Hate Crime (8 page)

He wondered if that was what had happened to Manny. That hick had never had the sense God gave a carrot. Probably swapping testosterone with their mutual friend—until it went too far. And then—Charlie winced just to think about what had happened to the stupid slob. And to realize how easily it could happen to him. The smartest thing he could do was stay out of the way. Way far out of the way. Even if that meant there would be no transfer. He couldn’t give their friend a chance at him.

If there was to be no transfer, then tomorrow he would have to start the job hunt. He had no choice. Back to the wonderful world of sex, oral and anal, licking and spitting, fancy French terms for things kids whispered about on playgrounds. Bathroom stalls. Adult parlors. Society cotillions. It’s a wonderful life.

He wondered if he would ever be safe. When the trial restarted, that would help. A little. But would it be enough? Wouldn’t his friend still be concerned about the havoc that could be wrought by skinny, hair-gelled, dimple-chinned Charlie the Chicken?

Would he ever be safe?

Somehow, he didn’t think this was the life his parents had mapped out for him, back when they gave him birth and raised him in the Windy City’s Cabrini-Green housing project. Good Catholic upbringing, decent schools. They’d thought he was going to grow up to be a doctor. Well, they’d missed that mark by a hell of a distance, hadn’t they?

What had happened to him? He had always been rebellious, true, but this life was something else again. He’d always been fascinated by sex, too—but what teenage boy wasn’t? Most of them didn’t end up like him, doing the things he did. He couldn’t even blame drugs or booze, like most of those in his line. He’d never been attached to either of them. Not an addictive personality. So what explanation did that leave? Just plain stupid?

His life was one big screwup, and he knew it. And it was about to be damned short, if he didn’t do something to straighten himself out. So what was it going to be?

One day at a time, as the AA crowd liked to say. First work. Then money. Then food. Then flight. And keep the fear under lock and key.

Except the fear was already with him. Always with him. Time had not dulled its edge. And, quite possibly, nothing could.

Because a person capable of doing what had happened to Manny was capable of anything. Absolutely anything. At any time. To anyone.

Even Charlie the Chicken.

7

Cook County Detention Center
County Jail
26th and California Avenue

Christina hated this part of her job. She didn’t know why, exactly. Objectively speaking, it wasn’t that difficult. Didn’t require much preparation. Didn’t depend on quick reflexes, listening skills, or a mnemonic aptitude for arcane case law. Bottom line, all she had to do was show up and take notes.

So why did she hate it so much?

She stared at her reflection in the acrylic panel. Well, for starters, jails smelled. Always. Apparently it was a universal constant; even with its big-city budget, this Chicago joint was no better than the one she was accustomed to back in Tulsa. Possibly worse. The man at the front desk assured her that they scrubbed the place down regularly, but it didn’t kill the stench. And she didn’t like the paint, or the furnishings or, for that matter, most of the inhabitants.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was seeing all these men restrained, locked up, trapped behind bars. The older she got, the more she thought she might be claustrophobic. Or maybe it wasn’t a phobia. Maybe it was memory. She’d been locked up once, and it just about killed her. She never wanted to go through that again.

And she thought Ben understood that, even though they had never directly discussed it, which was why he always handled these lockup interviews and brought her along only if it was absolutely necessary. Except now, since he inexplicably refused to have anything to do with this case. What was up with that, anyway? It was so unlike Ben. She’d worked with him all these years; she’d never once seen him back away from someone who needed help, much less someone particularly asking for his help.

Jones thought maybe Ben wanted no part of it because the accused was obviously homophobic, violent, and thoroughly twisted. The press had crucified him; they would likely do the same to his lawyer. But that didn’t ring true. Ben had agreed to represent an avowed member of a white racist militia group, for God’s sake, not to mention a host of other undesirables. After all that, he’s going to turn his back on some college kid? It just didn’t make sense. There had to be something more.

The door on the other side of the acrylic barrier opened, and a moment later, her new client, Johnny Christensen, was escorted into the room. He was wearing the standard orange coveralls and leg restraints.

She picked up the phone. “Hello. I’m Christina McCall.”

