Naked Justice (55 page)

“So,” Barrett said, with a painfully unconvincing smile on his face, “what do you think?”

Ben shook his head. “I never try to predict what a jury will do.” Especially not this time.

Barrett nodded. “Sure. I understand.” He pressed his hands together. “Well, however it turns out, I want you to know—you did a good job. No matter what happens, I’ve got no complaints. I’ll pay your fee in full, as promised.”

Ben smiled. “Well, that will make my creditors happy, anyway. Not to mention my staff. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even be able to get a new Honda.”

Barrett grimaced. “Honda? Ben, think big. You’re a celebrity now, man. How about a BMW? Better yet, a Jag.”

“I don’t think so. I’m not the type.”

“So you say. Try driving my XJS convertible for a week. You’ll never go back to Hondas, believe me.”

Ben leaned back in his chair. “Well, we’ll see.”

There was a long pause. Barrett stared at his hands for a long time.

“Ben,” he said quietly, “do you think they believed me?”

Ben closed his eyes. “I hope so, Wallace. I really hope so.”

It was barely two hours later when they got the word that the jury was returning.

“Wow,” Barrett said. “I thought we’d be here all night. At least.”

“So did I,” Ben echoed.

“How did they make up their minds so quickly? What does it mean?”

Ben didn’t answer. The O. J. Simpson case aside, traditional trial lawyer wisdom was that a speedy return meant a guilty verdict. He opted not to share that nugget of wisdom with Barrett.

The jurors took their places. The television cameras came on and white-hot lights burned across the courtroom. The tension and suspense in the room were almost unbearable.

Just get it over with, Ben thought. Just get it done.

The piece of paper went from the foreman of the jury to the bailiff to the judge. Unfortunately, Judge Hart did not use color-coded jury forms; Ben had no way of knowing what it said till it was read aloud. He tried to scan the jurors’ faces, hoping to pick up a clue. But every face was set and solemn. No one was telling. And, he noticed, no one was making eye contact with Wallace Barrett, either.

Judge Hart’s eyes scanned the verdict form. The judge then returned it to the bailiff, who passed it back to the foreman.

“Madame Foreperson, have you reached a verdict?”

Juror Number Six rose. “Yes, your honor. We have.”

Judge Hart nodded. “The defendant will rise and face the jury.”

Wallace Barrett did as instructed, Ben at his side.

“Well,” the judge said, turning back toward the jury, “the whole world is waiting. Give us your verdict.”

T
HE FOREWOMAN CLEARED HER
throat, and her hands began to tremble, as if, given the judge’s instruction to proceed, she suddenly became aware of the enormous number of people listening to her words, breathlessly awaiting what she had to say.

“We the jury, duly formed and constituted pursuant to the laws of the great state of Oklahoma, having heard the evidence set forth against the defendant, who has been charged with murder in the first degree of Caroline Barrett, Alysha Barrett, and Annabelle Barrett, three human beings and citizens of this state, do hereby find and declare the defendant to be—”

She paused, catching her breath, while everyone in the courtroom held theirs in suspense.

“
Not guilty!
”

Ben gripped Barrett by the shoulders. Barrett slapped Ben’s hands, his eyes closed, and his face relaxed for the first time since the trial had begun. “Thank you,” he said, just under his breath. “Thank you for believing me. Thank you so much.”

The courtroom went totally out of control. Pandemonium ensued— a flurry of shouts, cries, and rushing feet. The gallery was blanketed by a blinding glare of flashbulbs and key lights.

Judge Hart pounded the gavel, trying to reestablish control. “Is that your verdict?” she shouted.

The jurors nodded.

“So say you one, so say you all?”

Again, there was no dissent.

“Marvelous.” She thanked them, then dismissed them, warning them that they were not required to speak to the press, the lawyers, or the parties unless they chose to do so. Finally she looked down at Barrett, smiled, and said the magic words. “Mr. Barrett, you have been found not guilty of the charges against you. You are free to go.”

There were cheers from the back of the courtroom. Judge Hart dropped her gavel and stepped down from the bench.

Barrett embraced Ben, his face overcome with relief and joy. “Did you hear that? Did you
hear
it?”

Ben smiled and clasped his shoulder. “I heard it. Congratulations!”

“Congratulate me? Hell, you did all the work. I oughta carry you outta here on my shoulders!”

