Hate Crime (37 page)

“Why? After all, that flaming queen touched you.”

“I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean—”

“I suppose you had to do something to speed things along, since AIDS wasn’t doing it fast enough.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Johnny insisted, and each time he did Christina knew he sounded less persuasive. Drabble was ramming the kid’s own words down his throat—probably the most effective cross-ex technique imaginable. “I’ve told you already what I felt, and what I believe. But I would never have done any serious harm to him.”

“Right. Because all the serious harm was done by Brett.”

“That’s true!”

“All you did was rough him up a bit. Maybe cracked a few ribs, that’s all.”

“I did not—”

“Maybe cut him with your knife.”

“That’s not true, either.”

“Isn’t it?” Drabble glanced down at his notes. “It was your knife, wasn’t it? You tried to push the hammer off on Brett, but the knife was yours. Right?”

Johnny’s face began to sag. “Yes. It was mine. Just a Swiss Army knife that my—”

“According to the coroner’s report,” Drabble said, reading, “ ‘Tony Barovick was cut by knife in twelve different places.’ Does that sound accurate?”

“I . . . don’t remember.”

“Twelve lacerations is not an accident, Mr. Christensen. That’s the work of someone who is enjoying it.”

“They weren’t serious injuries! None of them. Just little cuts. They couldn’t have killed him.”

“No. They would’ve just hurt a lot. Possibly scarred him for life. And terrified him.”

“I—suppose.”

“So your defense is you weren’t trying to kill him. You were only torturing him.”

“Objection!” Christina shouted.

“I’ll withdraw that,” Drabble said, moving on before anyone could take a breath. “Now you’ve admitted you brought the knife to the party, but you claim the Taser was Brett’s, correct?”

“Absolutely.”

“But that isn’t true, is it?” Christina felt a cold chill. She didn’t like the way Drabble said that at all. This was going to be bad; Drabble wouldn’t accuse a witness of lying unless he had the goods.

“It is true. Brett was the one—”

“Mr. Christensen, take a look at this receipt from the P & J Pawn Shop.” He passed it to the witness. “As you can see, it’s for the purchase of a used Taser. Doesn’t give a name, but we traced the credit card number.” He looked up and smiled. “Guess who?”

Johnny looked like a fox surrounded by hounds. “We’d had a break-in at the fraternity house. We thought we needed some way to protect ourselves. Something that wouldn’t be too dangerous to have around.”

“Is that so.”

“I was the floor chairman, so it was my job. I found the Taser.”

“So it belonged to you.”

“It belonged to the fraternity.”

“You bought it.”

“That’s right.”

“And you just happened to bring it along the night of March 22. Just in case you ran into any flaming queens.”

“No! We kept it in the house. And Brett was the one who brought it that night. I didn’t even know—”

“You were responsible for that Taser, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Thank you, Mr. Christensen. You’ve answered my question.”

Christina looked across the table at Ben. She didn’t need advanced body-reading skills to know what he was thinking.

“One last thing,” Drabble said. “I know I was touched by your heartwarming reaffirmation of the importance of motherhood and how you turned to your mother when times were tough.”

“It was because I felt so bad,” Johnny said. “I was sorry for what—”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Here’s my problem, though. If you went to see your mother, why didn’t you mention it to the police?”

The silence that blanketed the courtroom was louder than any amount of shouting could be.

“I don’t quite understand . . .”

“I read this transcript from start to finish last night, Mr. Christensen,” Drabble continued. “I watched the interrogation video. And at no time do you mention being at your mother’s. Not even after you’re told when the estimated time of death was.”

“I . . . was trying to leave her out of it.”

“Why?”

“I just didn’t want her involved.”

“You thought you could be arrested for murder and your mother wouldn’t be involved?”

“I didn’t want to drag her into the—”

“So you had an alibi witness, but chose not to mention it? Very noble.”

“I didn’t know then how bad this would get.”

“You’re telling me—and the jury—that you knew you had a witness who could testify to being with you at the time of Tony Barovick’s death, yet you chose not to tell anyone? Because you have such a strong sense of family loyalty?”

“I was trying to protect her!”

“Mr. Christensen, don’t lie to us.”

