Hate Crime (35 page)

Christina frowned. “Well, whether the jury bought it or not, Johnny has to make a good impression.”

“You’re telling the wrong person,” Ben said, pointing at the defendant sitting between them.

“Johnny,” she said, looking intently into his eyes. “You understand how serious this is, don’t you?”

“Hard to miss.” He was wearing more casual clothes than the blue suit Christina dressed him in for court each day, but under the conference table, his feet were shackled. The marshals were posted in the corridor just outside their office. The court had allowed him to come back to the office to prep for his testimony, but they still weren’t taking any chances. “This trial isn’t exactly going my way.”

“That’s all right. Tomorrow is another day. Have you got that legal research I asked for, Vicki?”

“On restricting hearsay admitted against the defendant’s interest? Some.” Her voice became even less audible than usual. “Most of it isn’t helpful.”

“Then keep looking. If we could suppress some of the testimony Drabble is sure to use to impeach Johnny, it would be a big help.”

She nodded. “I’ll be at the computer terminal just across the hall.” She left the room.

“The most important thing is that you seem sincere,” Christina explained to Johnny. “Even when you admit to less-than-admirable things, as you’re going to have to do. You must seem truthful. And remorseful. The prosecution has been painting you as a monster. You have to show them that you’re not.”

“I’m not anyone’s monster,” Johnny said indignantly.

“Don’t act defensive. Best to speak in a calm, relaxed manner,” Ben said. “Maybe a little slower than you normally would. Give yourself time to think.”

“That’s especially important on cross,” Christina added. “Drabble will try to rev things up, get you talking fast, talking before thinking, leading you down the garden path, then catching you in some kind of trap. Before you answer any question, you have to ask yourself—what is he after?”

“You think he’ll cross me more than he did my mother?”

“I can guarantee it. Your mother was a sympathetic figure, so he made his point delicately and sat down. With you, the gloves will be off.”

“Is it so important that he trashes me?”

“To his case, yes,” Christina answered. “But more to the point—it will be easy.”

“What, because I’m so stupid?”

“No. Because what you did—what you’ve admitted you did—makes you such an easy target.”

“Look at the jury from time to time,” Ben advised, “but not all the time. They don’t want someone playing to them, they want to observe you interacting with the prosecutor. But glance their way occasionally, especially when you’re making important points. Just to show them you’re not afraid to. Eye contact always suggests sincerity.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“Most of all,” Christina said, leaning in close, “you must not lose your temper. No matter what Drabble says. Losing your temper would be disastrous.”

“Not a problem. I’m not a hothead.”

“Johnny—”

“I’m not!”

“Johnny, almost every time I’ve talked to you, you’ve started shouting.”

“That’s because you ask me things just to cause trouble.”

“And you think Drabble won’t? His whole cross will be designed to get your goat. Because if he can make you blow up on the stand, the jury will be all that much more likely to believe you lost it the night of March 22 and beat a man to death. Intentionally. With malice.”

“Okay, no temper flares. I promise.”

“One more thing,” Ben interjected. “You cannot rattle on about your personal beliefs regarding gay people or gay lifestyles. Not a word of it.”

“I thought we had the First Amendment in this country.”

Ben’s teeth clenched. “If you want to die by lethal injection for your First Amendment rights, fine. Because I can guarantee that if you start rattling on about wreaking God’s vengeance on sodomists, that’s what’s going to happen.”

“This isn’t San Francisco, you know. Some of those jurors might agree with me.”

“Yeah, they might, but this isn’t a political debate. It’s not a referendum on lifestyle choices. This is your trial for your life.”

“It goes to motive,” Christina explained. “If you start some jeremiad about homosexuals, the jury will believe you could feel self-righteous enough to do what the prosecutor says you did for the reason he says you did it.”

“Well, I’m not going to lie.”

“I’m not asking you to lie.”

“But,” Ben jumped in, “I can guarantee Drabble will grill you on your beliefs regarding gay people. And if you launch into some hyperzealous screed, he’ll crucify you. No—you’ll crucify yourself.”

Johnny’s brow creased. “Then what the hell am I going to say?”

