Cruel Justice (18 page)

“She thinks every place on earth should look like a Nichols Hills mansion.”

“Ben, I’ve been poor all my life, but I still think your apartment is pretty shabby. Let the woman do what she can.”

Ben decided to change the subject. “Let’s get on with the team meeting. You should probably go to the courthouse and—”

“I’m way ahead of you.” Christina thunked the large file down on Jones’s desk.

Ben lifted an eyebrow. “Good news or bad?”

“A little of both. Which do you want first?”

“The good news. Definitely the good.”

“Myrna Adams is the assistant DA who’s going to try the case. You remember Myrna.”

“Sure. Tall, attractive. Great legs.”

Christina drummed her fingers. “Legal skills, Ben. Focus on the legal skills.”

“Right. She’s pretty good. A straight shooter. She won’t try to pull any sleazy prosecutorial tricks.”

“Women never do. It’s you testosterone types who try to turn the courtroom into a macho meter.”

“Facts, Christina, not feminism.”

“Right. I talked to Myrna for a few minutes. She was getting ready for the pretrial conference today at ten. She’s not crazy about this case and she knows you’re in a tough spot. I think we’ll be able to work something out. Like a plea bargain. Maybe even for time served, if the judge okays it.”

“Well, it’s worth pursuing. It always helps when the prosecutor is rational. What’s the bad news?”

“Judge Hawkins.”

“Not again!” Ben threw his head down against the desk. “I’ve already had three cases before him this year. And I lost every single one.”

“Well, here’s your chance to go for oh-and-four.”

“Are you certain about this?”

“Positive. And there’s no chance of a transfer.”

“What’s wrong with Hawkins?” Loving asked. “Does he hate your guts as much as that federal judge?”

“It isn’t anything to do with me,” Ben explained. “It’s all him. Hang ’em High Hawkins. He’s the closest thing to a hanging judge we have in Tulsa County. As far as he’s concerned, anyone the police arrest is guilty until proven innocent. And he always gives the maximum sentence. He doesn’t have any sympathy for anyone.”

“Well, maybe if you talk to him …”

“Forget it. Hawkins is the most inattentive, indifferent, indolent judge on the bench. As far as he’s concerned, trials are just rigmarole he’s forced to endure before he can toss the defendants in the hoosegow. He never takes charge of his cases. Lets the prosecutors get away with anything.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

Ben pointed at the file folder on the desk. “What’s in there?”

“My pièce de résistance. Trial exhibits. Everything the prosecution is planning to use. Mike got them for you.”

“Great. That’ll cut through the red tape. Have you got time to review them?”

“I live to serve.” Christina pulled a chair up to the desk. “I may check in on your mother at lunchtime, though. Just to make sure she’s doing all right with Joey.”

“She’ll be fine,” Ben said. “She’s done kids before. I don’t want you to impugn your professional reputation.”

“I don’t mind.” Christina opened the folder and began poring over the documents. “To tell the truth, I kind of miss the little squirt.”

“There seems to be some magic memory-erasure effect that makes people remember how cute babies are and forget everything else about them.”

“Just as well. If it were the other way ’round, the species would have gone extinct aeons ago.”

B
EN COULDN’T FIND A
parking space in the underground lot between the state courthouse and the library, so he ended up having to park at the Convention Center and hoof it. The heat was still blistering—over a hundred and eight now, according to KWGS—and he wasn’t the only one feeling it. The homeless people occupying the bus stop on Denver looked singularly miserable. The air conditioner in his apartment might not work, Ben noted, but at least he had an apartment.

Knowing as he did that riding the elevator always entailed at least a fifteen-minute wait, Ben took to the stairs. He was doing some significant huffing and puffing by the time he reached the seventh floor. Judge Hawkins’s clerk waved him into the judge’s chambers. Ben pushed open the door and found Judge Hawkins reclining in the chair behind his desk …

… and Jack Bullock sitting in the chair on the opposite side.

“Ben,” Bullock said. His hands were folded steeple-style before his face. “We were just talking about you.”

What a delight to find the notorious hanging judge was talking about him with the man who had recently sworn to “teach you a lesson.” “About the case, or me?”

“You,” Bullock said. “And your … tactics.”

Ben took the available chair opposite the judge’s desk. “You know, Jack, some people might consider an ex parte conversation with the judge mildly improper.”

