Hate Crime (6 page)

Christina tried to steer her back on track. “So you’re here . . .”

“To ask Ben Kincaid to be Kevin’s replacement.”

She stared at the woman, blank-faced. “You want Ben to take over your son’s defense?”

“Yes, I do.” She seemed confused. “Is there a problem? I’ve heard he’s one of the top defense attorneys.” She paused. “Which doesn’t surpise me.”

“No, no—there’s no problem. You heard right.”

“I know he doesn’t normally work in Chicago—”

“That’s not a problem. We can ally with a local lawyer. Get admitted to the Illinois bar
pro hac vice
.”

“I only hope he can fit it into his schedule.”

“I can guarantee you he’ll fit it into his schedule,” Christina replied.

“That’s wonderful. Ms. McCall, my son is innocent of murder. I know that’s not what you read in the papers. But it’s true. I’m a bit pressed for cash at the moment—I took out a second mortgage just to pay Kevin—but if I can sell some of my jewelry, I might be able to put together a retainer. Do you really think Ben will take the case?”

Ben, Christina noted. Not Mr. Kincaid. Ben.

Jones appeared so excited he could hardly contain himself. “Well, let’s consider the facts. The defendant is painfully unpopular and has been crucified in the press. The evidence is hopelessly stacked against him. The press is demanding a conviction. The case is impossible and unwinnable. And you—pardon me for saying so—don’t have any money. Will Ben take your case?” He extended his hand. “I’d say it’s a sure thing.”

“If there’s a problem . . .”

“Not at all,” Jones added hastily. “Even if this case doesn’t make Ben rich, it’s enormously high profile. This is exactly what he needs. The preliminary work has already been done, so the expenses can’t be too great. I’m all for it.”

“Wonderful. Then if I could just speak to him.”

“It’s really not necessary,” Christina interjected. “I’m his partner, and I know his schedule. He’ll jump at this.”

“That is splendid.” She drew her purse in closer, holding it with both hands. “But I still think it might be best if I spoke to him . . .”

“I’ll see if I can get him. But I’m telling you, it’s a lead-pipe—”

The click of the office door down the hallway made them all pivot. Ben emerged from his office, necktie loose around his neck, and headed in the opposite direction, toward the kitchen.

“Ben!”

He turned, took one look—then stopped dead in his tracks.

“Ben, this is Ellen Christensen.”

He stared a long time before answering. “I know who she is.”

“Ben,” Jones said, grinning from ear to ear, “she wants you to take over her son’s defense. Can you believe—”

“No,” he said succinctly. He turned back toward his office.

“Ben,” Christina said quickly, “did you understand? She wants you to—”

“I’m afraid I’m not available.” And he closed the door behind him.

Half an hour later, Christina entered Ben’s office without knocking. “Ben, I want to talk to you.”

“Look, if it’s about that phony blank—”

“It’s about Ellen Christensen’s son. She says he’s innocent.”

“She’s his mother.”

She took the chair opposite his desk and scooted it up close. “I’ve been talking to her, Ben. She sounds pretty convincing. Shouldn’t you at least meet with her?”

Ben continued reading his brief. “No.”

“Could you please explain why not?”

“I don’t have to justify my decisions.”

“I’m not saying you have to. I’m asking if you will.”

“Christina . . .” He leaned back and propped his feet up on his desk. “Could you for once please just leave it alone?”

“No, Ben, I can’t. Think what that poor woman has been through these past few months—hearing the accusations against her son, mounting his defense on a limited income. She’s a widow.”

“I know.”

Christina’s brow furrowed. “Ben, this woman needs our help.”

“There are lots of lawyers in Chicago. Getting one from Tulsa is crazy.”

“I agree, but she’s determined to have our firm represent her son.” She leaned across his desk. “So why don’t we give her what she wants?”

“Christina, I don’t want to take this case. Let me be crystal clear: I
refuse
to take this case. Understand?”

She stood, obviously hurt in more ways than she could count. “No, Ben. I don’t understand at all.” She closed the door behind her.

It was long past closing time, Ben realized, glancing at his watch. Time to go home? Safe to go home?