“I think it’s okay to say that based on your Christian values, you disagree with the homosexual lifestyle,” Christina said. “But there’s no reason to go on and on about it. And you have to say it without the least trace of anger or malice.” She paused. “I think that’s the most important thing, don’t you, Ben?”

“No. I think the most important thing is to seem remorseful. That’s what the forgiving, unconvinced jurors—if there are any—will be looking for.”

“I don’t get you.”

“It’s a lead-pipe cinch Drabble will ask you about the beating—the part to which you’ve already confessed. He’ll probably take you through it blow by blow. You’ll have to repeat what you’ve already admitted—but you can’t seem proud of it. You can’t try to justify what you did. To the contrary, you need to seem awash in regret. Tell the jury it was a mistake—you lost control, you were swayed by your friend, whatever. But don’t say you were right to do what you did or that you enjoyed it or that you were doing God’s work. You do that, you’re blowfish.”

“I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”

“I’m just asking you to be smart. I know for you that may be a tall order. But your life depends upon it.”

At ten o’clock sharp, the marshals knocked on the door and escorted Johnny back to the county jail.

“Think he can pull it off?” Christina asked.

“No,” Ben said flatly. “But you have no choice. You have to put him on. And hope for the best.”

“I still don’t see where he came from. His mother is so different.” She shook her head. “It must be particularly hard for you. Since you knew her, all those years ago. And cared for her.”

“No discussion.”

“I know, I know.” She sighed. It was late, and they were the only two people left in the office . . .

“Thanks again,” she said quietly. “For helping with this case. I know you didn’t want to.”

Ben shook his head. “I should’ve been on board from the start. I just—” He turned his eyes toward the window. “I can’t explain it. Hearing from her again, after all this time. Because she needed something from me. Seeing her again. It just . . . I don’t know. Threw me for a loop. I wasn’t rational.”

“You’ve got ample cause.”

“No excuses. Just—I’m sorry.”

They sat for a long while, not looking at each other. Ben stared out the window; Christina pretended to be intrigued by the stack of unopened transcripts on the table. Finally, when she couldn’t stand it any longer, she reached out and squeezed his hand.

“Ben?”

“Yes?” he said, looking up.

“I—I—” She fumbled for a moment. “I’m sorry we haven’t had time for Scrabble lately.”

“I think there have been extenuating circumstances.”

“I just wondered . . .” She pursed her lips, tried again. “I wondered if you would like to . . .”

Their faces drew closer together.

“Yes?” he said, when their noses were practically touching.

“I wondered if . . .”

They heard a clattering in the corridor outside. Perhaps it was Jones, locking up.

“We should probably get some sleep,” Ben said.

“You’re right, of course.” She pushed away from the table, suddenly very embarrassed. “Big day, tomorrow. Make or break.”

“Right,” he agreed. “Best to get a good night’s sleep.”

And a moment later, she was gone.

You stupid fool, he told himself, as he watched Christina leave the office.

But the timing wasn’t right. It couldn’t possibly be, not with the trial, and Ellen, and . . .

And the wounds all too present and deep and well remembered. Like that day at her apartment. The one that turned out to be the true last time he ever saw her. Until now.

When she wouldn’t answer the bell, he pounded on the apartment door. When she still didn’t answer, he shouted, so loud that everyone in that Toronto apartment complex near campus could hear. It wasn’t until he threatened to set fire to the place that she finally answered.

“Ben!” she said, standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here? I told you—”

“I couldn’t stay away, Ellen. We’re meant to be together.”

Her eyes rolled up. “Did you hear anything I told you in the subway yesterday?”

“I heard it all. And I don’t care.”

Her neck stiffened. “I can’t take this, Ben. I’m not well—”

He reached out desperately, grabbing her arm. “I know that, Ellen. That’s why we should be together.”

“That isn’t possible. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Splitting up isn’t fair! I want to be with you. We’ll fight this thing together. I’ll be with you in the clinics, in the hospital. Wherever you need me to be.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Fine! I don’t care. Whatever there is, we’ll deal with it.”

“You’re not being realistic, Ben. It’s over.”

