Hate Crime (36 page)

“We are,” she said, rising. “We call Johnny Christensen to the stand.”

Ben had told her long ago that every trial had a pivotal moment, the one upon which everything depended. Usually that was the part of the trial that was most anticipated, the part the spectators—and the jury—had been waiting for. No question about what that was in this trial. They wanted to hear what Johnny Christensen had to say for himself. What he could possibly say for himself.

As before, Christina had put him in a good suit, but not too good. He was from a reasonably well-off family, and the jury knew it, but she didn’t want them to feel as if he were trying to con them with the slick pantlines of Italian designers. Johnny looked as though he had made an effort—it would be disrespectful to do otherwise—but not as if he were trying to put anything over on them.

Johnny had been out in the corridor with the marshal when the judge called the case, and she did not envy Johnny his walk to the front of the courtroom. Must be like running the gauntlet. Just to his left was Mario Roma, growling and glaring and looking as if it was all he could do to keep from driving a stake through Johnny’s heart. Gary Scholes and the other fraternity guys collectively turned their heads as he passed. Roger Hartnell looked as if he were about to cry. And in the very front row sat Johnny’s mother, her head cradled in her hands, tears seeping through her fingers.

Must be the longest walk in the world.

Except for the one he’d be taking down death row, if this didn’t go well.

“I don’t hate all homosexuals,” Johnny said, his voice smooth and flat as a pane of glass. “I don’t know why people keep calling this a hate crime. It wasn’t.”

“You are a member of the Christian Minutemen, correct?”

“Yes, and they don’t hate homosexuals, either. It was like Gary said. We disapprove of the gay lifestyle. We think it’s contrary to what God taught us through the Holy Scriptures. But that doesn’t equal hate. I disapprove of people who cheat on their taxes, too. But I don’t hate them.”

Point made, and let’s move on, Christina thought quietly. She wasn’t going to give him a chance to get into any major philosophical exegesis. “But you don’t deny that you participated in the beating of Tony Barovick.”

“That’s true. I admit it. It was wrong, but . . . I did it.” He even hung his head a bit, and Christina thought he looked genuinely sorry. Maybe he was remembering what Ben had told him about the importance of remorse. Or maybe he meant it—who could know?

“And you did it because he was gay?”

“No, we did it because he was a gay guy who came on to us. In public.” He swiveled around in his chair, choosing this moment to make brief eye contact with the jurors. “I’m not saying I was right, or that I was justified, or anything like that. But you have to understand the situation. Here I was in this bar. It’s a popular place. All my friends go there. All my fraternity brothers. And it’s a singles bar—people go there to hook up. So I’m sitting there minding my own business, and this obviously, flamboyantly gay man comes up and starts propositioning me. More that that—starts making seriously crude suggestions and insinuations to me. And everyone can hear. Can you imagine what people thought?”

“So you were embarrassed?”

“More than that. I was humiliated. Thinking what it could do to me, if word got around. The stigma. The rumors. You can’t fight that sort of thing, once it gets started. I had to make it clear that I didn’t like it. And I had to make sure that it didn’t happen again.”

“So that’s why you beat up Tony Barovick. To teach him a lesson?”

“That’s how it started, yes.” Johnny ran a hand along his smooth white cheek. He was a handsome boy, especially when he’d scrubbed up a bit. It wasn’t hard to believe someone might single him out in a bar. “I admit—it got way out of control. We’d both been drinking. I don’t do that much and I’m not used to it. Still, the really crazy, mean stuff—that was Brett’s doing, and I’m not just saying that because he isn’t here. And I’m not saying that means I’m not responsible. But I tried to get Brett to stop, I really did. I tried to get him to slow down, cool off. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He just kept at that kid, and he acted like if I didn’t participate—then maybe I was gay, too.”

“So you’re saying Brett Mathers was the principal actor during the beating?”

“He did the worst of it. I admit I was willing to punch the guy around a few times. But all that extreme stuff was Brett’s idea. He was the one who brought the Taser. He was the one who brought the hammer. His fingerprints were found on the hammer—only his. It was his idea to break the kid’s legs. I thought that was way too cruel—almost insane. And I tried to stop him—I really did. Tried hard. But Brett wouldn’t listen.”

