Capitol Offense (32 page)

He passed the row of plants on a table next to a large window where they could get sun. The flora were all Christina’s work. Ben had tried to liven up the room on many occasions with greenery, but they’d never lasted long. Christina referred to the spot as Ben’s memorial garden—a memorial to all the plants that had died as soon as he brought them home.

He leaned forward and breathed deeply. She had a thriving lavender, a little bonsai. All full of life.

He loved her so much.

Playing the piano was not an option at this time of the morning, so he tiptoed back into the bedroom, opened the closet, and slowly ascended the ladder, carrying his tea with him. A rooftop portal opened up on a ledge between two gables on the roof. Ben and Christina had discovered it years ago. They both loved to come out here to relax, breathe in the night air, enjoy the cityscape. And on one occasion, this little nook had saved Christina’s life.

The sun was just beginning to rise in the east, toward the TU campus and beyond. There was a low-lying mist hugging the ground and the rays of the rising sun were just beginning to cast an orange corona over the horizon. Spectacular. The city was waking. Cars trickled onto the main arteries of traffic. A few lights were lit in the tall downtown skyscrapers. Shifting shadows played in the niches and corners of the rooftops, changing by the second in the rising light. A few muffled sounds of the city in springtime reached his ears, but it was still mostly quiet. Peaceful. Despite all the life he knew was teeming around him. All the good-hearted people. All the families, the lovers, the children, all involved in their own lives and all a part of one another’s, fitted together like glittering tiles in a huge beautiful mosaic. This was when he loved Tulsa best.

“Boo.”

It had barely been more than a whisper, but he still jumped almost a foot into the air.

He turned to see Christina in her pink nightie, smiling at him, wriggling her fingers.

Ben took a deep breath. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I don’t know. Have you paid the life insurance premiums?”

“I could have fallen off the edge of the roof!”

“I would’ve caught you.”

And she probably would have, too.

“Having trouble sleeping?” she asked.

“Good work, Miss Marple. You shouldn’t be up. You need your sleep.”

“Like you don’t? I’m pretty sure even Daniel Webster occasionally got a good night’s snooze.”

“Not during a trial.”

“He did. Regularly. Never missed a wink. Snored through the night. And he went up against the devil.”

“I know the feeling.”

“So come back to bed.”

“It’s pointless. I won’t sleep.”

She scooted closer and put her arm around him. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

“I think I have good reason.”

“It won’t help anything. The trial is over. There’s nothing more you can do. It’s in the jury’s hands.”

“That’s a terrifying thought.”

“Only because you start to panic anytime you have to rely on someone else.”

He gave her a dismissive frown, even though he knew she was mostly right. “You yourself have many times said that juries are unpredictable.”

“All the more reason not to beat yourself up worrying about it.”

“You think Dennis feels the same way?”

Christina sighed heavily. “I think that just because one person is undoubtedly in misery doesn’t mean we all have to be.”

“He’s suffered enough.”

“I agree, Ben. But there’s still nothing we can do. You should learn to meditate. It would be good for you.”

“Ugh.”

“It’s not healthy, the way you take these impossible cases and obsess over them. I know you’re trying to help other people but … honestly, sometimes I wonder if it’s a good thing. For you.” She sighed. “Come with me to my class tomorrow night.”

“I don’t need to meditate.”

“No. Clearly you already have achieved nirvana.”

“It won’t help.”

“You’ll learn how to breathe.”

“Been doing it for years.”

“You’ll learn how to clear your mind. See things in perspective. Improve your life.”

“Sitting cross-legged on a mat is not going to improve my life.”

“You can’t know that until you’ve given it a try.”

“I can.” Ben watched as the municipal garbage trucks pulled away from their central station and dispersed into the city. He saw joggers huffing and puffing down the street, the air still so cold they could see their breath. He spotted teachers pulling into the neighborhood school parking lot, embarking on another day of molding young minds. There were so many good people in this town, so many who genuinely cared about one another, who would go the extra mile to help someone in need.

