Dark Justice (29 page)

“Thanks, Sheriff. And please pass on my thanks again to Deputy Andrews. If it hadn’t been for him, that mob would’ve torn those Green Ragers apart.”

“Will do.” The sheriff tipped his hat. Ben saw him glancing in Christina’s general direction. “By the way, do you suppose—”

“Sorry. We work during lunch when a trial is in progress. Probably dinner, too.”

“Oh. Well. Too bad.” He shuffled into the back of the gallery and found an empty seat.

Ben turned his attention to his client. “How’re you doing, Zak?”

“I’m fine. What the hell’s happening to Green Rage?” His forehead was creased with anger.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, first Al, then Rick in the hospital! Rick and Maureen and Tess kidnapped and whipped. Deirdre’s equipment smashed. The camp destroyed.”

So he’d had a visitor. Someone who’d brought him up-to-date. Ben had intentionally not told him anything; he wanted his attention focused on the trial and the trial alone. “It’s retaliation, of course,” Ben said. “They’re trying to get back at you. Trying to scare you off.”

“Man, this is unacceptable! I’ve put too much time into this organization. I do not want to see it destroyed.”

Ben laid a hand on his shoulder. “Zak, I know this is important to you, but it’s not what this trial is about. Right now I need your energy focused on this courtroom. One hundred percent.”

“I can’t just overlook—”

“You can and you will,” Ben said as forcefully as possible. “I’m not going to waste my time trying to get you cleared if you’re not going to help. Understand? This trial is going to be plenty tough. I need you pulling with me. Got it?”

Zak frowned. “Got it.”

“Good. Now face front and try to look like you just stepped off the set of
Leave It to Beaver
.”

Zak smirked. “When do we get started?”

“Should be any minute now.”

Christina appeared at his right and deposited a notebook and a tall stack of file folders on the table. “Here’s your trial notebook,” she said, pointing. “I think it’s got everything you need. The list of jurors in the initial pool is up front.”

“Thanks, Christina. You’re the greatest.”

She was looking a bit blurry-eyed, but Ben knew she was doing her best to mask it. Granny had finally delivered photocopyable documents on Saturday afternoon. Christina had spent the entire day and most of Sunday trying to catalogue the exhibits and get them into shape for use at trial. In addition to all her usual pretrial duties. He didn’t know when she’d managed to do it all. But he was grateful that she had.

“Sorry you had to be up all night.”

She shrugged. “
C’est la guerre
.” She pointed toward the nearest stack. “These are copies of all the exhibits the prosecution anticipates they might get to on the first day of testimony. We probably won’t get that far, but just in case.

“And tomorrow’s exhibits?”

“Done.”

Ben nodded. Christina was always thorough and prepared—and then some. She really was a treasure. One he probably didn’t appreciate half as much as he should.

Not as much as Sheriff Allen, anyway.

“You’re a lifesaver, Christina.” Ben glanced up at her. “Christina, are you … all right?”

Her forehead crinkled. “All right? What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just wondered if … you know. Everything’s going all right.”

The crinkles deepened. “What a strange question.”

“It’s not a strange question. You’re a—a close friend and a coworker. Why is it strange to ask how you’re feeling?”

“Because I’ve been working with you for years, and you’ve never once inquired into my feelings. Are
you
feeling all right?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” She punched him on the shoulder. “Concentrate on the trial, champ.”

“Right.” Ben glanced at his watch, then out in the gallery. “Excuse me for just a minute.” Ben strolled down the nave till he arrived at the last row of the gallery, right-hand side. Slade was still sitting there, alone. “Come to watch the fruits of your labor?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Slade gazed up with his usual placid, unruffled expression. “I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with this murder.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past you, Slade. When is all this hate-mongering going to stop?”

“Again, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, I think you do. You promised me something big was going to happen, and sure enough, it did. Now Green Rage has another man in the hospital and their camp has been destroyed. Thousands of dollars of equipment have been ruined.”