Ben glanced at Judge Hawkins, assuming he would intervene and assure Ben that nothing untoward had occurred. Ben was sorely disappointed. Hawkins just leaned back in his chair with the usual indifferent expression plastered across his face.

If anything, he appeared amused and content to enjoy the banter.

“Like I said,” Bullock growled, “we talked about you, not your case. As long as we don’t specifically discuss the case, there’s no ethical impropriety.”

“Why are you here, anyway? I thought Myrna Adams was handling this case.”

“Not anymore. As of one hour ago the case was transferred to me.”

Ben felt a clutching in his throat. This was all he needed. In addition to a client who couldn’t communicate, a hanging judge, and a smoking-gun videotape, now he had Bullock for a prosecutor. “What happened to Myrna?”

“Myrna decided she was too busy to be lead counsel on this case.”

“Too busy? Why?”

“Because I dumped sixteen new felony cases and two grand-jury investigations on her this morning. She had little choice.”

Ben was confused and amazed. “You
wanted
this case? Why on earth would you want this case?”

Bullock’s eyes focused on Ben. “So I can ram it down your throat.”

For the longest time Ben didn’t seem to be able to make his mouth work.

“You need a lesson in the difference between right and wrong,” Bullock continued. “So we’re going to give it to you.”

Ben whirled to face Judge Hawkins. “Are you in on this with him?”

The judge spread his hands. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. Don’t let it worry you, son. You know how overwrought prosecutors get.”

Somehow, Ben didn’t find the judge’s reassurances the least bit comforting. “I heard the prosecution was interested in a plea bargain.”

“All offers are hereby withdrawn,” Bullock announced. “I wouldn’t cut you a deal if you were representing the pope, and your clients are considerably less saintly.”

“Who’s being immature now? You’re trying to turn a murder trial into a revenge play. Or a referendum on my personal ethics.”

“Call it what you will. This is one murderer we’re not going to let you put back on the street.”

“Leeman Hayes hasn’t hurt anyone.”

“Maybe not lately, because he’s been locked up for the past ten years. ’Course, if his case had gone to trial when it was supposed to, he’d probably be dead now. Instead, a few fancy-lawyer tricks from your ilk got him a ten-year lease on life. At the taxpayers’ expense.”

“That isn’t even accurate—”

“I’m tired of seeing our taxpayer dollars wasted on day care for unexecuted murderers. We have an obligation to the people of this state—”

“Are you sure you’re not running for office?” Ben asked. “You sure sound like it.”

“Gentlemen.” Judge Hawkins eased forward. “Let’s not bicker. I’ll note for the record that counsel for both parties are present and ready to proceed. Anything else we need to discuss?” He held out his hands for the briefest of moments, then slapped them down on his desk. “So, if there’s nothing else—”

Ben couldn’t leave without trying to accomplish something. “I asked for the prosecution’s witness list. And I haven’t got it yet.”

“Well, let me say a word on that,” Bullock said, leaning across the judge’s desk. “The first day he took this case, we got all these discovery requests from Kincaid. From his secretary, actually. We haven’t had time to put together all the exhibits—”

“I’ve already got the exhibits,” Ben interrupted. “So you can forget that wheeze.”

Bullock was taken by surprise. “I gave strict instructions—”

“To stonewall? Figures.” Ben turned his attention to the judge. “Your honor, I’m entitled to know who he plans to call to the stand.”

Judge Hawkins sighed wearily. “Any reason why you can’t get him a list today, Jack?”

“Well, of course, I just took this case this morning. I’m still feeling my way around.”

“Jack.” The judge looked at him sternly. “We don’t want Mr. Kincaid to have any excuses later on for the appeal court, do we?” He cleared his throat. “Just in case his client is convicted.”

Uh-huh, Ben thought. Just in case.

“I’ll do my best, your honor,” Bullock said.

“I’d appreciate it.” Hawkins glanced at his watch. “Now, if there’s nothing else—”

“One more matter,” Ben said. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he felt obligated to give it the old college try. “I’m bringing a motion in limine to suppress the use of a certain videotape by the prosecution at trial.”

“Videotape?” Hawkins frowned. “What is this, some Rodney King deal?”

“Even better,” Bullock said. “Hayes actually confessed on tape.”