“A handshake will be fine, thanks.”

Ben held out his hand, but Barrett gave it a yank, pulled Ben close, and gave him a huge bear hug. “I can’t thank you enough, Ben. I really can’t. You’ve saved my life. I owe everything to you.”

“Nonsense. You were innocent, so you weren’t convicted. It’s that simple. Despite what some people think, the justice system does work. At least most of the time.”

Barrett pulled away, wiped his eyes, and straightened his tie. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll have a few words with the press.”

Ben nodded. He supposed Barrett had earned that right. For weeks now, he’d been living with biased reports that implied, if not declared, his guilt. How could he possibly resist the opportunity to ram all those words down their throats?

Ben heard a voice, barely discernible above the clamor. “So you got another one off.”

Ben closed his eyes. “Bullock, I’ve had about as much of you—”

He whirled around. It wasn’t Bullock. It was Judge Hart. And she was smiling. “Just teasing,” she said.

“Oh. Right.” Ben tried not to appear puzzled. The joking judge? “Is there … something I can do for you?”

“No.” She seemed hesitant, as if unsure herself what exactly she was going to say. “I just wanted to … congratulate you.”

Ben blinked. What? Since when? “Thank you, your honor.” Congratulations from the judge? What on earth was going on?

“There was something else …” She glanced over her shoulder, obviously making sure none of the media reps were listening in. “When we were in chambers this morning … you remember?”

Ben nodded. He did, although it was hard to believe that it was only this morning. It seemed like a million years ago.

“When that juror—Ms. Meanders—told us what she knew, gave us the names of her daughter and her boyfriend, Buck … I noticed how astonished and surprised you were.”

“Yes,” Ben agreed. “I was.” His forehead creased. “If my behavior was inappropriate, I apologize.”

“No, no, it was entirely natural, given the circumstances. What was unnatural was”—she glanced over her shoulder again—“your worthy opponent. Mr. Bullock. Did you notice him?”

Ben shook his head. “I guess I didn’t.”

She nodded. “As I said, you were astonished. But he was … not. Which seemed very odd to me. And the other odd thing was that, when your investigator tracked Buck down and brought me his full name so I could issue the subpoena, I was almost certain I had heard it before.”

“Really? Where?”

“That’s what I wondered. It took me a while, digging through the file, before I figured it out.” She paused, frowned. “It was on the prosecutor’s preliminary witness list. You’ve never seen it. It was something they filed with the court in camera to get warrants and subpoenae issued. I checked it myself. Sure enough, Bradley J. ‘Buck’ Conners’s name was on it.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “He knew.”

Judge Hart nodded. “He did. I don’t know how exactly, but somehow in the course of the investigation, after Bullock had already charged Barrett, he tumbled onto Buck. Brought him in. Interviewed him. And did nothing.”

“He knew Barrett was innocent?”

“I don’t know about that,” the judge said. “It’s possible he thought the Buck connection was unimportant, that he couldn’t get Buck to admit he’d been out to the mayor’s home, and that he still thought Barrett was guilty. Probable, in fact. But what’s unforgivable is that he withheld Buck’s name from you—the defense. Buck’s testimony clearly would tend to exculpate Barrett. He had a duty to inform you. But he didn’t.”

“He wanted to win that bad.”

Judge Hart agreed. “So you can understand why I’ve been somewhat … well, less than charitable to Mr. Prosecutor today. I considered calling a mistrial, but since the information had come out, and we were so close to a resolution, I decided against it. If the jury had voted to convict, I would’ve declared a mistrial
sua sponte
, but since the man has been acquitted, and since the eyes of the entire world are upon us …”

“I understand,” Ben said.

“Still, I wanted you to know. And I wanted to congratulate you. Sincerely. This business of treating trials like they’re intramural scrimmages—us against them, shirts against skins, anything to win—it’s just repugnant to me. Practicing law is not about winning. It’s about justice. Simple, naked justice. It’s about finding the truth. People like Bullock and his police cronies who disregard leads that don’t point the way they want them to seem to have forgotten that”—her eyes met Ben’s—“but you haven’t.” She extended her hand. “Thanks, Ben.”

“My pleasure, your honor.”

