William Bernhardt - Capitol Offense

“Not yet. But I’m workin’ on it. If I get lucky, I might pick somethin’ up.”

“Then get lucky.”

“Do my best. I got a report on that loser who tried to shoot your guy at the press conference.”

“Yeah? Who was he? Cop? Cop relative?”

“Not even close.” He handed Ben a report. “Name’s Lars Engle. Student in the English department. Had some classes with Dennis Thomas. Apparently knew his wife, too, at least a little. In fact, he said he wanted to work with Thomas on his master’s thesis. He was like, a fan.”

“Those are always the dangerous ones.”

“You’d think a fan would be supportive. Not dangerous.”

“And if that were true,” Ben said, thumbing through his messages, “John Lennon would still be alive.” He slapped Loving on the back as he headed on down the hallway to his office. “Get someone to talk, Loving. Pour on some of that homeboy natural charm.”

“Well, if you put it that way…”

“I do. Get me something I can use.”

Ben was pleased to see Christina and Dennis waiting for him in the main conference room. Dennis looked better every day. Much of the debilitating residue of his stay in jail had washed away. He was a healthy young man and Ben knew he had been exercising regularly, getting fit, getting tan, getting ready to make a good impression in the courtroom.

Dennis spoke first. “Have they found out anything more about that nut at the press conference?”

“Not much.” He quickly scanned Loving’s report. “I’m surprised you don’t remember more about him. He was certainly into you in a big way. Spends most of his spare time reading or on the Internet. Likes to go to the Tulsa World website and post anonymous opinions on their bulletin boards. With zero accountability, he was free to say anything. Apparently he posted messages about you more than twenty times with increasing bitterness. Course, no one noticed. Until he pulled out a gun.”

“I don’t even know why those pages exist,” Christina said, throwing down her pencil. “They’re just catnip for people who feel powerless and voiceless. ‘No one else will listen to me, so I’ll post uninformed opinions on this unmonitored bulletin board.’”

“I think the key word is anonymous,” Ben replied. He remembered a few threatening emails he’d received that had not amused him at all. “Anonymous messages are the last refuge of the cowardly.”

“And apparently,” Dennis added, “the psychotic.” He flipped a page on his legal pad and changed the subject. “Thanks for giving Christina and me a chance to get to know each other better, Ben. I think we’ve managed to bond.”

Ben glanced at Christina, but he wasn’t seeing a bonded expression on her face.

“I want Christina to appear at trial with us,” Dennis continued. “In fact, I’d like her to sit beside me. Close beside me. I want the jury to see that she likes me. That she isn’t scared of me. If she isn’t scared of me, why should they be?”

“We can arrange that,” Ben said.

“But I’m charging double for the liking part,” Christina added.

“From what I read,” Dennis continued, “more than half the jurors will likely be women, so having a woman at our table is prudent. Can we get someone black?”

Ben’s lips parted, but no words came out.

“To sit at the table with us. A big chunk of the jury will also likely be black. And Hispanic. The Tulsa jury pool tends to draw disproportionately from the north side.”

Ben took a deep breath and scribbled on his pad. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I mean, it’s important that the jury feel commonality with me, right? Makes it easier for them to sympathize?”

“You are very well informed, Dennis. As usual.”

“And coldly logical about it, to boot,” Christina noted quietly.

“I understand you’re going to appear on Nancy Grace,” Dennis said, changing the subject.

Christina’s eyes widened. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. I think that’s a very bad idea.”

Ben averted his eyes. “I, um, haven’t made a decision yet.”

“Ben, she’ll tear you apart.”

“I don’t think that matters,” Dennis said. “Everyone expects Nancy Grace to be Nancy Grace. You can still make your case. Few potential jurors are likely to be watching CNN at that particular moment.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“The point is that the Tulsa World will almost certainly run an article about the fact that you will be or were on Nancy Grace , right?”

Ben considered. “Probably so.”

“And they’ll call you for your comment. And they’ll run it just as you give it to them. And six-tenths of the people in the potential jury pool will read it.” He folded his hands. “That’s the point.”

Ben wasn’t sure whether he should be very impressed or very afraid. Or whether, if Dennis avoided prison, Ben should hire him as a jury consultant.

Dennis continued. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to our affirmative defense. Temporary insanity.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced we should argue that I entered a dissociative state.”

“Why don’t we wait and see what the psychiatrist has to say?”

“Why don’t we plan out our defense and tell him what to say?”

“That’s not the way it works.”

“Oh, please. Offer him a lot of money.”

“I won’t buy testimony.”

“Can’t you prepare him to testify? Honestly, we’re just talking about giving him an idea what terminology he should use. I don’t see why that should bother him.” Dennis paused. “Especially if he’s getting paid a fortune. Make him earn his fee. Everyone else does.”

Christina pushed herself out of her chair. “This is about as much of this as I can take.”

Dennis appeared wounded. “What? Just when I thought we were starting to get along.”

“I will not be a part of this charade! This man is not grieving. He’s scheming! He’s got the whole thing worked out to the finest detail. Probably had it all worked out before he came to your office that first time and before he-”

“Christina!” Ben cautioned. “This is our client.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I think it’s time we had a serious come-to-Jesus meeting. Long past time, actually. This cold, calculating approach doesn’t persuade me.”

Dennis raised his chin. He looked at her firmly, steadily, but Ben had a hard time determining what was going on behind his eyes.

“Did it ever occur to you, Ms. McCall,” Dennis began, “that it might be easier for me to focus on the details of trial preparation than to think about what happened? Than to think about my wife, trapped in that car, bleeding to death, crying out for me, for some rescue or comfort, but no one coming, not me, not anyone else, for seven days? Did it ever occur to you that I might need a distraction from her voice, the one I hear screaming for me all night long, every moment?”

Christina fell silent. Ben supposed that meant he had made his point. At least for now.

“This does raise something we have to discuss, though, Dennis.” Ben laid his pad down on the table. “Listen to me and listen carefully. It doesn’t matter what Christina and I think. Or the media. But if that jury thinks for one moment that you’re trying to pull a fast one over them, you’re blowfish. History. And nothing I can do will salvage you. That’s all she wrote.”

“At the end of the day,” Christina said, “the most important thing is not that the jury believes you. The most important thing is that they like you. If they like you, they can forgive a lot. If they don’t like you, they won’t forgive anything.”