Cruel Justice (32 page)

Bullock waved his hands. “I’m sure defense counsel will try everything he can think of to keep you from seeing the tape, or he’ll try to suggest that the confession isn’t what any fool can see it is. Don’t be tricked. You’re smart people. You can see the truth for yourselves. And once you witness the defendant’s confession, how can there be any doubt about what happened that hot August night?”

Slowly, Bullock returned to the jury box. “I wish I could tell you why Leeman Hayes murdered that woman, but I can’t. Not with certainty. Maybe it was robbery—he did take her jewelry. Maybe it was a sudden fit of frenzy. Or maybe it was something … sexual. …” He pronounced the word as if it had eight syllables. “We’ve all heard … stories about men with Leeman’s condition and their … appetites. …”

Ben was clenching his fists so tightly he almost drew blood. This was beyond the pale.

“But the truth is, I don’t really know. I do know that for whatever reason, Leeman Hayes did kill her. Fortunately, the state does not require you to determine a motive. It’s nice, it makes for a good story, but it’s not required. All you have to determine is whether the defendant killed the woman.”

Bullock leaned over the rail. “And I’m confident that by the end of this trial you will be convinced, as I am, that he did kill Maria Alvarez. In cold blood. In the most grisly fashion imaginable.”

Bullock slowly drew away from the jury box. “I have every confidence that you will do the right thing, that you will find Leeman Hayes guilty as charged, and assess the maximum sentence for this heinous deed. Thank you.”

The judge waited until Bullock was seated, giving him a nice dramatic close to his oration. “Mr. Kincaid, would you care to—”

“Yes.” Ben walked around the table and approached the jury. He wanted to get at them while Bullock’s words were still ringing in their ears.

“Actually, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, trying to determine what you personally think occurred ten years ago in the Utica Greens caddyshack is not, as Mr. Bullock says, ‘all you have to do.’ As the judge will later instruct you, forming a mere opinion as to guilt or innocence is not your job. Your job is infinitely more difficult. You must determine whether the prosecution has proven beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty of murder. The burden of proof is entirely on them. If they do not prove his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, you have no choice. Regardless of what your personal suspicions may be, if the prosecution does not meet this high standard, you must find Leeman Hayes not guilty.”

Ben took a deep breath. He hoped it sank in, and that when they heard it later from the judge, they would understand what it meant.

“There are two kinds of evidence,” Ben continued. “There’s what we call real evidence, and there’s circumstantial evidence. All of the evidence the prosecution will present today is circumstantial evidence. No one saw Leeman do it, no one heard him do it. They’re all guessing, just guessing, based upon alleged evidence discovered after the fact.

“Moreover, none of this evidence excludes other suspects. In other words, the prosecution’s evidence, at best, shows that Leeman Hayes
could
have killed Maria Alvarez. It does not prove that he did. Remember, in order to convict this man, the prosecution must prove that he did in fact commit the murder. Beyond a reasonable doubt. No lingering suspicions, no nagging questions. Nothing. No reasonable doubt.”

No objection? Ben wondered. To his detailed, not to mention argumentative, elucidation of the phrase
beyond a reasonable doubt?
Bullock must’ve decided he wasn’t going to make any objections for a while, to prove to the jury that Ben was the only one trying to hide anything from them.

“After the prosecution completes its evidence, assuming the judge doesn’t throw the case out of court”—Ben almost laughed himself; wishful thinking—“then we will have a chance to put on our evidence. Let me assure you we don’t plan any tricks or shenanigans. We’re just going to help you understand what transpired that night ten years ago.”

Ben wished he could be more specific about the evidence they would put on, but the truth of the matter was, he still didn’t know. So far, they had no strong affirmative defense. All he could do was impeach the prosecution’s evidence, and hope that Loving came up with a witness or Jones discovered something of value in the Peruvian records.

“It’s true, as the evidence will show, that Leeman has been repeatedly diagnosed, since birth, as mentally retarded. It is also true that it is very difficult for him to communicate. He will not take the stand in this trial, not because he has anything to hide, but because it would simply be impossible for him to answer the questions. Imagine, if you will, how vulnerable that makes him. Imagine how easily he could be manipulated by policemen, lawyers. Imagine how difficult it would be to defend himself against those determined to see him pay for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“Objection,” Bullock said. “This is argumentative.”

