Bullock will get a chance to cross. But Barrett’s used to handling himself in public, facing tough questioning.”

“Ben,” Mike said, “I’m not revealing any secrets by telling you that this is exactly what Bullock is hoping for. A chance to take Barrett apart on national television.”

“I know. But no one else can dispute that baseball bat testimony, not to mention the alleged incidents of abuse Cynthia Taylor testified about. He’s the only one who can do it.” Ben kept his own private doubts to himself. Yes, Barrett was the only one who could do it, but given his behavior in the courtroom—would he do it? “The jury won’t believe he isn’t an irrational maniac until they hear it from his mouth.”

“And maybe not then,” Mike added.

Ben nodded. “Christina and I are going to his cell tonight to prep him. And speaking of which, Loving—”

Loving’s head snapped up. “Yes, Skipper?”

“Any luck tracking down the man you saw at O’Brien Park?”

“Sorry, Skipper. This is the most frustratin’ investigation I’ve handled in my entire life. I come smack up against a stone wall every step I take. I just can’t find the creep.”

“Well, that settles it, then. We’re putting you on the stand.”

Loving looked horrified. “
Me?
On the—”

“You got it. I don’t like it much either. The jury will know you work for me and will weigh your testimony with that in mind. But we don’t have any other choice. You’re the only link we have between Whitman and the hit man.”

Loving swallowed. “When do you think I’ll go on?”

Ben shrugged. “It’s impossible to predict these things with certainty. Maybe tomorrow, although Judge Hart isn’t resuming the trial till afternoon. So probably the day after.”

Loving looked as if he might be sick. “Tomorrow? Or the day after?”

Ben tried to be reassuring. “Relax, Loving. Christina and I will prepare you. By the time you’re on the stand, you’ll be able to do it in your sleep.”

“You know,” Loving said, “I was supposed to testify once before. I … kinda sorta didn’t show up.”

Loving was supposed to testify? Of course, Ben remembered. During his divorce. Ben had represented his ex-wife and Loving didn’t show up for the trial. And now he knew why. Loving wasn’t the first person who’d tanked a lawsuit because he couldn’t cope with cross-ex. “There’s no need to worry, Loving. I know everything Bullock will ask, and we’ll think out all your responses in advance. Christina will help. She’s the best witness preparer I’ve ever known. She thinks of everything. Seriously. You have nothing to worry about.”

It was amazing to see such a tiny voice come out of that hulking frame. “If you say so.”

“I do. You’ll see. You’ll come out smelling like a rose.”

Loving nodded, but it wasn’t hard to detect that he was somewhat less than convinced.

“The truth is,” Ben said, “the trial isn’t going very well for us just at the moment. The jury has heard a truckload of damaging evidence against our client. More than enough to convict him, frankly. If we’re going to prevent that, to prevent an innocent man from going to prison or being executed for a hideous crime he didn’t commit—we’re going to have to pull out all the stops. I need everyone to do everything they can to make our part of the case as good as it can possibly be. Understood?”

All heads nodded. Understood.

“By the way, Mike, any luck catching the creep who blew our office to smithereens?”

“Not yet. Sorry.”

Christina jumped in. “What’s taking so long?” The concern in her face was evident. “We can’t just sit around on our hands until this creep kills Ben.”

“The psych guys say he doesn’t want to kill Ben, at least not right away. He wants Ben to suffer.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on the facts. Think about it. Most of the bomber’s hijinks have been designed to torment, not to exterminate. Even when he blew up your office, he used a bomb with a detectable—and, I might add, totally unnecessary—ticking noise that could tip Ben off just in the nick of time. There are plenty of silent bomb trigger mechanisms around these days. Plenty of instantaneous, radio-signal remote-control detonators. He didn’t have to tip you off. But he did.”

“If I’d been half a minute slower,” Ben said, “we would’ve all died.”

Mike held up his hands. “Look, I’m not saying he’s a nice guy. And I’m not saying killing you wouldn’t necessarily make his day. I’m just saying it hasn’t been his immediate goal.” He paused. “Yet.”

“Yet?”

Mike’s teeth set together in a grim expression. “That’s the typical psychological profile. Eventually they get tired of toying with you.”

“And then?”

“And then they try to kill you.”

“Oh.” Ben sank back into his chair. “Any new leads? Any hope of finding this maniac?”

“The bomb ingredients were so common they were impossible to trace. We’ve got video experts going over and over the tapes he sent, but so far they haven’t uncovered any identifying features. We’re also cataloging all the nuts who have sent hate mail about the Barrett case to the courts or any of the participants. I’m hoping they’ll lead us to something.”

“What if this particular nut isn’t the letter writing type? What if he’s just the bombing-killing type?”

“We’re doing everything we can, kemo sabe.”

Ben nodded. He knew they were. It was just too frustrating, trying to conduct a murder trial while some maniac was determined to make your life a misery. Or end it.

Ben glanced at his watch. “Well, Christina and I need to head back to the jailhouse.”

“Can you give me a lift?” Mike asked. “I need to go back to my office and do some paperwork.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Trans Am in the shop again?”

“No, I walked over here. Thought I needed some exercise.”

“You? Why?”

“If you must know, since I quit smoking, I’ve put on a pound or two. So I try to get some exercise whenever this impossible job of mine allows.”

“I see.” Ben smiled. “Well, I’d be happy to give you a ride back. I think my Honda can still carry three people. Can’t it, Christina?”

Christina wavered her hand in the air. “Close call.”

Ben led Mike and Christina out to the street where he had parked his Honda Accord. Mike grimaced when he saw the dented, rust-encrusted silver frame, the dragging muffler, the crushed grille. Mike took the front seat; Christina took the back.

Mike crawled into the bucket seat and slammed the door closed. The entire frame seemed to shudder and shake. “Good grief, Ben. When are you going to get a new car?”

“When I’m rich and famous.”

“Hell, you’re already famous, thanks to this case. And I assume Barrett is paying you.”

“True. But holing up in the Adam’s Mark isn’t exactly cheap. Neither is finding new office space.”

“Well, whatever it takes, do it. Riding around in this bucket of bolts is embarrassing.”

Christina piped up from the back. “Agreed.”

Mike continued. “You don’t see me driving a heap like this, do you?”

“No, I see you driving a Trans Am, like some teenager on his way to peel out at the drag races with Betty Lou.”

“A Trans Am is not a teenager car. It’s for all ages. Cool people of all ages, that is.”

“Look,” Ben said, “I don’t have my ego wrapped up in my car. It’s not a status symbol. It’s a way to get from Point A to Point B.” lf you say so.

Ben turned the key and started the engine.

Mike grimaced. “Listen to that. That’s pathetic.” He paused for a moment so they could all appreciate the clanging and rattling. “Sounds like your carburetor is gasping for air. And I can hear the brakes grinding. Your pads are probably worn down to nothing. And listen to that exhaust! And—”

He paused. There was something else, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“What’s that other noise? The high-pitched one.”

“Don’t ask me,” Ben said. “I don’t know beans about cars.”

“Well, I do, and I’ve never heard—”

He quieted again, tried to block everything else out and focus on the mysterious noise. It was high-pitched and rhythmic, a back-and-forth sound, a sort of sonic—

Ticktock. Ticktock. Ticktock.

A cold chill gripped everyone in the car.

“Get out!” Mike shouted.

Christina leaned forward. “Our stuff is in the trunk—”

“I said,
get out
!” Mike dove out his side door, then whipped around and hauled Christina out of the back. Ben opened his door and hit the pavement. All three scrambled to their feet and ran.