“I’m not.”

“You didn’t tell the police about going to your mother’s house because you didn’t go anywhere near your mother’s house.”

“That’s not true!”

“You went back to the fraternity house and finished what you had started.”

“I didn’t!”

“It must’ve really bothered you, sitting there thinking that flaming queen was still alive. Your own fraternity brother heard you say you were going to finish what you started.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“And if you thought you could impress your friends by saying you beat that boy up, imagine how popular you’d be if you could say you killed him.”

“That’s not what happened!”

“Objection!” Christina shouted. “Badgering the witness.”

“You had the motive and the opportunity,” Drabble continued.

“The objection is sustained,” Judge Lacayo said firmly.

Drabble pressed on. “You wanted Tony Barovick dead. Like you want all gay people dead. So you killed him.”

“I did not!” Johnny screamed. He was sweating, his voice was strained, he seemed shaken and terrified and—

Christina couldn’t pretend otherwise. And guilty.

“I said, the objection is sustained!” Lacayo barked, slamming his gavel.

“Sorry, your honor,” Drabble said, suddenly quiet. He closed his notebook, then let his eyes wander toward the jury box. “No more questions.”

45

Ben had been in Chicago only a week, but Garfield, the elderly gentleman working the courthouse snack bar, recognized him from the opposite end of the corridor. And the expression on Ben’s face was apparently sufficient to tell him exactly what was called for.

“One chocolate milk, ice cold, coming up,” he said.

“Make it a double,” Ben groused.

“Bad?”

“Real bad. Lethal-injection bad.”

Garfield winced. “Sorry to hear that.” He passed the cup. “Here’s your drink.”

Ben took a long swallow. “Thanks. I needed that. Guess you must think this is pretty wimpy. A grown man, drinking chocolate milk.”

Garfield laughed, rubbing a hand on his stubbled chin. “Hey, after the stuff I’ve seen some of the other attorneys drinking—or smelled on their breath—I’m relieved to see you sticking with the milk.”

Before he could take another swallow, Ben felt a hand on his arm. Funny how he knew who it was, even before he looked. “Ben, we have to talk.”

He looked at Ellen coldly. “That used to be my line.”

“Johnny didn’t do well, did he?”

Ben took another drink. “He did about as well as could be expected. It was an impossible situation. There’s too much evidence against him. And too much of it came from his own mouth.”

“You can’t believe he killed that boy.”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

“He couldn’t have. I know he couldn’t have.”

“Ellen . . .”

“There must be more you can do.”

“After the break, Christina will redirect, but that’s damage control at best.”

“Aren’t there any other witnesses? Someone who will speak on Johnny’s behalf?”

“We have a doctor who will say that the beating, as described by Johnny and his late friend Brett, would not necessarily have been fatal.”

“And that’s it?”

“Two professors willing to appear as character witnesses.”

“Nothing more?”

“Ellen, believe me when I say we’ve searched high and low. We’ve turned every stone. We haven’t found any miracle witness. And frankly—I think that’s because the miracle witness doesn’t exist.”

Long tapered fingers spread across her face.

“I’ll give it all I can in closing,” Ben continued. “I’ll hammer away about reasonable doubt. The prosecution only has indirect evidence that Johnny caused Tony Barovick’s death. It’s possible that some juror might find that insufficient.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Ben stared down into those black eyes, the dark pools that had once meant so much to him. There was still something there, no matter how hard he tried to pretend there wasn’t, no matter how determined he was to deny that there had ever been any trace of affection.

“No, Ellen,” he said quietly. “I don’t think so. I think the jury will convict.”

“Would you? If you were on the jury? Would you find him guilty?”

Ben didn’t see how any good could come of answering that question. So he didn’t.

“Shelly!” Mike bellowed.

Shelly Chimka froze in her tracks, just outside the front entrance to Remote Control. “Yes?”

Mike ran up to her, Swift and Baxter close behind. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you all over town!”

“I went to Springfield to visit a girlfriend. I told Mario I wouldn’t—”

“You didn’t tell him where you were going.”

“Why would I?”

“Don’t give us that innocent routine,” Swift said. “You know you’re a material witness. You were told not to leave town.”

