Cruel Justice (35 page)

He grabbed Royce by the throat. “Don’t give me stupid platitudes. Do it!”

“All right, all right.” Royce broke away, rubbing his sore throat. “Why do I always have to do the hard work?”

“The hard work?” The other man began to chuckle. “But, Royce, all you have to do is find him.” His coal-gray eyes became small and black. “I’m the one who has to kill him.”

I
F POSSIBLE, THE COURTROOM
was even more crowded than it had been the day before. Word had gotten out; Courtroom Three was Tulsa’s hottest ticket. Ben had expected the media to be there in full force; he wasn’t expecting the horde of nonprofessionals: the retirees, the street people, the bored house spouses. The spectacle of seventy-year-old grandmothers squabbling for seats in the gallery was pretty sickening.

As Ben scanned the gallery he saw several familiar faces. Almost all his acquaintances from the country club were there; Crenshaw and Bentley were sitting together near the jury box. Their clothes alone were sufficient to cause them to stand out from the rest of the crowd. The Rutherfords were there also, but they were not sitting together. Harold was near the front; Rachel was in the rear, pressed into a corner. Ben couldn’t help but suspect that this separation was significant.

The back doors opened, and Mitch escorted Captain Pearson to a seat. Apparently, Mitch wasn’t staying. Poor chump; he probably had to chauffeur Pearson over.

Ben waved to get Mitch’s attention. “Baby-sitting Cap’n Ron?” Ben asked.

“No comment,” Mitch replied.

“I have a question. Suppose I wanted to learn who on the Utica Greens board was communicating with person or persons unknown in Peru. How would I go about it?”

Mitch thought for a moment. “Well, if they were communicating from someplace other than the club, I wouldn’t have any idea. But all of the board members have offices at the club. Deliveries and faxes are always logged in by the desk secretary. I could check for FedEx packages or certified letters from Peru. I could check the guest register for Spanish-sounding names. And I could check the phone bills for long-distance calls.”

“That would be great,” Ben said. “When can you start?”

“Now, wait a minute. …” Mitch looked nervously toward the back of the courtroom. “I’ll have to get approval from Pearson.”

“No. You can’t tell him you’re doing it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, principally because he’ll tell you not to.”

“Then I don’t think—”

Ben laid his hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Look, Mitch, I don’t want you to lose your job. But if I don’t get this information, and as soon as possible, my client could end up convicted for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“But still—”

“C’mon, Mitch. I can tell you’re a good guy. You’re not like these country-club clowns you work for who don’t care about anything but their own comfort. You care about other people.”

“Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

Ben shrugged his shoulders. “I’m desperate.”

Mitch frowned. “I’ll have to do it at night. When no one else is around.”

“Excellent.”

“It’ll take several days. I have other duties.”

“Understood. But tell me what you’ve found as soon as possible.”

Mitch nodded. “I’ll stay in touch.”

“Thanks.”

Leeman was already at the defendant’s table. His eyes had pronounced circles; his expression was long and drawn. He looked tired.

And scared.

Ben was startled by a sudden thud. “Whaa …?”

“Morning, Kincaid.” It was Bullock. He had dropped a huge banker’s box of documents on the table.

“What’s this mess?” Ben asked.

“New exhibits,” Bullock replied succinctly. “We’ve added a few witnesses. But as you’ve pointed out before, trial by ambush is history. So here are the files. You’re on notice.”

“How nice,” Ben said. “And a full two minutes before the trial begins, too.”

“I always play by the rules. I’m required to give you notice. I just did.”

“By the way, I didn’t think very much of your opening statement.”

Bullock cocked his head to one side. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Your opening had nothing to do with the truth. It had to do with prejudicing the jury by focusing their attention on the attorneys instead of the evidence.”

“Is that against the rules?”

“Maybe not, but—”

“When the evidence shows the defendant is guilty, like in this case, for instance, then I prosecute him. That’s my job. That’s what I believe in. Your problem is that you don’t have any convictions. How could you? I know I’m performing a service. I’m acting for the greater good. That’s why I don’t mind pushing. I won’t violate the rules, but I have no problem doing anything within the rules that will help make my case. Consider yourself warned.” He marched to the prosecution table without a backward glance.

