Naked Justice (9 page)

“Let me guess,” Ben said. “You’re on strike. Look, I don’t blame you, but until some of our clients pay their bills—”

He stopped. The huge ear-to-ear grins on their faces told him that wasn’t it. “Okay, what, then? Is today my birthday or something?”

“Where have you been?” Christina said, wrapping her arm around his shoulder and pulling him into the office.

“At Forestview. I had to take Joey to school, and then there was this big sign-up for the spring bake sale—”

“Never mind that.” Christina pushed him into a chair while the other two huddled around. “We’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning.”

“Why?”

Jones leaned forward. “I got a call the minute I came into the office, Boss.”

“And?”

“The mayor wants you!”

Ben fell deep into thought. Was this about that incident with his daughter at Forestview last Friday? It was just a little bump. And she ran into him …

“Can you believe it, Skipper?” Loving grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “The mayor wants you!”

“That’s nice … I guess.”

Christina cut in. “Ben, do you even know what we’re talking about?”

“Well, actually … no.”

“The biggest cause célèbre to hit Tulsa in years, and you’re totally clueless. What were you doing last night?”

“Well, let me see. I had soup for dinner, then I read
Goodnight Moon
to Joey about eight thousand times. After he went to sleep, I finished my Trollope novel …”

She slapped her forehead. “I can’t believe it. Everyone in the state watched the chase last night. Except, of course, you.”

“Chase? What are you talking about?”

“Ben, the mayor has been charged with murder.”

“Murder!” The light slowly dawned. “And he wants me to get him off?”

Christina and Jones and Loving all exchanged a glance. “Well,” Christina said, “he wants you to represent him, anyway.
Entre nous
, I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high on the outcome.”

“What do you mean?”

Christina grabbed his arm. “I’ll brief you while we drive to the jailhouse.”

Because Mayor Barrett had specified that he wanted to see Ben alone, Christina (after considerable protest) agreed to cool her heels outside while Ben went into his cell to talk to him.

“Don’t worry about me, Christina,” he told her. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about us.”

“Come again?”

“I’m afraid you’ll do something idiotic like not agree to represent him.”

“In fact, I do have some reservations …”

“See! It’s starting already. You’re going to veer off on some wacky ethical tangent, and we’re going to go hungry.”

“Just let me talk to him. Then we’ll see.”

She grabbed him by the lapels. “Ben, promise me you’ll take this case.”

“We’ll see.”

“Ben!”

“We’ll see.”

Ben allowed the guard to lead him down the long metallic corridor. Mayor Barrett had the cell at the far end, a private suite, such as it was. A five-by-seven cell, with a bunk bed, a sink, and an open-faced toilet. Not exactly the mayor’s mansion.

He was lying on the bottom bunk, his hands covering his face. When he moved them, Ben saw black and red lacerations on his face, and a bandage wrapped around his jaw and the back of his head.

The guard let Ben into the cell, locked the door behind him, then disappeared.

“How do you feel?” Ben asked.

“Better than I have a right to feel.”

“My legal assistant told me you were in a traffic accident.”

Barrett tried to smile, although between the bruises and the bandages, his face didn’t have much give in it. “I crashed into a brick building with four cop cars, two television helicopters, and about half the world watching. Like I said, I’m better off than I have a right to be.”

“Jeez. What were you doing?”

“Trying to kill myself,” he said, with a matter-of-fact air that caught Ben by surprise. “As it was, I didn’t even break a bone. Goddamn air bags.”

Ben paced nervously around the tiny cell. There was nowhere to sit, so he stood awkwardly by the cell door and contemplated the dominant question.

This was a part of criminal defense work that Ben particularly hated. Most criminal defense lawyers never asked the question. Since defending a client you knew was guilty raised a million ethical difficulties, most lawyers preferred not to inquire.

Ben, however, wanted to know the truth. He wanted to know where he stood. If he was going to put his name and reputation on the line, particularly in what was certain to be a high-profile case, he wanted to know he was doing the right thing. As his old mentor Jack Bullock used to say, he wanted to be on the side of the angels. But with such a horrible, heinous crime, how could he possibly ask?

