Hate Crime (9 page)

“Like what?”

“Like proof that you didn’t kill Tony Barovick.” But only mangled and mutilated him. That’s all.

“How are we going to get that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll get my investigative staff on it immediately.”

“You think they’ll find something?”

“I can’t possibly predict that. But I know this.” She leaned forward. “If you don’t cooperate with me, we will lose.”

He stared through the acrylic at her.

“If you start spouting off in court, we’re history. You’ve got to do what I say, when I say it. Including keeping your mouth shut. And be nice about it. Got it?”

He saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

She began stuffing her notes back into her briefcase. “And one last requirement. You absolutely positively cannot keep secrets from me. None. I don’t care how bad it is. If there’s anything you haven’t told me, anything at all, I want to hear about it. Before the DA does.”

“Understood. I mean, I will.”

“I hope you mean that. I really do.” She rose. “I’ll be back tomorrow. There are some papers I need you to sign. In the meantime, your assignment is to search that little brain of yours for anything that might help your case. Even the tiniest detail. Maybe something you never told the police or Tony or anyone.”

“Well, I’ll . . . try.”

“Good.” She stood. “Can I give you one last piece of advice?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“Don’t talk.”

He craned his neck. “You mean . . . to the police?”

“I mean to anyone. Not the cops, not the guards, not your cell mate. No one.” She smiled. “You’re in serious trouble, Johnny. So don’t make it worse than it already is.”

8

As Christina took the elevator up to Kevin Mahoney’s twentieth-floor office in the heart of the Magnificent Mile, all she expected was a pleasant pneumatic ride. And Kevin’s office! Compared to what she was used to working out of, it was like setting up shop in Taj Mahal. Gorgeous bay windows in every office looking down on Michigan Avenue. Nice clean carpet, modern art prints on the wall. The way a law office was supposed to look.

Except not today.

In the elevator lobby, covering the brass nameplates and the rest of the wall, was a spray-painted drawing of an upraised clenched fist. Beneath it were the words:
NO MORE HATE. DEATH TO FASCISTS
!

She took a deep breath, then slowly released it.

In the corner, Christina spotted a man with a digital camera photographing the display. He was obviously a professional.

“
Tribune,
or
Sun-Times
?”

He looked up from his viewfinder.
“Tribune.”

“How’d you know?”

“Anonymous call. Group called ANGER.”

“And you really think this is newsworthy?”

“Are you kidding? This is front-page art. My editor loves a strong graphic. Hey, do you work here?”

“For the moment.”

“Mind posing in front of the fist?”

“As a matter of fact.”

She pushed past him and entered the lobby. Jones was sitting out front, having totally taken over the space normally occupied by Kevin Mahoney’s receptionist. He had a phone in each hand and a stack of pink message slips as thick as a sandwich.

“There you are!” he said. “Thank God. The phone has been ringing off the hook.”

“Why?”

“Morning papers announced that you’ve taken over the Christensen defense. You wouldn’t believe how angry some people are about it.”

“Because, of course, bad men aren’t entitled to attorneys.”

“That’s pretty much their view, yeah.” He passed her the messages. “Here’s more than twenty protests.”

“I saw some of that in the elevator lobby. What’s ANGER stand for?”

“Act Now for Gay Equal Rights.”

Christina pondered a moment. “Why is that name familiar?”

“The guy who shot your client’s codefendant was a member of ANGER. One of the local leaders, actually.”

“So we’re talking major extremists.”

“A lot of these people are threatening violence if you don’t drop the case. Not against the hatemongers—against you. Us. Letter bombs and stuff. Paula’s pretty concerned.” He wiped his brow. “I know I was in favor of taking this case, but now I’m wondering if we need to give this some more thought.”

“I gave his mother my word, Jones.”

“Nonetheless—”

“I’ve filed papers with the court. It’s a done deal.” She scanned the messages. “I don’t suppose any of these are supportive?”

“Actually, there was one. Even offered to help finance the defense.”

“Super! ACLU?”

“Nah. Some ultraright fundamentalist group. God’s Chosen, or something like that. Wants to support Christensen the holy crusader in his battle against the sodomites.”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Holy crusader. More like ignorant putz who joined the wrong fraternity.” She tossed the messages into her briefcase. “Has Loving’s plane come in yet?”