“I didn’t, really. It was just Springfield.” Her face scrunched up. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

“This is about you,” Mike said, gazing down at her right arm, still tucked into the blue sling. “And something that’s bothered me since the first time I talked with you. You told me, not to mention an investigator named Loving, that you tried to commit suicide after Tony was killed. But something about that never seemed right to me. You may well have been close to Tony, but you don’t seem the suicidal type, and your face gave off all the wrong signals when you said it. You’re much too pragmatic. Too controlled.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a compliment, lady. But it left me with a major problem. If you didn’t really try to off yourself, what happened to your arm?”

Shelly instinctively pulled the sling close to her. “I don’t see why it matters to you.”

“Oh, I think it matters a lot,” Mike said. The three of them closed around her. “You told me you tried to kill yourself the night after Tony was killed, but Mario Roma says that the next time you came to work—the very next morning after the incident—your arm was already in a sling.”

“He’s misremembering.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been reading Tony Barovick’s journal. The last thing he records—the last thing he wrote before going off to his death—was that he had a phone call from you. Coincidence?” Mike shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

“You’re way out of line.”

“Are we?” Baxter asked. “Why did you call Tony?”

“I—I—hardly remember.”

“Give me a break. Last time you talked to him before he’s killed, and you don’t remember what you called about?”

Shelly’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for an avenue of escape. “It was just . . . just . . . some work thing.”

“Cut the crap,” Mike growled, pushing his nose into her face. “Someone else might go soft on you because you’re cute and perky, but I don’t give a damn about any of that. All I see is a liar. And now I want the truth!”

“Oh . . . God!” she gasped. She began to tremble, sobbing at a nearly hysterical pitch. “I didn’t want to do it! They made me!”

“I’m sure they did,” Swift said, wrapping an arm around her. “Now let’s go inside and talk about it.”

Twenty minutes and two cups of coffee later, Shelly had herself sufficiently under control that she could tell them her story without breaking down. And no one would dream of interrupting her. Because what she had to say was incredible.

“They came to my apartment, after my shift.” She sat on a sofa in the break room behind the kitchen of the club. “I was getting ready for a date—all alone, totally vulnerable. Two men. They threw me down on the sofa.” Her face turned ash white, just from the memory. “I thought they were going to kill me.”

“What did they do?”

“They said things, called me ugly names, and they . . . touched me. Pawed me. One of them jerked up my shirt, and—and—he had a knife and—oh, God, I was so scared! I was afraid—”

“I can imagine,” Baxter said, trying to calm her. “It sounds horrible.”

“What did they want?” Mike asked.

“They wanted Tony. Poor Tony.” Tears seeped from her eyes. “They wanted me to call him up, get him to come over to my place.”

“Did they say why?”

“Not exactly. But they kept calling Tony their partner. Said they’d been working on something together.”

“Did they say what?”

“No. But there was a lot of money involved. And a kid. Several times they referred to a kid.”

Mike, Swift, and Baxter all exchanged looks.

“Why not just wait till Tony left the club after work?”

“Because then he would be with Roger, his boyfriend. They wanted him to leave alone.”

“Was Manny Nowosky one of the men?” Mike asked.

She nodded. “With someone else. That chicken I’d seen in the bar.”

“So what happened? Did you do it?”

“I didn’t want to!” Her face was stricken, contorted by grief. “I refused, several times. Told them I wouldn’t help them.”

“And then?”

“One of them—Manny—knocked me across the face. Called me a dirty little bitch and told me I would do what he said or he’d hurt me. Hurt me bad.”

“So you called.”

“Not at first! I held out as long as I could. I told them I couldn’t, wouldn’t know what to say. Manny got really mad.”

“Did he . . . hurt you?”

“Not just then. He and the other guy argued for a long time. Manny said he wanted to take me apart, limb by limb. Wanted to hurt me and hurt me till I would beg for the chance to do what they wanted. Then, suddenly, the argument ended. Manny grabbed my arm and jerked me into the kitchen. He pulled a butcher knife out of the drawer and—and—” She threw herself down, her face pressed against a sofa cushion. “He cut me! Don’t you understand? He cut me!”