William Bernhardt - Dark Justice

“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.

The 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.