“Green Rage has cost the logging industry millions of dollars.”

“I’m not talking about lost profits, Slade. I’m talking about dispatching thugs to frighten and torture people.”

“I have never condoned violence and I never will.”

“Bull.”

“It’s true. Violence is inherently counterproductive, as this whole incident has proven. Not twenty-four hours after the Green Rage people were attacked, they struck back against the loggers.”

“Who then struck back against Green Rage, right?”

Slade didn’t answer.

“What’s happened to Tess O’Connell, Slade? Where is she?”

No one had seen Tess since the day of the last pretrial hearing. Her car had been found on a side street just off Main, smashed into the side of a grocery store. Blood was found all over the steering wheel. But there was no trace of Tess.

“Where is she, Slade? What have your goons done to her?”

“Again, I must protest. I know nothing about this … Tess.”

“Right. Just like you know nothing about the murder of Dwayne Gardiner. I think you’re lying, Slade. And as soon as I have some time, I’m going to get to the truth about you and your nasty organization.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that when I’m done with this trial, you’re next.”

“You’re going to file some sort of action?”

“As a lawyer, as a writer—I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. But I am coming after you. I’m going to expose your disgusting little Cabal for the corporate horror it is.”

Slade leaned forward. His lips thinned, and his voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. “You’re out of your league, Mr. Kincaid. Crawl back to your hole in the prairieland. You’ll be nice and safe there. But don’t mess with me.”

“Because you’re so strong and powerful?”

Slade did not break eye contact. “You have no idea.”

The conversation was interrupted by a booming voice from the front of the courtroom. “Oyez, oyez, oyez. This court is now in session. The Honorable Tyrone J. Pickens presiding.”

Despite himself, Ben felt a small clutching at his heart. This was it, then.

The trial was beginning. Ready or not.

T
HE FIRST ORDER OF
the day was jury selection. This was the part of the trial many lawyers said was the most important, and the part Ben most hated. When it came to eliminating jurors, he had learned to trust Christina’s instincts—because he had learned to distrust his own.

After all the work, all the investigation and preparation, witness interviews and evidence examination, document reviews and notetaking and everything else, it came down to this—choosing the twelve people who would sit in that box and decide whether George Zakin lived or died.

Ben listened attentively as the bailiff pulled names out of a hopper and announced them. Christina jotted the names down on his juror seating chart, then pulled whatever rudimentary information had been provided about each of them in advance.

“Charles Candy,” the bailiff called out. “Jack Holstein. Nancy Cooper.”

The names rushed in and out of Ben’s brain. They didn’t mean a thing to him. He focused on watching the people, trying to learn what he could with his eyes. Herbert Coburn was in his sixties, maybe seventies, but he approached the jury box with a slowness that was not related to his age. He didn’t want to be here. Jack Holstein wore his hair longer than the Magic Valley norm, and he looked as if he might be part Native American. Would that make him more sympathetic to Zak’s ecological fervor? It seemed a long shot, but that long shot might be the only one Ben got. Nancy Cooper couldn’t pass through the center aisle of the courtroom without stealing a quick look at Zak. She knew who he was and she knew what case was about to be tried. And Ben got the definite impression she would love nothing more than to see a guilty verdict slapped across his forehead.

Or maybe he was being ridiculous. Was he trying to read too much into a quick glance? He leaned toward Christina and whispered in her ear. “What do you think about Cooper?”

“Definitely not,” Christina whispered back, not looking up from her chart.

Ben beamed. Maybe his instincts weren’t so bad after all.

He continued watching while the bailiff called thirty-two people up front. Folding chairs were added to the jury box so everyone would have a place to sit. The idea was to have enough people for a jury of twelve with two alternates—after each side had exercised its nine peremptory challenges. If any jurors were dismissed for cause, they would have to call more names.