That was why he had gone to law school. Why he’d chosen the life he now led. He had made enemies and seen many negative headlines, but he had also made many friends and seen so much kindness. He had a wonderful life and he knew it. He should be able to focus on that. That should be enough.

But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, his mind always moved in another direction.

“Have you ever thought about it?” he asked.

“Thought about what?”

“You know. What you would do in a similar situation. If something happened to me.”

“You mean if you were left trapped and suffering in a car for seven days because the police wouldn’t get up off their butts?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t have to think. I know. I’d do the exact same thing, except I’d do it the first day and I’d use a bazooka.”

Ben smiled. “And then claim temporary insanity?”

“And then claim justifiable homicide.”

“You’d go to prison.”

“It would be worth it.” She grinned a little. “What about you, you hopeless romantic, you? What would you do?”

“I—certainly wouldn’t be happy.”

“Oh, not so much emotion, Ben. I’m going to swoon.”

“But murder? I don’t think I could ever do that. Under any circumstances.”

She wrapped herself around his arm and pulled him close. “I know that, sweetie. I wouldn’t want you to.”

“I know that, too.”

They both fell silent. They stared out for a long while, watching the city arise.

“We have a good life,” she said.

“It’s because of you.”

“It’s because of us, you silly.” She kicked open the portal door. “Come back to bed.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Who said anything about sleep?”

His head tilted to one side. “Scrabble?”

She gave him a long look. “Yes, that’s it. Scrabble. You goat.” She rolled her eyes and descended the ladder. “The things a woman has to put up with …”

“You’re sure you haven’t heard anything from Loving?”

“I’m sure, boss.”

“Not even a hint? A disconnected call?”

“No.” Jones handed Ben his mail. “Not a coded letter. Not a message in a bottle. Not a cuneiform tablet etched in ancient Sanskrit. Nothing.” He pushed away from his station, juggling phones and files and messages all at the same time. “What were you expecting? The trial is over.”

“I know. I just … hoped. That he’d call in with something.”

“Ride in with the cavalry at the last minute and save the day?”

“I never said the day needed saving.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The front door opened and Christina sailed into the room—then tripped. Her briefcase fell to the floor and skidded across the tile floor.

“Whoa there.” Ben ran to her side and helped her back to her feet. “You okay? You seem a little unsteady.”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t complaining.” She glanced over at Jones. “Any word?”

“No.”

“Have you talked to Dennis?”

“He’s standing by. Wringing his hands. Worried sick. Do you blame him?”

“No. I don’t. Talk about torture.”

The phone rang. The three of them stared at it. No one moved.

Ben made a small cough. “Jones, I believe this is your job.”

Jones picked up the phone. “Hello?” He listened for a good long while, then put down the receiver.

“And?”

“The jury has reached a verdict.”

Despite the fact that every single seat in the courtroom gallery was filled, there was a strange silence as they waited for judge and jury to return. Even with all the reporters in the rear, each of them eager to hear the outcome and relay it to their masters, there was a pronounced funereal atmosphere.

Ben couldn’t help but flash back to his nightmare, his mental horror movie. With himself essaying the role of the executioner.

“They were out a long time,” Dennis said, wringing his hands. “What does it mean when they’re out a long time?”

“It means they’re out a long time.”

“So there must have been some disagreement, right? Like at least one person believed what we said.”

“It’s possible.”

“And it only takes one, right?”

Ben’s throat was dry. “It’s not a hung jury. They’ve reached a verdict. One way or the other.”

Dennis’s eyebrows knitted close together. Ben could see he was in turmoil, but there was simply nothing he could do for the man at this time.

Guillerman entered the courtroom but did not stop to chat with Ben. No taunts, no bragging, no speculation. The trial was done. He apparently had no more use for collegiality. Ben was relieved.

