Cruel Justice (29 page)

A few feet into the room, Mike saw a small boy lying on the cold floor. He wasn’t wearing anything except his jockey shorts. He didn’t move.

Mike would’ve liked nothing more than to grab the sex offender and pound his face against the wall a few thousand times, but he somehow managed to restrain himself. “Get down on the floor,” he barked. “Hands behind your back.”

Mike pulled his cuffs out of his back pocket, then was startled by a muffled gasping sound from the boy. A trickle of blood dripped down the side of his face; he seemed to be having trouble breathing. He might need CPR. As in immediately.
Damn.

“Don’t try anything,” Mike ordered. He quickly slid the cuffs over the man’s wrists, then stepped over him to get to the boy. “Don’t try to get away,” he warned, then he crouched down beside Abie’s body.

“Are you all right?” He touched the side of the boy’s face. No reaction.

He turned Abie’s head around, placed two fingers against the neck, and searched for a pulse. “Goddamn you,” Mike murmured. “If you’ve killed another one—”

The man on the floor was smiling at him. Grinning.

Mike gripped the boy by the shoulders. “Come on, Abie. Don’t give up. Come back to us.”

Still no response.

Mike held his hand over the boy’s mouth. He didn’t feel anything.

Damn, damn, damn. He would have to try CPR. Maybe if he just got the boy breathing again, he’d come back.

Mike cleared the boy’s mouth with his finger and tilted back his head. As a police officer, he’d been trained in all forms of CPR. The techniques were slightly different for small children, but damned if he could remember exactly how. He’d just have to plunge in and hope for the best.

He started CPR, watching to see if the boy’s chest rose.

No luck.

Come on, Abie! He crouched down again and blew air into the child’s lungs. Don’t give up on us, Abie. Don’t give up!

The man in the wig hit Mike in the gut, knocking him onto his back. A follow-up kick to Mike’s hand sent his gun skidding across the room. Mike pushed himself back up on all fours, but before he could do anything, the man hit him again, this time with a foot pounding into the small of his back.

Mike fell down onto the concrete. His face hit the floor, momentarily scrambling his brains. Stupid fool. He’d gotten so concerned about reviving Abie he’d forgotten to keep his eye on the goddamn pervert. He shook his head forcefully, trying to clear away the cobwebs.

He heard the man coming at him again. Grunting, Mike rolled over onto his back. The man was almost directly over him. Straining with all his might, Mike raised his feet and kicked the front of the man’s kneecaps.

The attack took the man completely by surprise. He cried out, then crumbled to the floor, Mike saw his opportunity. While the man struggled to pull himself together Mike gave him his best roundhouse punch to the stomach.

The man screamed. Mike followed insult with injury—he caught the man between the legs with a swift kick to the groin. Mike’s instructor at the academy had been right—trite though it may be, it was the most decisive way to stop an attack. The man doubled up and went reeling across the room.

He fell back onto a mattress in the center of the room beside a camera. Just looking at the scenario made Mike feel ill. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what this was about. And when the lab boys developed the film, as they would be required to do, he would have to look at the pictures. …

Mike blocked it out of his mind. First things first. Apparently he hadn’t done as good a job on the sicko’s knees as he had hoped. The man was getting himself up and his legs seemed to be supporting him. He was desperately trying to pull himself together, gasping for air, leaning on the tripod.

“Stay down, you sick piece of scum,” Mike said, lumbering toward the camera. He was breathing rather heavily himself. And where the hell was his gun? “Don’t give me an excuse to shove you out a window. I’d enjoy it too much, and that’s—”

The flash went off directly into Mike’s eyes. He was standing barely a half a foot from the camera and looking straight at the bulb; the sudden illumination blinded him.

He reached out for the creep, but he was already gone. Mike could hear the footsteps of the man scrambling away.

Mike blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Still blind as a bat, he stumbled toward the door. He couldn’t see anything, but he remembered generally where the door was. He made it to the top of the stairs, but remembered how dangerous and unstable they had been. He had almost killed himself coming up. And back then he could see where he was going.

He could barely hear the man’s footsteps now; they were far ahead of him.