Judge Pickens made a few preliminary remarks. Nothing Ben hadn’t heard before. Thank you for serving as jurors. Important to listen attentively and answer the lawyers’ questions to the best of your ability. Anyone who can’t serve for medical reasons. The usual drill. Judge Pickens worked briskly through the essentials in an efficient, matter-of-fact manner. And he didn’t appear to be trying to influence the outcome. Not yet, anyway.

Judge Pickens also walked the jurors through some of the preliminary questions the lawyers were certain to ask. He introduced every person in the front of the courtroom—lawyers, assistants, Zak—and asked if anyone knew them. He asked each juror to give his occupation, to tell whether he or she was married, and if so, what their spouse did. He asked if any of them had ever been a member of an organization called Green Rage (none) or if they had ever worked for a logging company (fifteen). Which, Ben couldn’t help noting, was six more people than he had peremptory challenges.

Eventually it was time for the actual voir dire to begin. Being the prosecutor, Granny got first dibs. This was an advantage of incalculable value. She had the first chance to make a good impression, the first chance to try to convince them that everything she said was God’s honest truth and everything Ben said was a crock of balderdash. For someone skillful enough to use it properly, it was a priceless opportunity.

And Granny turned out to be very skillful indeed.

Ben wasn’t surprised. In a matter of minutes, he observed the combination of talent and style that built a rep that got her elected D.A. at such a young age. She came on strong and confident, but at the same time, she seemed to understand that there were lines she had best not cross. If she came on too strong, she would lose some of the jurors, particularly the older men, those most likely to mark her down as bitchy. If she came off too weak, of course, she wouldn’t get what she wanted. She found a middle ground, a place likely to impress all while alienating no one.

Her dress reflected the same understanding of the necessary compromise. She was dressed in a light blue business suit—not quite cold, but not entirely warm either. A scarf around her neck provided a splash of color, a hint of femininity.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she said. She positioned herself just before the rail that separated the courtroom proper from the jury box. “We are asking you this day to serve on a jury that will consider a matter of grave importance, the gravest in our entire criminal code. Important issues are at stake—issues involving law and justice, the need for order in society, the importance of punishing wrongdoing. Obviously, with issues of this magnitude, it is critical that we have a jury that can adjudicate the evidence with a fair and open mind—a jury that won’t shy away from the hard duties, that won’t hesitate to do what has to be done when the time comes.”

Ben could only marvel. She was an extremely effective speaker and advocate. She was already subtly pitching her case, already urging them toward conviction—and she hadn’t even mentioned the case at hand. This common practice was, of course, entirely inappropriate. But she had given Ben nothing to object to.

Granny maintained an earnest but grave expression on her face. “I probably won’t be revealing any secrets when I tell you that the case this jury will be asked to hear is a murder case, a capital murder case. The prosecution will be asking the jury to impose the maximum sentence. And that’s why I have to ask the following questions.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. Usually, prosecutors saved till last the unpleasant business of making sure the jury was
death-competent
—that is, able to deliver the death penalty if the evidence supports it. Apparently, Granny wanted no wimps on this jury. Given the fervor with which she went after it, Ben got the impression she wanted twelve venirepersons willing to push the plunger in the lethal syringe themselves.

“Is there anyone here who thinks they might not be able to vote for the death penalty? Even assuming the evidence proved guilt beyond a reasonable doubt? Anyone at all. Please, look deep into your hearts and try to be honest about this. Better that we find out now than that you find out later when you’re in the deliberation room.”

At first no one responded. Then, like bashful schoolchildren, three of the jurors raised their hands. A quick glance passed from Granny to Judge Pickens. Pickens thanked them for their time and excused them from the jury. Three replacement jurors were called.

Granny continued hammering on the death penalty for at least another forty minutes. Then she explored other possible grounds for jurors to be excused for cause—people who didn’t believe in trials on religious grounds, people who had been previously convicted in criminal trials, and so on and so on. What she talked about almost not at all, Ben noted, was the enormous amount of local pretrial publicity and the possible bias it might cause. It wasn’t hard to guess why Granny omitted this topic. Apparently she felt any pretrial publicity could only be to her benefit.