“Yeah. And Paula came up with him. They’re in the kitchen scarfing doughnuts.”

“Good. Team meeting in ten minutes. Main conference room.”

“Sure. Will Ben—?”

“Has he left Tulsa?”

“Not to my knowledge. What’s up with that, anyway?”

“Don’t know. But I’ve got some suspicions. I’ve got a call in to his mother.”

“In Oklahoma City?”

Christina shrugged. “Something my client said made me think there might be some history on this.”

“But—isn’t she kind of . . . frosty?”

“Says Ben. I adore the woman. Who knows, if I can squeeze in a visit, we might have time to go shopping.”

She knew she was wasting her time, even as she dialed the phone. But she couldn’t help herself.

“Ben, would you please reconsider—”

“No.”

“You don’t have to go to court. Just stay in the background. Give me the benefit of your wisdom.”

“No.”

“Ben, who’s gonna know?”

“Will she be there?”

Christina hesitated. “You mean Mrs. Christensen? Well, of course she—”

“My answer is no.” There was a staticky pause on the line. “Now I have to get back to my work.”

“Ben, I’ve known you since the day you started practicing, and you’ve never behaved this way.”

“What way? Smart?”

“As if you don’t care. About”—don’t say it, she told herself—“anything.”

“I don’t know what you’re babbling about.”

“Ben, don’t shut me out. Tell me what’s going on.”

“What’s going on is that I have a lot of work to do. And so do you, apparently.”

She hesitated. “Ben—I missed you last night.”

After a painfully protracted silence, she hung up the phone.

A girl hears the strangest things when she walks into a conference room unannounced.

“Cutter-Sanborn? No one uses Cutter-Sanborn.”

“Well, they should.”

“You can’t turn your back on two hundred years of library tradition.”

“Times change. The U.K. is way ahead of us on this.”

“It’s a losing battle, Paula. Dewey Decimal is here to stay.”

“I’m not trying to junk it. I’m just saying Cutter-Sanborn is a viable alternative.”

Christina cut in between Jones and Paula, his wife, who worked as a reference librarian at the downtown Tulsa City-County library. “Is this another one of those fascinating library science debates?”

“Can you believe it?” Jones said. “She’s advocating a whole new system of cataloguing.”

“A much better one,” Paula insisted.

“Has poor Linda Saferite in a tizzy. What an idea! I mean, I’ll admit there are advantages. But any change would be unforgivably burdensome to the rank-and-file librarian.”

Christina shook her head. And they called lawyers nerds. “Look, team, we’ve got a major case on our hands and less than a week to get ready for it. I need everyone’s cooperation.”

“Ain’t the work mostly done already?” This came from Loving, their investigator. He was a large, physically imposing man. When she’d first met him, Christina assumed he’d be able to extract information from people just by hovering over them and snarling. And although he never ruled that out, as it happened, he was usually far more subtle. And successful. There was a brain rattling around somewhere in that massive down-home frame. “Mahoney’d already started the trial when that wacko broke into the courtroom with the gun.”

“I’ve read through Kevin’s files,” Christina said. “And here’s the bad news. He didn’t have squat. He was going down in flames and he knew it.”

“Why didn’t he plea-bargain?”

“None offered,” Christina said. “Too much publicity. The DA was sure of his case. I’ve been reading Tony Barovick’s journal. He was a fascinating young man. I keep hoping I’ll find a clue in there somewhere—but so far nothing.”

Jones threw up his hands. “Then what are we going to do?”

“That’s what we’re here to discuss.”

“Christina, think for a minute,” Jones said. “I’m used to this never-say-die attitude from Ben. But you’ve always been the sensible one. So do the sensible thing. Ditch this case.”

“I told you already. I can’t.”

“Give the court some excuse. Temporary insanity or something.”

“Sorry.”

“Why should we risk letter bombs? I’m not even sure it will be good publicity. Getting creamed in a case that’s getting national attention is not going to attract clients.”

“We have to be tough. To boldly go where no lawyer has gone before.”

“Split infinitive, Christina,” Paula said. “You know I think we girls should stick together. But I have real concerns. This kid killed a man in cold blood.”