“Sustained. Be careful, counsel.”

Believe me, Ben thought, I was. I carefully made sure Bullock would have to object so the jury could see I’m not the only trickster in the courtroom.

“All I ask is that you be fair. It’s true, my client Leeman has some special problems. He has lived with those all his life. But we’re not asking for sympathy, and we’re not asking for any special favors. All we’re asking is that you be fair. To everyone. And that you remember those all-important words—
beyond a reasonable doubt.
Thank you very much.”

Ben took his seat. He glanced at Leeman. His eyes were focused on Ben, watching, considering.

“Well, it’s late,” the judge said. “Let’s call it a day. We’ll start tomorrow at nine with the prosecution’s first witness. The jury is cautioned not to discuss the case with anyone”—he glanced out into the gallery—“including the press. Court is adjourned.”

The sheriff’s men escorted Leeman back into custody. Even before the judge was out of the courtroom, Ben found minicams and microphones shoved in his face.

“Mr. Kincaid, what’s your reaction to the prosecution’s claim that they have a videotaped confession?”

“It isn’t true,” Ben replied.

“And what about the blood on his hands?”

“That’s not conclusive—”

“And the jewelry? What about the jewel—”

Ben pushed the reporters out of his face. “Look, let’s let the case be tried in the courtroom, and you guys figure out some other way to beat
Wheel of Fortune
in the ratings, okay?”

Idiot, he muttered to himself as he plowed through the mob. Now he would undoubtedly be painted as the obstructionist in the evening-news reports. Ben wanted to kick himself. Reporters could be so annoying, it was easy to forget how easily they could manipulate public opinion.

Ben saw Christina waving to him from the back. She had a getaway car waiting, thank goodness. The sooner they were out of this madhouse, the better.

F
ROM THE COURTHOUSE, BEN
sprinted over to police headquarters, Central Division. After asking a few questions at the front desk, he learned that Mike was on the third floor. In the interrogation chambers. Still.

Since the witness was a friendly one, Ben wondered why Mike was using the formal interrogation room. He soon had his answer.

Abie’s parents were in the observation room, watching everything through an acrylic one-way mirror. Mike had undoubtedly insisted on isolating the boy from his parents during the questioning, and the Rutherfords undoubtedly insisted on not letting the boy out of their sight. And this was undoubtedly the compromise.

“How’s it going?” Ben asked Rutherford as he entered the observation room.

Rutherford nodded a polite greeting. Ben could tell he was torn. He didn’t like Ben, and he didn’t want him to be here, but it was difficult to be too rude to one of the men who had just rescued your son.

Rachel Rutherford was standing close to the mirror, her hands pressed against the acrylic. She was as close to her son as the room would permit.

“Any luck?” Ben asked her.

Rachel shook her head. “Very little. But I don’t think Abie’s holding anything back.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t intentionally prevaricate,” Ben said, “but after such a traumatic experience, witnesses typically have a hard time recalling details. That’s with adults. With a child, separated from his parents and scared to death, the psychological prohibitions multiply. Has Mike suggested hypnosis?”

“He did,” Rutherford said. “We forbade it.”

No great surprise there. According to Mike, Rutherford had been nothing but an obstacle since they recovered Abie. Rutherford was guilt-ridden, afraid that his own inattentiveness and insensitivity had driven his son into the arms of a child molester. Now he was overcompensating, becoming so protective that he interfered with the police’s efforts to track the maniac down.

Ben turned back toward Rachel. “Has the sketch artist been in?”

“Oh … yes …” She gestured unhappily toward a charcoal sketch on the conference table in the center of the room.

Ben picked up the sketch and scrutinized it. The only salient features that emerged were a full and flowing head of red hair, which was almost certainly a wig, and thick black glasses, which were also probably part of the disguise. The rest of the sketch was utterly undistinguished. It could be anyone. It was useless.

“What about the car?” Ben asked.

“Registered under a false name. Seems he renewed the driver’s license of a teenage boy who died six years ago. There’s nothing to trace.”