Judge Hart returned to chambers, and Ben was confronted by a barrage of reporters shouting questions. He tried to be cooperative, for his client’s sake, but his heart wasn’t in it. These people had made it virtually impossible for his client to get a fair and impartial trial. He wasn’t going to play nice-nice now.

Ben pushed his way through the reporters to the back of the courtroom. Christina was waiting for him; when he approached, she threw her arms around his neck. “Congratulations, champ. I knew you’d come through.”

Ben grinned. “Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without your help.” He noted the many boxes of files and documents beside her. “Let me help you with some of that.”

She held up her hands. “No way, hero. Jones and I can manage. You deserve a rest.”

“Well, if you insist.” He grabbed his coat. “I’ll meet everyone back at the hotel room in half an hour, okay? We should celebrate. Room service, maybe even. I’m buying.”

“You’re on.”

Ben pushed through the remainder of the courtroom into the hallway. He managed to clear a path to the elevators, waited the usual interminable length of time for one to come, then stepped inside.

Just as the elevator doors were about to close, a tall young man Ben didn’t recognize darted between the doors.

“Just made it,” the man said. The doors closed behind him. “Going down?”

“All the way.” The man punched one.

Conforming with usual elevator etiquette, they stood on opposite sides, folded their arms, and didn’t speak. Until, as they dropped below the fourth floor, the other man said, “Bet you’re glad that’s over.”

“Definitely.” Ben smiled politely. Who …? Must’ve been in the courtroom, although Ben didn’t recall seeing him. A journalist, perhaps? He hoped not.

“I have to say, I was surprised. I thought your client was guilty as sin.”

“A lot of people made that mistake.”

“In fact, I would’ve bet on it.”

“Well,” Ben said cheerily, “you would’ve lost your money. Barrett isn’t a killer. He isn’t the type.”

The elevator glided past the third, then the second floor. “Isn’t he?”

Ben turned his head slowly. “No, he isn’t. He doesn’t have the killer instinct.”

“Oh, I never thought he had that,” the other man said, just as the elevator touched down on the first floor. “I just thought he had a … sick heart.”

B
EN FELT THE HAIRS
prick up on the back of his neck. “What did you say?” he whispered hoarsely.

“I think you heard me.”

The bell rang and the elevator doors began to part. Ben threw himself toward the doors, but he was too late. The other man knocked him to the side and hit the close button.

Ben scrambled up and found himself face-to-face with a pistol. “Don’t think I won’t shoot,” the man said. “I will. I want to. I’ve been dreaming about it for weeks.”

“What is it you want?” Ben asked, gasping.

“For the moment, I want you to walk out of this building, without attracting any attention, and to get in your car. Your rental car. I’ll be your passenger. Do it right, and I won’t shoot you or anyone else. Do something stupid and I’ll shoot you and everyone else in sight. And there are a lot of people in this courthouse right now.”

Ben eyed the young man carefully. He didn’t doubt for a moment that he was capable of carrying out his threat. “I’m parked downstairs. Near the city building.”

“I know.”

The man holding the gun released the close button, and the doors slid open. A crowd was waiting to get on. One of them, a reporter probably, recognized Ben and shouted something at him. Ben ignored him and walked on by.

“That’s it,” the man said. He had concealed his gun in his coat pocket, but Ben knew it was still trained on him. “Just stay quiet and keep walking.”

Ben walked through the doors onto the plaza outside the courthouse. It was dark now. They walked to his rental car without passing anyone Ben knew. He had secretly harbored hopes that they would meet someone who would realize something was wrong—Mike, perhaps, or Sergeant Tomlinson. But it didn’t happen.

Ben slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. The man with the gun in his pocket took the passenger side. “Good so far,” he said. “Now drive to the River Parks. And don’t try to be clever, understand? Don’t wave at a cop car or drive into a telephone pole. Try anything like that and you’ll find a bullet in your brain. And then I’ll take out your friends back in the hotel room and everyone in that goddamn boardinghouse of yours. Understand?”

Ben’s lips thinned. “I understand.”

“Good. Drive.”

Ben pulled out of the parking garage onto Fifth Street. His brain was racing. What was he going to do? There must be some way out of this, but for the life of him—literally—he couldn’t think what it was. What would Mike do? he wondered. Mike would probably refuse to cooperate, would throw himself at the man. Mike might get away with it, too. But Ben knew perfectly well that if he tried it, he would just end up a bloody blot in a Thrifty rental car.