A few minutes later Judge Hawkins stomped into the courtroom. After letting the bailiff do his bit and giving the jury their daily instructions, Hawkins invited Bullock to call his first witness.

“The State calls Dr. Hikaru Koregai to the stand.”

Ben almost smiled. He felt like he and Dr. Koregai were old friends. Koregai had been a medical examiner for over twenty-five years; he’d worked on every homicide Ben had been involved with since he moved to Tulsa. He was well-known for his expertise in forensic medicine, his ability to stay cool under cross-examination, and his in-your-face “why the hell should I help you?” manner. The coroner with an attitude.

After establishing Koregai’s expertise and credentials, Bullock took him back to the night of the murder. Koregai was called to the scene of the crime by a Sergeant Tompkins shortly after the body was discovered.

“What condition was Maria Alvarez in when you arrived?”

“She was dead.”

“Did you confirm this opinion?”

Koregai arched an eyebrow. He didn’t like being doubted, not even by friendly interrogators. “Yes. I searched for vital signs. There were none. She was dead.”

“Do you have an opinion as to the cause of her death?”

“Technically, she died of cranial cerorexia—the loss of oxygen to her brain. The more immediate cause of death was the loss of blood and the collapse of her respiratory system.”

“And what caused that?”

“The shaft of a golf club had been forced through her neck. The wound was fatal.”

“Would death have been immediate?”

“Possibly.”

“But not certainly?”

“The wound was fatal,” Koregai continued, “but not necessarily immediately so. She may have died quickly. Or she may have been pinned to the wall, in excruciating pain, for some time.”

“I see,” Bullock said somberly. He shook his head sadly from side to side, then cast a firm glance at Leeman. The jury did the same.

“Dr. Koregai,” Bullock continued, “I have some pictures I’d like you to identify.”

“Wait a minute,” Ben said. “I object. Mr. Bullock has made this discussion grisly enough. We don’t need to see photos.”

Counsel approached the bench. Bullock gave the photos to the judge, who passed them to Ben.

Every one was a grotesque, full-color, blood-splattered picture of the victim pinioned to the wall. Bullock was obviously trying to turn the jury against Leeman by emphasizing the grotesque nature of the crime.

“I repeat my objection,” Ben whispered to the judge, out of the jury’s hearing. “These pictures contribute nothing that hasn’t already come out through Dr. Koregai’s testimony. They have no probative value, and they could greatly prejudice the jury. Their verdict should be rendered based upon the facts, not passion stirred up by inflammatory nonevidence.”

“Your honor,” Bullock said innocently, “the law requires me to positively identify the victim.”

Judge Hawkins gazed at the photos. These were so hideous even he didn’t want to look at them. “Don’t you have any other photos of the victim? Perhaps one that doesn’t show blood gushing from her neck?”

“Your honor, this was the condition of the corpse when Dr. Koregai arrived. He can only identify what he saw.” Bullock leveled his eyes. “If I can’t use these photos, my case will be greatly prejudiced. I might even have to dismiss.”

Hawkins grimaced. “Oh, very well. Objection overruled.”

“Judge, I protest!” Ben said.

“Your objection is already on the record,” Hawkins said huffily. “Let’s get on with this.”

Ben ground his teeth together and returned to his table. If he had any doubts about his standing in this trial before, they were all gone now. Hawkins was a prosecution man through and through. He was going to be no help to Ben at all.

Koregai identified the pictures, and the bailiff duly presented them to the jury. Each juror studied them for a few painful moments, then wordlessly passed them down the row.

Ben didn’t have to read minds to know what they were thinking. They were thinking that this murder was more than a murder. It was an abomination, a sacrilege. They wanted to convict the person who did this.

And without exception, each juror, after he or she examined the pictures thoroughly and passed them on to the next juror, looked across the courtroom at Leeman Hayes.

A
FTER LUNCH, BULLOCK CALLED
his next witness. With the medical testimony out of the way, Ben expected Bullock to take them directly to the night of the murder. To his surprise, Bullock instead called someone he’d never heard of before.