“It can’t be over! I won’t let it be.”

“You just don’t have any idea—”

“I know what you mean to me. What we mean to each other.”

“Ben, would you just listen to me for a minute?”

“I know I’m probably not being practical. But why should I be? We’re in love, and—”

“Ben, you don’t—”

“And I know that if we try we can—”

“Ben—”

“—do anything we want. We can make it work.”

“Ben—”

“We can still get married, just like—”

“Ben, stop!”

“We can do it, Ellen, I know we can, if we—”

“Ben, I’m pregnant!”

Silence descended, like a sudden black curtain drawn across the sun. Like an immovable barrier that could not be crossed.

“You mean, we—”

“No, Ben. I don’t mean
we
anything.”

Ben heard a rustling in the apartment. “Who’s in there?”

“No one.”

“There is someone. You’re not alone.” He tried to push past her in the doorway, but she wouldn’t let him through. “Who is it?”

Her eyes closed. “It’s . . . Larry.”

“Larry? Who the hell—”

“My boss. At the oil company.”

Ben’s face twisted up in anger and disgust. “You . . . and your boss?”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen, Ben. It was an accident. Sort of. He’d been acting interested for months, and you and I were about to get married, and I—” She looked at him, her eyes wide and saddened. “I wasn’t supposed to get pregnant. But I am.”

“And—and it’s Larry’s—”

“Yes. Absolutely. But it’s okay. He’s agreed to marry me.”

“He?” Ben reached out to her. “Marry
me
, Ellen—just as we planned. I don’t care what happened. I’ll take care of you. And the baby.”

“Ben.” She looked at him, and a soft smile trickled across her lips. “You know I love you—but you’re just a kid. You can’t even take care of yourself.”

“And Larry—”

“Is older than we are. He’s got a good executive seat with the oil company, a steady income. He’s got one child already from a previous marriage. He wants to do the right thing by me.” She paused, looking as though all the energy had drained out of her. “And I’m going to let him.”

Ben grabbed her shoulders. “Ellen . . . please. I—I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know why you would—” He shook her helplessly back and forth. “My father’s a doctor, and he knows lots of others. He’s got lots of cash and—”

“No, Ben.”

“Why would you marry some guy you don’t love when you can still marry me? It’s all arranged. We’ve got a church reservation, for God’s sake. My parents and everyone will be here in two days.”

“Ben! Haven’t you told them it’s off?”

“I—I couldn’t do it until—I was sure—”

“Ben!” All at once, anger flared across her face. “This
is
sure. You and I are not getting married.”

“But why not?”

Her eyes began to mist. “You just won’t let this be easy, will you? Won’t let me leave without—” She turned away, her lips trembling. “I want you to go away, Ben. I want you to leave me alone and never come back. I don’t want to see you ever again. Ever!”

“But we could still—”

“Would you listen to me for once!”
she screamed.
“Go away!”
She broke loose, then shoved him backward as hard as she could. Ben tumbled down the concrete steps onto the sidewalk.

Before he could pull himself off the pavement, he heard her door slam shut. All around, he saw neighbors peering out of their doors and windows, watching the show. He felt stupid and embarrassed and desperate. He felt as if a part of him had been torn away, like something had been ripped out of his body, more like he’d lost a limb than a lover.

He stood shakily, brushed himself off, and stared at the closed door. It really was over, he realized. After everything they’d shared, after feeling like he had never felt before. She wasn’t his any longer.

She was gone. Forever.

44

As a good Scotch-Irish-extraction Presbyterian, Christina didn’t believe God intervened in the everyday minutiae of people’s lives. Consequently, she didn’t pray for positive outcomes from traffic lights, parking lots, Scrabble, basketball games, or criminal trials. Usually. This time, she was making an exception.

I can’t promise to get me to a nunnery, she thought, eyes clenched shut. But I’ll try to come up with something else good. Ministering to the poor. Caring for the sick. I’d offer to adopt a child, but I’ve already got Ben to take care of, and that’s about the same thing.

“Ms. McCall,” Judge Lacayo said, in clear, crisp tones that rang through the crowded courtroom. “Are you ready to proceed?”