“That’s a question of fact,” Ben said firmly. “Leeman Hayes doesn’t say a word on the tape. It’s all pantomime, and extremely ambiguous. I believe it will confuse the jury and prove more prejudicial than probative. Especially after Mr. Bullock gives it his slanted spin-doctor routine—”

Bullock looked wounded. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“—just like he did a few seconds ago.”

Hawkins frowned. “Is this a … lengthy videotape?”

“Not too long, your honor,” Bullock replied. “About an hour.”

“But the jury will probably have to watch it several times,” Ben interjected.

Hawkins sighed again. “Is this absolutely necessary, Mr. Prosecutor?”

“It’s the crux of my case,” Bullock insisted. “This kid is guilty, and the tape proves it.”

He’d said the magic words. When all was said and done, in Hawkins’s eyes, Bullock worked for the forces of good, and Ben was trying to interfere with Hawkins’s summary imposition of the maximum sentence. “Well, I hate to make a decision in advance of trial. …”

Ben tried not to snicker. Hawkins hated to make a decision, period.

“So why don’t we just overrule the motion for now. You can renew your motion at trial, Mr. Kincaid. In the event that I sustain it, I’ll instruct the jury to disregard the taped evidence.”

And a fat lot of good that will do, Ben thought. Despite this fiction judges liked to employ, there was no way the jurors could disregard evidence once they had seen it. On the contrary, most jurors tended to give particular consideration to anything they’d been told to forget.

Hawkins pushed himself out of his chair. “If there’s nothing more, gentlemen, I do have a golf game this afternoon. …”

“What a coincidence,” Ben said. “I’m playing golf this afternoon, too. At Utica Greens.”

The judge did a double take. “
You’re
playing at Utica Greens?”

“Oh, sure,” Ben bluffed. “I play there all the time. Don’t you?”

Hawkins’s eyes moved closer together. “I applied for membership three years ago. I was turned down.”

“Well, perhaps you can come out with me sometime.”

Hawkins’s eyes lit up. “Really? How about next Friday?” Ben tried to simulate Hawkins’s most indifferent expression. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks. I’ll look forward to it.” Hawkins shook Ben’s hand energetically, disregarded Bullock’s, and scurried out of chambers.

“Now wait a minute,” Bullock said. “You two are going to play golf together? As in ex parte? I’m not sure I approve of this.”

“Don’t get excited,” Ben said. “As long as we don’t specifically discuss this case, it’s okay, remember?” He strolled out of the judge’s chambers. “Actually, we’ll probably spend the whole time talking about you.”

I
T TOOK BEN ALMOST
half an hour to find the address Ernie had given Jones. Not that Ben was any whiz with directions, but the North Side always seemed particularly labyrinthine to him. Not the shallow North Side, close to downtown, or the yuppie North Side in Gilcrease Hills, but the real thing. The other side of the tracks. The poor part of town. Poor and black.

At the turn of the century, over eighty thousand African Americans poured into Oklahoma (Indian Territory, until 1906). In Oklahoma, they hoped to find, or make, a society free of bigotry and prejudice. By 1907, blacks outnumbered both Native Americans and those of European descent; Oklahoma had more all-black towns than all the other states combined. Even in mixed cities like Tulsa, blacks had more success and more clout than anywhere else.

In Tulsa, African Americans settled in a segregated community on the North Side known as Greenwood. Oil dollars made the city, both white and black, prosperous. During the first two decades of the twentieth century, Greenwood was the most successful black community on the map. It boasted black lawyers, doctors, and tailors; it contained forty-one grocers, nine billiard halls, and thirty restaurants.

Despite the city’s overall financial strength, racial tensions between the two segregated communities, long-held prejudices, and economic competition eventually led to conflict. Mob violence, and even lynchings, began to plague Greenwood. Then, in 1921, a white female elevator operator in the downtown Drexel Building accused a black teenager of trying to rape her while he rode the elevator from his shoeshine stand to the rest rooms, a trip he made several times a day. According to the most reliable account, the boy lost his balance and accidentally stepped on her foot, causing her to lurch backward. He reflexively grabbed her arm to keep her from falling, and she screamed.

There was never any real evidence of an attempted assault. Everyone who knew the boy said he would never commit such an act, especially not in as unlikely a place as a crowded office building. Despite the dubiousness of the claim, the
Tulsa Tribune,
which customarily referred to Greenwood as “Little Africa,” ran an inflammatory front-page feature on the affair headlined
TO LYNCH NEGRO TONIGHT.
White citizens took up arms.