He pushed himself out of his chair and grabbed his coat. Maybe he should’ve just told Christina. It would’ve been simpler. But so much time had passed. He’d known Christina so long, he would’ve felt like a fool. She would’ve tried to make him think rationally. And he didn’t want to think rationally. There was nothing rational about this.

Just as he approached his office door, he heard movement on the other side.

Christina was standing there.

“I’m leaving now,” she said.

“I thought you’d already left.”

“No.” She looked one way, then the other. “Look, I don’t think I’ll be able to come over tonight.”

“Sure.”

“In fact . . . well, anyway.” She shook her head. “This is stupid.”

She started to turn away. Ben reached out and took her arm, holding her back. “Has Mrs. Christensen left?”

She looked at him coldly. “A long time ago.”

“She’ll find another lawyer, Christina. I promise you.”

“She didn’t want just anyone. She wanted the best.”

“She’ll have people lining up to take her case.”

Christina shook her arm loose. “No, she won’t.”

“She will. I promise.”

“She won’t.” She grabbed her overcoat off the hall rack and started for the door. “She doesn’t need anyone else, Ben. I took the case.”

4

JOURNAL OF TONY BAROVICK

I always knew I was gay. Always. As far back as I can remember, I knew I wasn’t like the other kids. Maybe everyone feels that way when they’re young, but with me it was something more, something profound. A real sense of distinction. And of danger. Because I knew what would happen if the other kids at Bradley Middle School ever got a whiff of my secret.

I’m probably not the only scrawny kid who didn’t love PE class, but for me, the challenge was a lot greater than seeing if I could finish twenty-five sit-ups. Every single day we went through the same ritual—changing clothes, sweating, showering. The same exotic, erotic, intoxicating, and oh, so perilous routine. I practiced deep breathing, distracted myself, thought about someone ugly, whatever it took to make sure I didn’t have a physical reaction that would betray my secret. At the same time, I couldn’t help sneaking a peek every now and again. It was like throwing a straight fourteen-year-old into a bordello; the girls might not be all that great to look at, but they were girls, just the same.

Of course, all the boys I ran around with at that age were constantly talking about homosexuality. Looking back, it was such an obsession I can’t help but wonder if I was the only kid on the block nursing a secret. All the talk was derogatory and hateful, to be sure, but it had a frequency that exceeded even nasty girl talk. You’d constantly hear someone shout, “Fag!” when someone did something wrong. “Back off, you fairy!” if there was an accidental touching. “Queer as a three-dollar bill!” for any nerds who weren’t part of our particular nerd pack. At that age, most of the guys had no real understanding of homosexuality or even what these epithets implied—they were just words. That would change, of course. In time, I would become all too familiar with the venom that people both young and old could have for those of us with a sexual preference different from their own.

Even before I knew what being categorized as gay could do to you, I was going out of my way to make sure I wasn’t. As a teenager, I observed and copied all the standard hetero moves. I asked girls to the school dances, I made suggestive remarks, I even took them out back and groped them like everyone expected, shoving my tongue down their throats and fumbling stupidly with the clasps of their bra. Even took a girl to the senior prom. I asked her, then I asked a friend who I suspected might be similarly inclined to double-date with us. Never mind that I was more interested in him than my date. We became a socially acceptable foursome. We bought the corsages, danced the slow dances, even went parking afterward. I was in the backseat going through the usual charade—with her skirt hiked up and her bra dangling around her neck—when a cop shined his flashlight through the window. I was secretly relieved, but damned if I was going to let anyone know it. “Did you see the way that pervert cop stared at us?” I remember grousing, as we drove our dates home. “He’s probably some kind of faggot.”

It would be a good long time before I stopped talking like that, even longer before I stopped thinking of myself in those terms. That may seem stupid to you, dear diary. After all, we don’t live in the eighteenth century. But fear can be a powerful motivator. And the fear of being different is the greatest of them all. In the face of abject hate, even the most stalwart may become cowards.