Damn safety anyway! It was now or never. Mike extended one foot and lowered himself onto the first step. So far so good. He took another step, then another. If he just took it easy, didn’t rush, didn’t take any chances, he should be—

Suddenly .the ground went out from under him. His feet sank through the stairs, plummeting him downward. He extended his hands to break his fall, and just in time. He narrowly missed falling all the way through.

“
Ben!
” he shouted. There was no response. Naturally. Ben would be on the other side of the building watching the rear exit. And he wouldn’t see the perp because, thanks to Mike’s own stupidity, he was escaping through the front door.

He had to face facts. The son of a bitch had gotten away. The best thing Mike could do now was get back to that little boy and get him medical attention as soon as possible.

If it wasn’t too late.

The white light obscuring Mike’s vision gradually dissipated. He managed to extract his legs from the hole in the steps and to crawl back up. He ran into the room and knelt over Abie’s body.

The boy still had not moved.

This was the worst of all, the most crushing failure. Not only did the pervert escape, but the little boy—

Wait a minute. Did he imagine that, or did the boy …?

Yes!
He moved. Praise God Almighty—
he moved!

“Abie, can you hear me? How do you feel? Can you breathe? Does your head hurt?”

Abie blinked rapidly several times, then peered out through clouded, watery eyes. “Who …?”

“I’m a policeman,” Mike said, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. “I’m—I’m here to help you.”

Abie’s breathing slowly became more regular. His lips trembled, and all at once he began to cry. “Will you please take me home?”

“Of course I will.” Mike scooped the boy up and cradled him protectively in his arms. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right now. Everything’s going to be fine.”.

B
EN PUSHED HIS WAY
through the crowd to the front of the seventh-floor courtroom. People were squabbling over seats and shoving one another out of the pews. “I was here first!” he heard, and “No fair saving seats!” and other cries he would’ve expected on a playground perhaps, but not in a state courthouse.

Seats were at a premium; the courtroom wasn’t that large and there was a long line of would-be spectators outside. Everyone seemed interested in this case, not just in Oklahoma but throughout the country. Several network news reporters were present, as well as a few representatives from major newspapers. Court TV had even asked for permission to broadcast portions of the trial, but Ben had refused to consent.

Ben couldn’t believe so many people were galvanized by this murder trial. He wasn’t sure who or what to blame. Maybe it was the heat—everyone was looking for a diversion from this oppressive humidity. Maybe it was the media. They’d been playing the hell out of the story. The ten-year-old “impalement from the past” gave them abundant grist for the evening-news mill, usually playing up the gruesome details of the murder itself. The line separating tabloid TV and legitimate journalism seemed to be getting thinner every day.

Or maybe the appeal was the implied class struggle—a poor developmentally disabled black man accused of committing a violent crime in a citadel of opulent wealth. Or maybe it was just the ever-present interest some people have in other people’s business. Courtrooms provided a justifiable opportunity to pry into the affairs of others.

Ben finally made it to the defendant’s table. Leeman wasn’t there, Christina wasn’t either, but she had clearly been there earlier; all Ben’s notebooks and exhibits and other trial paraphernalia were lined up and organized.

“How about a few words on the trial, Mr. Kincaid? Do you expect to win?”

Ben turned and saw a man on the other side of the railing extending a microphone as close to Ben’s face as possible. The first two rows on the right side of the gallery had been roped off for the press. A badge on the man’s lapel identified him as a reporter for Channel 2.

“Sorry,” Ben answered. “In my experience, television coverage of legal matters is somewhat less than accurate.”

“Come on,” the reporter said. “All I need is ten seconds.”

“I know,” Ben replied. “That’s the problem.”

Ben scanned the two full rows of coiffed heads jockeying for position behind the man from Channel 2. They probably wanted to be on the scene so they could do a live remote from the courthouse. Beth Rengel and Clayton Vaughn, the Channel 6 anchorpersons, were both there. As was Karen Keith, interviewer and all-around smart lady. Leslie Turnbull and Rick Wells. And Ben’s personal favorite, Karen Larsen. He might consider giving her an interview. If she promised to give him more than ten seconds.

