Cruel Justice (37 page)

A wrinkle creased Tompkins’s brow. “None of the lockers had locks.”

“Did you ever see Leeman open the locker?”

Tompkins thought for a moment. “No, I don’t suppose I did.”

“Did you ever see Leeman put anything into it?”

“No.”

“And you weren’t in the shack before the murder occurred.”

“Right.”

“So anyone could’ve put that golf bag in there, right?”

“I suppose that’s technically correct.”

“In truth, Officer, you have no physical link between the items found in that locker and Leeman Hayes.”

“It was his locker.”

“Answer the question, sir.”

“That’s true,” he said reluctantly.

“And you have no personal knowledge about how those goods got into the locker.”

“I didn’t see it myself, no.”

“And in truth, you don’t really know why Leeman was at the caddyshack that night.”

“Right.”

Ben leaned in close. “The only reason you arrested him is … he was the only person there, right?”

“Well, he was the only living person there.”

“What was your probable cause for the arrest, Officer?”

Bullock leaped to his feet. “What’s this, Kincaid? More tricks?”

Ben glared back at him. “Your honor, may we approach the bench?”

“Approach.”

They did so.

“Your honor,” Ben whispered, “I think we have a serious evidentiary problem here. If the arrest was unconstitutional, then all the evidence obtained subsequent to the arrest, including the videotaped interrogation, is inadmissible.”

“So that’s your game,” Bullock snarled. “Judge, you see how he’s trying to thwart justice.”

“The officer didn’t have probable cause!” Ben insisted. “You can’t arrest someone just because they’re available!”

“What about the clubs and the jewelry in the locker?”

“Tompkins discovered that
after
he arrested Leeman.”

“What about the attempted escape?”

“Escape? He wasn’t in custody. He was free to go wherever he pleased.”

“Your honor, this is totally frivolous,” Bullock protested. “Mr. Kincaid will do anything to keep his client from being tried on the evidence.”

“This is a serious matter,” Ben insisted, “particularly when you’re dealing with a developmentally disabled person such as my client. He’s a prime example of why our Constitution guarantees certain rights. Such as the right not to be arrested just because you happen to be sleeping at the scene of a murder.”

Bullock drew himself up defiantly. “Give me a chance to redirect. I’ll establish cause for the arrest.”

“Fair enough,” the judge said.

“If he doesn’t,” Ben insisted, “I’ll renew my motion.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment,” the judge said wearily. “Proceed, Mr. Prosecutor.”

Bullock stood beside the jury box and faced the witness. “Sergeant Tompkins, a question has arisen as to whether you had sufficient grounds to make an arrest. Now, in addition to being at the scene of the crime—the only person at the scene of the crime—do you recall any other details that indicated that the defendant committed the crime?”

A cold chill shot down Ben’s spine. He realized now where Bullock was going.

“Objection,” Ben said. “He’s trying to introduce new evidence on redirect.”

Hawkins flung his pen down on his desk. “What is it with you, Kincaid? You’re not happy when he doesn’t put on the evidence, and you’re not happy when he does.”

“Your honor, he can’t raise new matters on redirect—”

“He’s responding to your objection, counselor.”

“Fine. Let him. But that’s no excuse to violate the—”

“Mr. Kincaid, I have already ruled.” Hawkins’s cheeks were turning crimson and puffy. “Now sit down.”

Ben slunk back into his seat.

“As I was asking,” Bullock continued, “do you recall any other factors, Sergeant?”

“Just one,” Tompkins said. He paused. The jurors leaned forward ever so slightly.

“And what would that be?” Bullock asked.

“He had blood all over his hands.”

Ben checked Mrs. Alexander, on the front row of the jury box. Her lips parted; her eyes widened.

Damn. This was a setup.

“On his hands?”

“Yes. On his hands, and up and down his arms. It was all over him.”

“That was the defendant?”

“Yes. Him.” Tompkins pointed at Leeman. “He had the victim’s blood all over him.”

Suddenly Leeman bolted upright in his chair. He stared at Tompkins, his eyes wide, his face terrified. And then, to Ben’s horror, he held out his hands and began rubbing them furiously, fast and desperately. Like a pathetic Lady Macbeth, he couldn’t get the blood off his hands.