Barrett sat up suddenly, hands on his knees. “Ben, I want you to know something up front. I didn’t do it.”

Ben gazed at him, his face, his eyes.

“I did not kill my wife. I did not kill my two precious daughters. How could I?” His eyes began to water, but he fought it back. “I couldn’t do anything like that.” He stared down at his hands. “I couldn’t.”

“I’ve read the preliminary police report. Neighbors say you and your wife had a disagreement yesterday afternoon.”

Barrett nodded. “That’s right. We did. I’m not going to pretend we didn’t.” He spread his arms wide. “It was that kind of marriage. We fought sometimes, like cats and dogs. But we still loved each other.”

“What was the fight about?”

Barrett shrugged. “I hardly remember.”

“The prosecutor will want to know.”

“It was something about the kids. She thought I was spoiling them, giving them everything they wanted. Undermining her authority. And not paying enough attention to her. We’d had this argument before.”

“How many times?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know. Many.”

“Were these fights … violent?”

He twisted his head around. “Violent? You mean, did I hit her? Absolutely not.

“Well, I had to ask.”

“Look, I don’t know what people are saying about me now, but I would never hurt my wife. Or my girls. They’re the most precious things in the world to me.” His voice choked. “Were. I couldn’t hurt them. Don’t you think that if the mayor of the city was a wife beater, it would’ve come out before now?”

“I suppose.” Ben pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket and began taking notes. “So you had an argument. Then what?”

“I can barely remember. It’s all such a blur. And smashing into a brick wall didn’t help.”

“Just tell me what you recall. We don’t have to get everything today.”

“Well, I got mad. That doesn’t happen often; most times I can just laugh it off. But this time she really got my goat, suggesting that I was hurting the girls and all. So I stomped out of the house.”

“You left?”

“Right. Got in my car and drove away.”

“How long were you gone?”

“I don’t know exactly. Not long. Maybe an hour. I got a Coke at a Sonic—you can check that if you want—and I started to feel bad. So what if we disagreed on a few minor points. I loved my wife, and I loved my family. I didn’t have any business running out like that. A strong man stands up straight and faces the music. So I headed back home.”

“What happened when you got there?”

“I was in such a hurry, I left my car on the street and ran into the house. And—”

“Yes?”

He hesitated. “And then … I found … them. What was left of them.”

“They were already dead?”

“Oh, yeah.” His eyes became wide and fixed. “My wife was spread out like … like some sick human sacrifice. And my little girls …” Tears rushed to his eyes. His hands covered his face.

“I’m sorry,” Ben said quietly. “I know this is hard for you.”

Barrett continued to cry. His whole upper body trembled.

Ben took a deep breath. He hated this. He felt like a vulture of the worst order, intruding on this man’s grief with these incessant questions. Guilty or not, he was clearly grief-stricken. “Can you tell me what you did after you found the bodies?”

“I freaked.” He wiped his nose and eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I just freaked. Ran out to my car and tore off. Without a word to anyone. Stupid, I know. But I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t thinking at all. I just knew I had to get away from all that awful, hideous—death. And that blood. I kept thinking, I gotta go, I gotta get away from all this. It was like a chant, an order, running through my brain. Like maybe, if they weren’t right there in front of me, it didn’t really happen.”

“I can understand wanting to leave. But I can’t understand what you were doing on the Indian Nation Turnpike.”

“I don’t know, man. I was just running scared. Trying to escape reality.”

“Some people have suggested that you were running to Mexico to hide out from the police.”

“Well, they’re wrong. I just had to get my head clear. Had to admit to myself that they were really”—he stopped short of the word, then spoke its euphemism—“gone.”

Ben cleared his throat. “My office assistant told me you were seeking representation.”

“Let’s put our cards on the table, okay, Ben? I don’t want representation. I want you.”

“So my secretary said. I have to tell you—I’m a little surprised.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know each other that well.”

“I know your reputation. That comes with being mayor.”