He looked strong, like he’d been working out while he was in lockup, which she supposed was possible, since he had little else to do. He had sandy hair and stubble, a strong, chiseled chin. All in all, a very appealing package. If it weren’t for the murder thing.

“Yo,” he replied, a small smile on his face. He was a flirt; Christina saw that immediately. A kid who was accustomed to using charm and good looks to win people over and get whatever he wanted.

“Your mother has hired me to take your case.”

The smile increased. “Great.”

“You’re the client, though. You make the final decision. If you want someone else, just say so.”

“No, this is great. I’m looking forward to working with you.” The smile, the teeth, the cocked eyebrow—what a package. He must’ve had every sorority girl in the city at his fingertips.

“Your previous attorney, Kevin Mahoney, will be working with me as a consultant. But since he hasn’t been released from the hospital, you need someone else to take the lead.”

“I get that. Cool.”

“You understand that the court has denied your motion for a further continuance?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the trial starts up again Monday morning at nine o’clock sharp. We’ve chosen not to ask for a mistrial, and the judge hasn’t done it
sui sponte
—he’s probably concerned about double jeopardy. So it’s same place, same judge, same jury. The only change is that you’ll be a solo defendant and you’ll have me sitting next to you at counsel table.”

“Monday. Man.” He stretched, flexing his biceps, which sent a ripple through the tattoo on his upper arm:
BETAS FOREVER
. “Are you going to be able to get ready in time?”

“I’ll have to be. Fortunately, my predecessor kept good files and careful notes. I’ve already started devouring them. And Kevin may be feeling puny, but he’s also bored to tears. So he won’t mind helping. Don’t worry, Johnny. I can handle it.”

“You’re going to try the case alone? By yourself?”

Christina drew in her breath. “I have a partner. But he’s been unable to assist so far. Ben Kincaid.”

“Kincaid? I’ve heard that name.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s who Mom wanted.”

Christina leaned forward. “What?”

“Yeah. When I was first arrested. I remember Mom mentioning his name several times.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Ended up hiring that Mahoney guy.”

Christina’s brow furrowed. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Johnny, I’ve read Kevin’s notes, and I read the transcript of your initial police interrogation, but could you please tell me what happened that night? In your own words.”

A lot of the flash went out of his smile as she drew him back to the main subject. “I’d rather not. What do you need to know?”

“Well, I gather you don’t deny that you and your friend beat up Tony Barovick.”

“Hey, he was coming on to us. Right there in the bar!”

“And you thought that made it okay—”

“Oh, sure, it’s easy to criticize after it’s all done, but how would you feel if some guy came out of nowhere and started hitting on you?”

Flattered. “You thought he was making sexual advances?”

“And staring at me like I was a piece of meat. Really creeped me out.”

Christina inhaled. “Johnny, I gotta be straight with you. The fact that a gay man supposedly came on to you in a singles bar is not going to fly as a defense. The prosecutor will crucify you.”

“Well, it’s sick!” He threw himself back against his chair. “I mean, why can’t those people keep to themselves?”

“I’m sure he—”

“I mean, they always say they just want to be free to live their lives, but the truth is they’re always out there promoting their lifestyle.”

“He might’ve thought you were gay.”

“I am not gay!” His words boomed out so loudly Christina didn’t need the phone receiver to hear him. His face was transformed; all the charm drained out of it. She was suddenly glad there was an acrylic barrier between them. “I am 100 percent straight! Always have been.”

“Johnny—”

“I want us to be absolutely clear on this, lady. I am not some goddamn queer.”

“Johnny—”

“And I don’t want anyone suggesting that I am.”

Christina gritted her teeth. “Do you want to die? As in, lethal injection?” He fell silent. “Because that’s what’s gonna happen if you go into that courtroom talking like this. I guarantee it. The press has been demanding that someone pay for this crime. The DA has lost one defendant. He’ll do anything possible to avoid losing you. And if you go up on the stand behaving like this, he won’t even have to try hard.”

Johnny thrust his hand against his forehead, staring at the ceiling. “Man. This whole mess sucks so bad.”