Ben pushed Leeman back into his seat and shoved his hands under the table, but it was too late. The jury had seen all.

Once the unexpected performance was over, Bullock lowered his head gravely. “And after you noticed that the defendant literally had the victim’s blood on his hands, you arrested him?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t you?”

“Indeed I would,” Bullock replied. “No more questions, your honor.”

“Anything else from the defense?” Hawkins asked.

Better to leave bad enough alone. “No,” Ben said.

“Then I will recess this court for the day. We’ll resume tomorrow morning at nine. Dismissed.”

The judge exited and the courtroom exploded into pandemonium. The whir of mechanical flashes and the drone of shouted questions echoed between the walls.

Ben ignored them. He glanced at Leeman, and saw to his dismay that Leeman was still wringing his hands under the table. Pontius Pilate gone mad.

The first day of testimony was over, and Ben didn’t need to consult with Christina to know how it had gone. Bullock had taken every hill, had won every important point.

The reality of the situation was perfectly clear to Ben now. The truth was of no importance. Bullock was going to win, not because Leeman was guilty, but because Bullock understood how the justice system worked, what judges liked, what jurors thought. He had twenty years in the trenches, twenty years hard-won trial experience on Ben.

Ben had heard it since he was One-L at OU, but he’d never really believed it until now.

Facts didn’t win trials. Evidence didn’t win trials. Lawyers won trials.

Bullock was going to win this trial, not because he represented the truth, but because he was a better lawyer than Ben was.

A few more days in court like this one, and the truth wouldn’t matter anymore. The jury would be convinced of Leeman’s guilt. Leeman would be doomed.

Before he had ever had a chance to live.

“G
OT IT!” HE EXCLAIMED
.

Royce looked away from his new camera. He’d had to buy a new one, since his good buddy left his old one in that deserted building with the kid. He’d spent the past hour trying to figure out how it worked. Seemed like the high-end cameras got more complicated every year. Soon only computer programmers would be able to operate them. “Got what?”

The man’s dark eyes glistened. “A plan.”

“For what?”

“To get the kid.”

Of course, Royce thought. What else? Ever since his friend’s narrow escape from the law, he’d been obsessed with getting to that boy. His desperation grew more intense every minute. Royce hated to think about what was likely to happen to that kid if he ever got his hands on him.

“Look,” Royce said, “the police haven’t come anywhere near you. Don’t you think the safest thing would be to just leave him alone?”

“No, imbecile. Don’t you know every stupid cop in this city is looking for me?”

“But they haven’t found you, have they?”

“They will. I have to make sure that when they do, they don’t have a witness to identify me.”

Royce felt a sudden chill. He didn’t at all care for the look in the man’s eyes or the expression in his voice. “If you’re so sure the cops are on your ass, why don’t you just move?”

“And live in fear? Always looking over my shoulder? Always worrying that my life might be ended by some stupid, naughty boy?
Never!
”

This guy was over the edge, Royce realized. Around the bend: Totally and dangerously nuts.

“Have you been following the Leeman Hayes trial, Royce?”

“I hear what they say on the evening news.”

“Well, it’s in the state courthouse, Fifth and Denver, sixth floor.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“Because I want you to be there tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I’m supposed to be taking pictures down at Monte Cassino—”

“Cancel.”

“I can’t cancel—”

“Those miserable school brats will still have their fake smiles a week from now.
I
need you at the courthouse.”

Royce’s shoulders sagged. “What is it you want me to do?”

“Just be there. I’ll be there, too, but I want you to act as if you don’t know who I am.”

“Then what’s the point of—”

“Just be there. I’ll give you further instructions when you arrive.”

“But how—”

“
Just be there!
” His face burned red; his head trembled.

Royce sat down quietly and placed his hands in his lap. “Okay. Whatever you want.”

“Good.” He walked across the room and stared into an ornate hanging mirror. “It isn’t fair, you know. I was so nice. All I wanted was to love him, to cherish him. And how does he reward me?”

With a sudden burst of rage, he jerked the mirror off the wall and threw it across the room. Royce ducked just before the mirror smashed against the wall with a tremendous crescendo of glass and metal.