Another dead end. The pervert seemed to have thought of everything.

Ben watched as Mike asked a few more questions. Abie seemed distant, unfocused, tired. He wasn’t saying much.

Mike called a break. Abie tried to leave the room with him, but Mike ordered him to stay put. Abie reluctantly agreed.

Mike stepped outside. Ben entered the hallway and met him.

“How’s the kid holding up?” Ben asked.

“The kid is fine,” Mike said, rubbing his hands together. “I, on the other hand, am a nervous wreck.”

“Been with him all day?”

“Off and on. When the shrinks didn’t have him.”

“What’s their verdict?”

“They think he’s doing remarkably well. They want him to remain under observation and in therapy for a while, but he seems amazingly resilient. No incurable traumatization.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that Abie’s just a boy. Kids don’t really notice what grown-ups look like. After all, adult faces are two or three feet away, up in the sky. Add the fact that this creep was wearing a disguise, and you have a witness who will never give us a definitive ID. We’re going to have to find him on our own.”

“What about that hellhole we found with the mattress and the camera?”

“We’ve torn the place apart, examined everything. The mattress, the camera equipment, every scrap of paper, and every piece of lint. Nothing we can trace.”

“Did the creep take the kid anywhere else?”

“That’s where Abie’s testimony gets really hairy. I think he did, but I can’t get anything concrete out of the kid’s descriptions. He had already been drugged by the time they left Celebration Station. He was weaving in and out of a thick fog the rest of the day. And needless to say, the creep didn’t leave a trail of bread crumbs for us. We’re damn lucky Abie thought to drop that blue book bag.”

“Abie’s damn lucky you saw it. And came to his rescue.”

“And what a two-edged sword that’s turned out to be!” Mike suddenly exclaimed.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, the kid’s been hanging all over me. Keeps talking about how I’m his hero, and I’m such a great guy, and when he grows up he wants to be just like me!”

“You don’t like being promoted to local hero?”

“Not when it means I have a ten-year-old for a groupie! It’s embarrassing!”

“Doesn’t fit the tough-guy image, huh?”

“I can’t get away from him for five minutes! He says he doesn’t feel safe without me. He says he wants me with him all day long.”

“Surely he’ll get police protection until this sicko is caught.”

“Natch. But get this—Rutherford pulled a few strings with a country-club buddy. Chief of Police Blackwell, to be specific.”

Ben nodded. He’d had the pleasure of meeting Chief Blackwell. Except it was no pleasure.

“Blackwell has assigned me to be the kid’s bodyguard! Can you imagine?
Me!
An experienced professional homicide detective! Reduced to being some kid’s baby-sitter.”

“A fate worse than death,” Ben said sympathetically. “Sounds like you better catch this perp.”

“Believe me, I’m trying.”

“How are the kid’s parents?”

“A royal pain in the buttinsky, that’s how.”

“Care to be more specific?”

Mike shrugged. “It’s always this way with these rich types. They don’t want anything to do with the police. Our work is dirty. It’s beneath them. They treat us like servants, like the people they pay to take out the trash. And they’re scared to death of bad publicity. They’d rather let a pervert roam the streets indefinitely than risk getting their name in the paper.” Mike glanced at his watch. “I’d better go back in. If I’m separated from the kid much longer, he’ll come out and attach himself to my sleeve.”

Ben returned to the observation room. He saw Mike reenter the interrogation room where Abie was waiting patiently.

“Lieutenant Morelli!” Abie cried, in his high-pitched chirp. He threw his arms around Mike and hugged him like a long-lost brother. Mike looked as if he were going to die.

“Looks like Abie has really taken a shine to Lieutenant Morelli,” Ben commented.

“Yes, hasn’t he?” Rutherford said dryly. “He never greets me like that.”

“Perhaps that’s because Lieutenant Morelli didn’t wait until he’d completed another nine holes before coming to his rescue,” Rachel said icily.

Rutherford glared at her, fuming.

Ben turned toward the mirror and pretended he hadn’t heard.

“All right,” Mike said to Abie. “Tell me again about the walk from Sam’s apartment to the mattress room.”