“He says he didn’t.”

“Well, of course he—” She drew in her breath. “Listen, Christina. I know everyone is entitled to a fair and able defense. But this is a hate crime.”

“I remember a very similar discussion a few years ago. When Ben insisted on representing that racist in Arkansas. I told him I wouldn’t be any part of it. But Ben insisted he was the only chance the kid had at anything like a fair trial. And he was right.”

“So where’s Ben now?”

Christina closed her eyes. “Look, people, I can’t waste time. Are you with me or not? I need to know.”

The three other people sitting at the table looked at one another. It wasn’t long before Loving spoke. “We’re with ya.”

“Absolutely,” Paula said. “No matter what.”

“Right,” Jones said. “Even if we go bankrupt. Even if we all get blown to smithereens.”

“Thanks, Jones.”

There was a knock on the door. Ellen Christensen stepped in. Christina showed her to a chair and introduced her to everyone. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for taking the case.” Christina was impressed by how gracious she was. Quite a contrast from her son. “I—saw what they did. Out in the lobby. I’m sorry.”

“No big deal. Happens to us all the time.” Jones opened his mouth. Christina cut him off. “Mrs. Christensen, you know your son better than anyone. Can you give us any insight into what happened?”

“I really can’t. Johnny is my late husband’s son—my stepson—but I’ve been with him so long I feel as if he is my son, and I think he feels the same way. His biological mother died when he was quite young. We used to be very close, till he went off to college.”

“You lived in Toronto?”

“Until a few years ago. My husband was an executive in a major energy firm. Was eventually transferred to Chicago. Johnny’s grades were never great, but my husband’s friends managed to get him into U of C.”

“How much do you know about this fraternity he’s in?”

“Not much. I wasn’t crazy about the idea, but Johnny’s father had been Greek, so Johnny was determined to do it, too. Do you think it’s been a problem for him?”

“Maybe. When I was in school, frats were mostly hotbeds of sexism. But Johnny’s clan seems to have favored homophobia. Some of them, anyway.”

“You think he fell in with a bad group?”

“Well, his former codefendant, Brett Mathers, sounds as if he was a real hard case. According to Johnny, he did most of the brutal beating.”

“Then Johnny should not be charged with murder.”

Christina shook her head. “Sorry, ma’am, but according to the DA, he participated in a felony that led to homicide. That’s felony murder.”

“But surely a lesser penalty—”

“Felony murder is still murder one. And Illinois has a hate crimes statute on the books—which has been upheld by the Illinois Supreme Court. Maximum penalty is death by lethal injection. And I can promise you, the DA plans to go for the maximum.”

“Do you think . . . Is there a chance . . .”

Christina was never one to pull punches. “If the jury thinks Johnny killed that kid out of pure malice against homosexuals? I’d call the death penalty a certainty.”

Mrs. Christensen pressed her hand against her forehead. “I just don’t understand it. Larry and I were very involved in Johnny’s education. We taught him to be tolerant, not prejudiced. We’re actually very liberal.”

“There’s no explaining these things, ma’am. They’re kids—not photocopies.”

Mrs. Christensen’s eyes started to water. What an ordeal this must be, Christina thought. The sole remaining parent, dealing with a crisis of this immensity. Facing these accusations against her oldest son. Facing the possibility of his death. Christina wondered how she could bear it.

“Is—is there anything you can do?”

“Yes,” Christina said, gazing around the table. “And we’re going to get started immediately. Paula?”

“Yes?”

“Hit the stacks. Get me background on the victim—Tony Barovick.”

“Okay . . . but if he was an essentially random target for a hate crime—”

“Make no assumptions,” Christina cautioned her. “If we accept all the DA’s assumptions, we’ll end up with the DA’s result. I want to learn something new.”

“Okay . . . I’ll look, but—”

“Jones? Get on the Internet and check out this fraternity, Beta Theta Whatever-It-Is. See what you can find out about it. See if anything like this has ever happened before.”

“You got it.”

“Then run a deep background check on this ANGER group. And its members. Especially the local leaders.”

“Okay . . . but why?”

“It may be nothing. But having a member pop up out of nowhere and take out one of the defendants? I don’t know. Something about it makes me suspicious.”