“The State calls Ramona de Vries.”

Who?
Ben whirled around and made eye contact with Christina, who was rapidly rummaging in the files. She shrugged; she was as much in the dark as he was.

While the woman walked to the witness stand Ben searched through his notes and outlines for some mention of a Ramona de Vries. His eyes fell on the large cardboard box Bullock had dropped on his table that morning.

There she was—right on the top. A file folder labeled
RAMONA DE VRIES
. Ben had noticed it earlier, but the name didn’t mean anything to him and he hadn’t had time to browse.

Bullock had stung him again. If Ben objected because Bullock had called an unendorsed witness, Bullock would rebut that he had provided the defense with advance notice and full disclosure. And no protest was made—not on the record, anyway. And as long as the record was clear and there was no risk of appeal error, Hawkins would have no problem letting Bullock get away with anything.

And Ben was the one who kept getting called a shyster trickster.

Ramona De Vries was a well-kept woman in her mid-forties, with strong features, a firm chin, and hair the color of steel. She didn’t look as if she wanted to be here. But then, who did?

While Bullock introduced the witness, Ben scanned the file and tried to figure out who she was and what connection she had to the case. Ramona de Vries was a wealthy society woman. Married, rich beyond measure—and she spent most of her time at the Utica Greens Country Club. Even after listening to the first several minutes of her testimony, though, Ben still couldn’t fathom why she had been called.

Until Bullock took her to the day of the murder. “Ms. de Vries,” Bullock asked, “were you at the Utica Greens Country Club on the afternoon of August twenty-fifth that year?”

“Goodness, it’s been so long ago.” She waved her hand wearily. “I believe I was.”

“What were you doing about two in the afternoon?”

“I was sunbathing near the pool.”

“Were you alone?”

“I didn’t have anyone with me. There was someone else sunbathing. A blonde woman, as I recall. Maybe a few others. I’m not sure.”

Bullock approached the witness. “Ms. de Vries, I’m going to hand you a picture of a woman I will represent to you was named Maria Alvarez.” Bullock showed what looked like a passport photo to the judge, then to Ben.

“Thought you didn’t have any pictures of the victim that weren’t splattered with blood,” Ben whispered to Bullock.

“Guess I forgot about this one,” Bullock whispered back. He passed the photo to the witness. “Have you ever seen this woman before?”

“Why, yes. I saw her that day at the club.”

“Really,” Bullock said, feigning surprise. “And what was she doing at the club?”

“I can’t imagine,” de Vries replied, one eyebrow arched slightly. “I mean, she obviously shouldn’t have been there. She couldn’t have been a member. I don’t know how she made it through the gate.”

“What was she doing when you saw her?”

“She was talking to some of the other members—or trying to, anyway. No one wanted anything to do with her. Rather understandable, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you know what she wanted?”

“Not then, but she eventually approached me. I was sunbathing by the pool, and she just walked up and started babbling at me. I mean, can you imagine? I was appalled. I pulled my sun hat down over my eyes and tried to ignore her, hoping she would go away. But she didn’t. I mean, really!”

“What did she ask you, Ms. de Vries?”

“Well, that’s just it. Who could tell? She was rattling on in some foreign language. Spanish, I suppose. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it. I mean, if those people insist on coming to our country, they could at least have the decency to learn the language.”

“Could you … tell what she wanted?” Bullock was obviously pushing for something in particular. He wasn’t quite leading, but he was getting pretty close.

“I might have been mistaken, but at the time I thought she was looking for someone. I couldn’t tell who. I mean, I couldn’t imagine that she would know anyone who was a member, and if it wasn’t a member, why was she looking for them there? Maybe she was after one of the staff, I don’t know. I couldn’t understand it.”

Bullock took a step closer to the witness stand. “What happened when you told her you couldn’t help her?”

“Well, you just wouldn’t believe it. She started to screech and wail and moan. She actually cried, tears streaming down her face. It was disgraceful. Finally, she wandered off, probably so she could accost some other poor defenseless member. She was a menace, running around the club, bothering everyone like that. I mean, who knew what she might do?” She folded her arms across her chest. “I almost called security. I really did.”