“There are dozens of good attorneys in town. With more experience than I have. You could hire anyone you want. Forgive me, but … this just doesn’t make sense.”

There was a small change in Barrett’s expression, not a smile, but a tiny tugging at the corner of his lips. “Can I be blunt?”

“Of course.”

“My case is going to be assigned to Judge Hart.”

“How can you know that? The assignment won’t be made until after the preliminary hearing.”

“Ben, I’m the mayor, okay? I know.” He stretched out his arms. “Now my sources at the courthouse tell me there are a lot of good attorneys, and a lot of attorneys that Judge Hart likes. But, they say, you’re a particular favorite.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do. It’s a fact.”

“Even if that were true, it wouldn’t matter. Judge Hart is a smart, professional judge. She’s not going to give you any breaks just because she likes me.”

“I’m sure she would never intentionally show any favoritism. But when all is said and done, all other things being equal, wouldn’t you rather be represented by the guy the judge likes than the guy she doesn’t?”

Ben couldn’t argue with that logic.

“Look, I’ll give you whatever you want. How about a ten-thousand-buck retainer up front? You can charge me a hundred and fifty an hour, even though I know you normally don’t get half that much, when your clients pay at all, which from what I hear isn’t that often. So when can you start?”

Ben fidgeted with his briefcase. “I haven’t decided—”

“What’s to decide?”

“Well … it’s very complicated …”

Barrett’s eyes slowly narrowed. “You think I did it, don’t you?”

Ben averted his eyes.

“You think I killed my wife. You think I killed my two little girls.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what the jury thinks—”

“Yeah, but that’s why you won’t take the case. Right?”

Ben met him eye to eye. “If I don’t believe your story myself, how can I make a jury believe it?”

“What is it you don’t believe?”

“Everything. Leaving at just the wrong moment and coming back to find them all dead.”

“That’s how it happened!”

“Well, whether it did or didn’t, a jury will certainly have difficulty believing it.”

Barrett folded his arms. “All right. So that’s one problem. What else?”

“The crime itself is a problem. Forgive me. I know you must be upset about all this, but I have to speak honestly. Everyone in your family was killed except you. The public hates survivors; they always assume there must be a reason why one survives when others don’t. And who can blame them? They can believe a father—an athlete—in the heat of passion loses his head and kills his family. But if you didn’t kill them, who did? Who else could possibly have a motive to eliminate your entire family?”

“Ben,” Barrett said, after a long pause, “how much do you know about politics?”

“Very little.”

“Well, it’s a dirty game.”

“What are you saying—that your political enemies did this?”

“I just announced I was running for reelection.”

“I can’t believe anyone would commit such a horrible crime for political reasons.”

“That’s only because, as you just admitted, you know very little about politics.”

“Why would anyone kill your family?”

“To put me right where I am now.” He spread his arms wide. “Look at me. I’m in jail, not likely to get out any time soon. My reputation is shot. Even if I’m acquitted, most people will assume I was probably guilty. My political career is ended. Over. Hell, if they’d killed me, they’d just get my chosen successor. This way, they’ve rubbed the Barrett administration right off the map.”

“I can’t believe anyone would do that.”

“You can’t believe someone would commit murder to make millions of dollars?”

“Millions? But you said—”

“I’m talking about kickbacks, Ben. Municipal construction contracts that always seemed to end up in the same hands. Until I came on board and cleaned things up. Believe me, there are some heavy hitters in this town who want me gone, erased, and the sooner and more thoroughly the better. They don’t like having their hand taken out of the cookie jar. Especially,” he added, “not by a black man.”

“But a crime like this.” Ben shook his head. “Three murders …”

“Oh, hell, the creeps I’m talking about wouldn’t do the murders themselves.”

“Then—”

“Ben, you’re not really this naive, are you? These days you can hire a hit man for a thousand bucks. Hell, you can find their advertisements in the backs of magazines.”

“You’re saying a professional hit man did this?”

“Is that so incredible?”

“Frankly, yes.”

Barrett was quiet for a moment. “Ben,” he said finally, “did you read the description of the murders in the police report?”