“Yeah.” She thumbed through her papers. “So would it be safe to say you were the one who instigated the attack?”

“No way, man. It was Brett—Brett all the way. He was a firecracker.”

Christina didn’t know if that was supposed to be good or bad. “He was the one who started it?”

“Absolutely. I think he went a little nuts, to tell you the truth. Lost it. I mean, I just thought we’d rough the kid up a little, you know? Teach him a lesson. But that wasn’t enough for Brett. He wanted the kid to hurt. He brought the Taser. He insisted on breaking his legs.”

“And you just stood there and watched?”

“Kinda. I mean, I’m not saying I did nothing, okay? But it was mostly Brett.”

Christina didn’t know whether to believe him or to assume this was the usual game of blame-the-dead-guy. Putting the blame on a codefendant was a standard defense maneuver. But would the jury buy it here, when the codefendant has been executed on national television? It might seem too convenient.

“Brett would’ve never stopped. He wanted to keep at it, even after he did both legs. I was the one who pulled him off, finally got him out of there.”

“Now that’s something I wanted to ask you about,” Christina said. “You say you left Tony in that vacant lot?”

“Right.”

“And when you left him, he was still alive?”

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely. He was hurtin’, to be sure. But alive.”

“Then how did his very dead body end up in your fraternity house?”

“Don’t you think if I knew that I would’ve said something before now?” He thumped his hands against the acrylic. “Somebody else must’ve come along.”

“A third man? Who also had a psychopathic hatred of gay men?”

“Something. Someone who could get the kid back to Beta house.”

“But you have no idea who it was?”

“No.”

“Or why anyone would do such a thing?”

“No.”

Christina puffed out her cheeks. She wished to God Ben were here. He was good at handling the impossible ones. She was considering switching to a wills-and-estates practice. “I’ve read the M.E.’s report, Johnny. She says what you’re describing is impossible. She says Tony was killed in the fraternity house shortly before the body was found.”

“I don’t care. She’s a liar.”

“The coroner? Hard to imagine.”

“Are you sayin’ I’m lying?”

“I’m saying the physical evidence doesn’t support the testimony you’re presenting. If you appear before the jury with that, you’ll go down in flames.”

“It’s what happened.”

“You’re going into that courtroom with multiple strikes against you, Johnny. The city is up in arms. The gay alliance groups are demanding action. The national news agencies are outraged. Basically, everyone wants to see you convicted, and the jury knows it. If they even get a hint that you’re lying to them—”

Johnny sprang out of his seat. “Why does everyone care so much about a goddamned fag! It isn’t fair!”

“Johnny, calm down.”

“Explain it to me, would you? Why some fuckin’ queer has more rights than I do?”

Christina eyed the door. If the guard outside heard this, their interview would be terminated but quick. “Johnny, please sit down.”

“If we’d beat up some white Christian guy, no one would care. A woman, even. Big deal. But because we took out a pervert, suddenly I’m public enemy number one.”

“Johnny, you can’t talk like that.”

“Why not?” he bellowed. “Don’t we have the First Amendment anymore?”

“You’re right, Johnny. We do.” She banged against the window to get his attention. “So I guess you’re going to have to make a choice. Do you want to express your constitutionally protected opinion, or do you want to live?”

Johnny lowered himself back into his seat, glaring.

Where did this kid come from? Christina asked herself. What could give birth to enmity of this magnitude? Normally, she would blame his parents, but Christina had met the guy’s mother and she seemed like a perfectly nice, well-educated person. Where had he gotten his indoctrination into hate?

“This is the sort of thing I should expect from a lawyer. Hell, not even Jesus loved lawyers.”

“Excuse me?”

“ ‘Woe unto you, lawyers! For you have taken away the key of knowledge.’ That’s what our Lord and Savior said. In Luke.”

Thanks so much for making my day . . . “Look, kid, I’ll level with you. I don’t know if I can win this case or not. I’ve read Kevin’s files, and what little defense he was planning to put on won’t cut it. This story about someone else coming along and moving the body won’t cut it. We need something more.”