“Starting to feel the heat, Ben?”

Jack Bullock was hovering over Ben’s table.

“It’s always tense just before a trial begins. There’s nothing unusual about that.”

“I guess you still think you can pull a rabbit out of your hat and get your boy free so he can skewer some more women, huh?”

“Jack, you know I have an obligation to represent my client to the best of my ability. I have no choice—”

“You took this case voluntarily, Ben. No one forced it on you.”

“I took this case because I think Leeman Hayes is innocent. Why are you taking this so personally?”

“Because it is personal to me. I care about people, Ben. I care about this city. I’m not in this for the big bucks and the swimming pools and the million-dollar homes? I want to make the world a better place. And I don’t like people like you getting in my way.”

“Jack …” Ben shook his head sadly. What was there to say? And what was the point? “I’d like to go over my notes. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Whatever you say.” Bullock drew himself up, then added quietly, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Alarm bells rang out in Ben’s brain. “What are you talking about?”

Bullock strolled back to his own table. “Have fun reviewing your notes.”

“In case you haven’t heard, Bullock, trial by ambush is history. My client has a constitutional right to know the accusations that will be made against him at trial.”

“Wah, wah, wah,” Bullock mock-cried. He began whispering to his second chair, Myrna Adams.

Great. Kincaid glanced over his shoulder and noticed the reporters were scribbling away. They had probably caught most of that dramatic little exchange. The press seemed to love it when lawyers started bickering. He could see it now—a murder trial billed as the grudge match of the century.

Bullock still had not even acknowledged the possibility of a plea bargain. Normally, given the difficulties inherent in trying a ten-year-old crime, Ben would’ve expected a deal proposal to be the first words out of the prosecutor’s mouth. But not this time. Bullock seemed determined to make this charge stick.

The buzz in the courtroom suddenly diminished. It wasn’t the judge; he was still in chambers. All the heads in the gallery were facing the rear.

Leeman Hayes was being escorted into the courtroom.

Despite the ban on cameras in the courtroom, Ben saw several flashes go off and heard the soft whir of minicam motors. Two men from the sheriff’s office escorted Leeman to the front of the courtroom. Ben smiled and offered Leeman the chair beside him. Leeman returned a small smile, but it was clear to Ben that he was terrified. Ben wondered—not for the first time—just how much of this Leeman really understood. He could imagine the questions racing through his mind. What are we doing? Why are all these people here? Why are they staring at me?

Ben patted Leeman on the shoulder and gently turned him away from the gallery. “It’s all right. Just forget they’re here. The only part of this room you need to be concerned with is up front.”

Leeman leaned forward pensively, his chin resting on his hands.

Ben had visited Leeman several times since their first meeting. Although he hadn’t obtained any new information, he thought Leeman had come to know him a little better, and had perhaps even come to trust him. According to Vera, Leeman had only two visitors: Ernie and Ben.

With each visit, Ben had become more and more convinced that Leeman was not competent to stand trial, no matter what the state’s shrink decreed. Judge Hawkins, however, had denied all Ben’s motions to revisit the issue. Hawkins insisted that this trial had been delayed long enough. It was time to see justice done.

Justice. What a concept.

Leeman’s head cocked at that odd angle. “Papa …?”

“Sure. He’s here. He’s in one of the back rows. See?” Ben pointed him out. Ernie saw them looking and waved.

“Don’t …” Leeman’s neck extended and twisted. He turned his shoulders awkwardly.

Don’t … wanna be here? Ben guessed. “I understand, Leeman. No one wants to be here. But we have to clear this up once and for all.”

Leeman shook his head vigorously. “Don’t … go back.”

It was the most words Ben had ever heard Leeman speak at once. Don’t … go back? To the hospital, Ben realized. Don’t wanna go back to the many many hospitals.

“Home,” Leeman whispered softly.

Ben laid his hand on Leeman’s. “I’ll do my best,” he said. He tried to sound confident.

Leeman lifted his chin tentatively. “Later …?”

“Later?”

Leeman straggled to finish the thought. “Beet-hooven.”