5

Tulsa County Police Department
Downtown Tulsa, Oklahoma

Sergeant Baxter found her partner hunched over his desk, as usual. It was piled sky-high with paper, files, books, and about a week’s worth of coffee cups. With his furrowed brow and intense eyes, he brought to mind those comics where Snoopy pretends to be a vulture.

“Still at it?”

Mike grunted.

“Metzger case?”

“Mmmm.”

“Any new leads?”

“Nnnnnnn.”

Well, this conversation wasn’t getting her anywhere. Maybe she shouldn’t barge in and start talking when he was obviously working, but it was hard to restrain herself. After the remodel five years ago, everyone on the floor worked in cubicles with no doors, no windows, and no ceilings, so privacy was hard to come by. “Morelli, I know you go for that brooding monosyllabic thing, and you do that somber Heathcliff look better than anyone I know, but if I’m going to be your partner, you’re going to have to open up more.”

He lowered his pencil. “You used a conditional clause.”

“Excuse me?”

“You should have used the subordinate: Since I’m going to be your partner, you’re going to have to open up more.”

“Don’t English major me, Morelli.”

“But instead, you said
if
. As if there was some question about it.” He looked up. “Is there?”

At least now she had his attention. “Why? Do you want there to be?”

“You tell me.”

“I thought it was a done deal. We told Chief Blackwell we could work together.”

“True enough. Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t had a change of heart.”

“Why? Have you?”

“I asked you first.”

She crinkled her nose in disgust. It seemed as if every time she found herself almost liking him, he did something to remind her that she didn’t. Sure, she was grateful; coming to Tulsa after that fiasco in Oklahoma City had salvaged her career. And after he got over his initial opposition—well, actually, it had lasted about a month—Mike had been quite kind to her. But she never forgot what a total pain in the butt he was to work with. “Look, I know obsession is your middle name and all that, but I think you need to give this Metzger case a rest.”

“Never.”

“It would be different if you were getting somewhere, but—”

“I let those murderers slip right between my fingers.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Whether it was or wasn’t, it should’ve been my collar.”

“No cop nabs every perp. It’s part of the game. Don’t ruin your life with this.”

“This
is
my life.” He returned his attention to his desk.

And if that was the way he wanted it, why not leave him to it? she asked herself, not for the first time. No skin off her nose, right? It’s not as if they were dating. It was just a working relationship, pure and simple. Okay, there had been that one kiss. One and a half, if you counted the near miss in his office. But that had been an accident. Happened months ago, and he hadn’t shown any interest since. They were partners, that was all. It was a professional relationship, and it would be best for all concerned if it stayed that way. Let him bust a gut over that kidnapping case.

Except that she couldn’t.

“Been talking to Tomlinson,” she said. “He told me you get like this.”

“Did he now?”

“Told me about the Kindergarten Killer case. Said you were like a drooling Looney Tune during that one.”

“He would know.”

“And then there was the poisoned water case with the Sick Murder Method of the Month Club guy.”

“You and Tomlinson must’ve had a long chat.”

“I brought Starbucks.” It had been a good talk. She knew how to bring people out. When she was growing up with her mom in Longdale—really more an expanded trailer park than a town—they’d had lots of time to talk. No money, but loads of chitchat. Her mother may not have been college educated, but she was quite the philosopher, in her own homespun way. Baxter’s mama had taught her that she could do anything she wanted to do, could be anyone she wanted to be. Those had become the watchwords of her life. If her mama were alive, she’d be proud to see that the daughter of a small town beauty shop stylist had become a homicide detective. She’d done all right for herself, no doubt about it. Now if she could just get over this habit of falling for men she worked with—another legacy of her mother, come to think of it—her life would be perfect.

She peered at Mike through the tall stacks of books on his desk. He was working hard at giving the appearance of paying no attention to her. But she noticed he hadn’t turned a page since she came into his office. “The point is Tomlinson says you always become intense and driven and monomaniacal when you’ve got an unsolved case. And that isn’t healthy.”

“It isn’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Just isn’t.”

“Gets the job done.”

“Occasionally. But some cases can’t be solved, you dunderhead. Ever.”

Mike pursed his lips. “Are you suggesting this is one of them?”