“When did the beating finally stop?”

“After he broke both legs. After that, the anger seemed to wash out of Brett. Maybe he realized he’d gone too far. Plus, that poor man’s screaming and wailing in pain was so loud—I think it kind of woke Brett up from whatever weird psycho state he was in. He grabbed all his stuff and said, ‘Let’s get out of here.’ And we did.”

“Where did you go?”

“Back to the house. We hung out for about an hour, then I went for a walk. To clear my head. Then Brett and I went back to Remote Control. A few minutes later, four more guys from our frat house arrived. They joined our table.”

“And that was where you . . . bragged about what you had done?”

“Brett bragged. Mostly, I just sat still and kept my mouth closed. Nodded occasionally.”

“Did you speak out against what had happened? Condemn it. Express your regrets?”

“No.” His eyes fell toward the floor. “I wish I had. I was feeling really guilty about what had happened. I knew we hadn’t done right. I knew—we’d sinned. But I couldn’t tell my brothers that. I had to play along.”

“How long were you there?”

“Not all that long—I don’t know exactly. But about 11:10 or so, the guilt I was feeling became so overpowering I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to get up—had to go somewhere. So I left the bar.”

“And you went? . . .”

“I can’t explain it, but—all at once, I knew what I had to do. I had to see my mother.”

“Were the two of you close?”

“Not at the time. I’d been a real jerk to her lately. But—she was still my mother, you know? That’s how I thought of her. So I went to her place. It’s very near campus.”

“And what happened there?”

“It was pretty much just as she described it. I wasn’t looking to be forgiven—I knew I didn’t deserve that. I just had to tell someone. And I suppose—” He looked up, his eyes misting. “I suppose deep down somewhere I knew that your mother always loves you. No matter what you’ve done. No matter how horrible it is.”

Christina stared at the witness, wanting to be cynical about his testimony, but finding herself unable to do so. He seemed amazingly genuine—too good to be faked. And she considered herself a pretty good judge of character. Maybe this boy wasn’t quite as heartless as he let on.

“How long were you at your mother’s home?”

“Only about ten minutes. It was enough. Then I returned to the bar. It was—I don’t know—another half hour or so before the group started to break up—and the cops stepped in.”

“Did you resist arrest?”

“Not in the least. I knew what I’d done. I didn’t clam up or demand a lawyer or any of that. I figured—I hurt someone. I’ll do my time.”

“Then what happened?”

“What happened was they didn’t charge me with assault or battery—they charged me with murder! I tried to explain to them that we didn’t kill him. We didn’t beat him so badly he might die from it, either. I know we gave him a hard time, but there’s no way the beating was fatal. Something else must’ve happened to him. After we left.”

“Did you explain that to the police?”

“Of course. But they didn’t listen. As far as they were concerned, they had two suspects who had confessed. They didn’t want any complications.”

Good enough, Christina thought. Maybe not quite a sow’s ear into a silk purse, but the best she could hope for with this witness and these facts. “Johnny, how do feel now about what you did on that night?”

“Objection,” Drabble said, breaking the spell they were casting for the first time. “The facts are relevant. His feelings are not.”

“In this case, I disagree,” Christina replied. “The prosecutor’s motive is all about how my client supposedly felt. Most of his opening statement was a long rant about how my client supposedly feels. What he believes. How it motivated him. I think we’re entitled to rebut.”

Judge Lacayo pondered for a longer than average time before answering. “It is unusual, but I think Ms. McCall’s point is not without merit. And I think this will be of interest—and perhaps of use—to the jury.”

In sentencing, Christina thought. That’s what he’s thinking. The jury will want to know how he feels now when they decide later whether to give him the needle.

“The objection is overruled,” Lacayo said. “The witness may answer.”

“I’m very sorry about what I did,” Johnny said, his voice raw and earnest. “Truly sorry. There’s no excuse for it. Even though I didn’t do the worst parts. But I watched them being done. And I didn’t prevent them. I know it’s not an excuse, but I really am not used to drinking like I had that night, and I think it somehow . . . sort of drained my will. I was just going along when I should’ve been resisting.” He looked first at the jurors, then out into the gallery. “I truly regret what I did, and I believe I should be punished for it. I will accept any punishment for it. The only thing I ask is—don’t punish me for a crime I didn’t commit. I did not kill Tony Barovick. I did not cause his death. Brett did not cause his death. His death could not have resulted from the beating we gave him.” He turned his eyes back to the jury. “And that’s the God’s honest truth.”