A few minutes later, Judge McPartland entered the courtroom. His opening remarks were brief and to the point. He did caution the reporters that he wanted no inappropriate outbursts or disruptions when the verdict was read, although Ben had a hard time seeing what he might do about it, unless he had wired the seats to produce electric shocks. They would all be gone before he had a chance to issue sanctions.

When the preliminaries were complete, the judge signaled his bailiff. A few moments later, the man reappeared with the jury trailing behind him.

Ben saw that Mrs. Gregory, the elderly woman with the cat, had been chosen jury foreperson. He hadn’t seen that coming. But then, he had tried many cases and he had never correctly predicted the foreperson yet.

Over the years, Ben had heard so much contradictory speculation about the meaning of whether the jury looked at the defendant as they reentered the room that at this point he preferred not to even watch. He stared straight ahead as they took their seats. Why speculate? They would all know soon enough.

“Would the foreperson rise?” the judge said. Mrs. Gregory complied.

“Have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, your honor.”

The judge signaled the bailiff again. He took the piece of paper from Mrs. Gregory and brought it to the judge. The judge glanced at it with a perfect poker face. Then he passed it back to the bailiff, who returned it to the foreperson.

“You may read the verdict.”

Mrs. Gregory cleared her throat and began. “In case number C-09-8563, the State of Oklahoma versus Dennis Fitzgerald Thomas, on the charge of murder in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant …”

Why did they always have to pause there?
Why?

“… guilty as charged.”

Ben felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. A gnawing hollowness replaced it. He reached for the edge of the table and missed it.

Dennis stared at him wordlessly.

“Pursuant to the guidelines set forth in the judge’s instructions,” the foreperson continued, “we recommend that the defendant, having been found guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree, should be sentenced to execution by the most expedient legal means.”

The judge polled the jury, but Ben was barely aware of it. “Is this your verdict?” It was, in all twelve cases. “The court will accept the jury’s recommendation.”

Ben felt as if he had been dropped into a vacuum chamber. It was almost as if it were happening somewhere else, somewhere far away from him. The clamor of the reporters, the applause from the prosecution table, the banging of the gavel, all in some faraway land.

“I want to thank the jury for their service. I know this has been a long and burdensome trial, particularly after you were sequestered, and I want to thank you for your cooperation.”

The judge turned to face Dennis. “The defendant will be immediately rendered into the custody of the county authorities. Bailiffs.”

Two officers swooped in from the sides, one on either side of Dennis. Ben spotted two marshals in the rear of the courtroom. They were ready.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Dennis asked, tears springing from his eyes.

“I’ll visit you as soon as they allow it,” Ben replied. “We will begin immediate work on your appeal.”

“Do we have grounds?”

Ben didn’t answer. The truth was, he couldn’t think of any procedural errors. But he and Christina would put their heads together and come up with something.

One of the bailiffs pulled Dennis’s arms back and slipped on a pair of handcuffs.

“Stop this, Ben,” Dennis said, weeping profusely. His voice broke. “Please stop this.”

Ben felt a dry catch in his throat. “There’s nothing I can do.”

Dennis fell to his knees. “Please stop this. Please!”

Ben felt his mouth working, but no sounds came out. Tears sprang to his eyes as well. “I—I’m so sorry …”

The bailiffs hauled Dennis to his feet and dragged him toward the doors. “I’m sorry, Joslyn!” he screamed. “I’m sorry!
Ben, help me!”

Ben felt Christina squeeze his arm. “I am so sorry.” They were both sorry, and they were both totally helpless as they watched the authorities drag Dennis away. Within a few days, he would be transported to the penitentiary in McAlester, where he would be placed on death row. To await execution.

“Help me!”
Dennis screamed one last time before they pulled him out of the courtroom. Ben watched in despair as they hauled him away, the man who had bet it all on Ben Kincaid and, as a result, had lost everything.

Loving woke scared.

Too many sensations rushed together at once, all of them confused, none of them good. His head hurt. He was parched. Worst of all, his skin itched. He felt hot, as if he were … burning.