Royce crawled out from behind the sofa. Next time he was in this apartment alone, he was definitely removing all the glass objects.

His associate collapsed into a chair. “He hurts me, that’s how. He threatens me. Well, no more. It’s into the closet for you, Abie Rutherford. Into the closet, and you won’t come out until you’ve been punished.
Punished!
”

To Royce’s astonishment, his friend began to cry. “That’s right,” he said softly. “Punished till he hurts. Punished till he cries for mercy. But there will be no mercy.”

He lowered his head, tears streaming down his face. “It’s only fair,” he gasped. “It’s only fair.”

Royce edged quietly toward the door.

“But who will punish me? Who will punish
me
?” The man stared down at his own hands.

The last thing Royce heard as he slipped out the door was the sound of his friend shouting at top volume and crying with the same breath. “Mommy? Daddy? Tell me what to do!
Who will punish me?
”

A
FTER HE GOT OUT
of the courthouse, Ben stopped by his office. To his dismay, yet another stranger bearing a briefcase was pacing around in the lobby.

“Let me guess,” Ben said. “You’re from the air-conditioner company.”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” the young man said, after a moment’s hesitation. “And I’m not leaving until you’ve paid your bill in full.”

“I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes,” Ben muttered. He approached Jones’s desk. “Got a minute?”

Jones appeared to be buried. He had a telephone receiver on each ear, a word-processing screen beeping at him, and a printer spewing out paper. “Take a number.”

Jones shouted a few words into the receiver on the left, then slammed it back down into the cradle. “I hate reporters!”

“Calm down,” Ben said. “They’re just doing their job.”

“Well, at the moment their job appears to be prying into the private affairs of lesser human beings.”

“Who called?”

“You name it. Everyone in town wants to talk to you. Everyone in the state, actually. Channel Six wants to do a live remote with you on the ten o’clock newscast.”

“Tell them no.”

“Are you sure, Boss? Bullock’s going to be on.”

“That figures. He’s pulling out all the stops to win this one.”

“Aren’t the jurors told not to read or watch any reports about the case?”

“That’s what they’re told. But there’s no way of knowing what they do in the privacy of their homes, is there?”

“If you don’t show up, Bullock’ll have the stage to himself.”

Ben picked up a stack of mail and thumbed through it. “Judges don’t appreciate lawyers who try to curry favor for their clients in the media. The Rules of Professional Conduct aren’t that keen on it either.”

“Look, Boss, if you don’t want to talk about the facts of the case, that’s fine. But this would be a great opportunity to ask potential witnesses to come forward.”

Ben considered. “That’s hardly standard procedure.”

“This is hardly a standard case. You haven’t had nearly enough time to prepare, and finding witnesses to events that took place ten years ago is practically impossible.”

“You have a point there.” Ben glanced up from the mail. “Who’s doing the interview? Clayton Vaughn?”

“No, the good-looking one. Beth Something-or-other.”

“Oh.” Ben tilted his head to one side. “What about Karen Larsen? Did she call?”

“She’s on Channel Eight.”

“I know. I watch her Saturday mornings sometimes while Giselle and I have our breakfast.”

“Me, too!’ Jones admitted. “She’s a babe.”

“Jones, you sexist pig. She’s a journalist. First-rate. Very classy.”

“A bit defensive, aren’t we? What’s the matter, Boss? You got a crush on her?” Jones grinned from ear to ear. “Look at your face turning red! Boss, I do believe you’re sweet on her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What a surprise! The Boss has a crush on a morning-show hostess.”

“I most certainly do not.” Ben averted his eyes. “So … did she call?”

“ ’Fraid not, Boss. You want me to call her? See if she’s free for dinner?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Jones continued grinning. “What else is there about you I don’t know? Do you have secret fantasies about Connie Chung?”

Ben threw the mail in Jones’s face. “I’m going home now to prepare for tomorrow’s trial.”

“How’s it going?”

“Don’t ask. If anything turns up, contact me immediately.”

“Will do. And here’s the number of the television station. You need to call and tell them yea or nay.”

“All right. Let me think about it some more.”