After the direct, Judge Lacayo called for a recess. Christina was glad for the chance to relax and tell Johnny how well he was doing—but she was not pleased to see Drabble get additional time to plan his cross. By the time the trial resumed, he was ready.

“You admit that you participated in a beating of the deceased, Tony Barovick, that lasted about thirty minutes, right?” It was interesting how Drabble’s body language had changed, Christina noted. With his own witnesses, of course, he was friendly and open. Even with Ellen Christensen, he was gentle, respectful. But now his body was stiff and tense, his gestures were hard and direct, and his voice was cold, unyielding. Exactly what the jury would want him to be.

“I admit that, yes,” Johnny said cautiously.

“And you say you did this not out of hatred for homosexuals, but because this particular homosexual made advances toward you.”

“I’m not saying it was right, but . . . yes. That’s what triggered it.”

“And now we’re supposed to believe you’re sorry about what you did, and just say, well, no harm, no foul?”

“Objection,” Christina said, rising. “Argumentative.”

“Overruled,” Lacayo responded. Judging from his manner, he had as little confidence in Johnny’s contrition as Drabble.

“I am sorry,” Johnny said. Somehow, even though his testimony hadn’t changed, it played differently when Drabble stood behind the podium. Now Johnny’s voice seemed thin, even strident. As if he were working to convince rather than simply explaining. “I mean that.”

“And when did you have this sudden epiphany that you had done something wrong?”

Johnny tossed his shoulders. “I think I knew it all along. That’s why I had to see my mother. Absolutely I knew it was wrong when Brett started . . . seriously hurting that man. When it was all over, I felt terrible.”

“Mr. Christensen,” Drabble said, one hand on his hip, “would you care to guess how many witnesses I have who will testify that you were bragging about what you did at Remote Control?”

He hesitated. “I . . . don’t know.”

“Come on, take a guess. I’ll give you a hint—it’s a two-digit number.”

“Most of that was Brett.”

“But not all of it.”

“No,” Johnny said quietly. “Not all of it.”

“Why?” The sarcasm in Drabble’s voice was unmistakable. “If you were so stricken with grief, so burdened with the horror of what you had done, why would you brag about it in that bar?”

“I was with my friends. Brett and Gary and the others. I suppose I was trying to impress them.”

“Of course, we’ve heard Gary Scholes testify that he was anything but impressed by what he heard. He said he found your bragging heartless and grotesque.”

“I wish he’d told me that.”

“Maybe an hour later, when Officer Montgomery interrogated you, he said you were similarly lacking any remorse for what you had done.”

“The cops aren’t going to give me any breaks,” Johnny answered. “They were and are determined to nail me to the wall.”

“Imagine that.” Drabble picked up a thick document bound between leather covers that Christina knew to be the transcript of the interrogation. “So did you or did you not express any of this sorrow when you were questioned?”

“I really don’t remember.”

“Well,” Drabble said, turning the pages, “do you recall saying repeatedly, ‘He asked for it! All he got was what he asked for!’ ”

“I . . . might’ve said that.”

“I have to tell you, Johnny—that doesn’t sound particularly contrite to me.”

“I was just trying to explain—”

“Here’s another one,” Drabble said, flipping to another page. “Apologies to the court for the language, but I think the jury needs to hear it as it was spoken. You said, ‘That goddamn queen touched me. He touched me! So I touched him back. Hard.’ ”

“I was still with Brett when I said that,” Johnny said. “I suppose I was trying to impress him. I didn’t want him to think I was weak.”

“And here’s my favorite,” Drabble said, ignoring him. “ ‘God hates queers. That’s why he sent AIDS. And that’s why he sent me.’ ”

“Look, I was very upset that night. I’d been drinking, and it was late, and I wasn’t thinking straight and—”

“And you just accidentally beat to death someone you hated and then acted self-righteous about it.”

“No!” Johnny insisted. “It wasn’t like that. I
was
sorry—”