William Bernhardt - Capitol Offense

“I don’t have to think. I know. I’d do the exact same thing, except I’d do it the first day and I’d use a bazooka.”

Ben smiled. “And then claim temporary insanity?”

“And then claim justifiable homicide.”

“You’d go to prison.”

“It would be worth it.” She grinned a little. “What about you, you hopeless romantic, you? What would you do?”

“I-certainly wouldn’t be happy.”

“Oh, not so much emotion, Ben. I’m going to swoon.”

“But murder? I don’t think I could ever do that. Under any circumstances.”

She wrapped herself around his arm and pulled him close. “I know that, sweetie. I wouldn’t want you to.”

“I know that, too.”

They both fell silent. They stared out for a long while, watching the city arise.

“We have a good life,” she said.

“It’s because of you.”

“It’s because of us, you silly.” She kicked open the portal door. “Come back to bed.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Who said anything about sleep?”

His head tilted to one side. “Scrabble?”

She gave him a long look. “Yes, that’s it. Scrabble. You goat.” She rolled her eyes and descended the ladder. “The things a woman has to put up with…”

“You’re sure you haven’t heard anything from Loving?”

“I’m sure, boss.”

“Not even a hint? A disconnected call?”

“No.” Jones handed Ben his mail. “Not a coded letter. Not a message in a bottle. Not a cuneiform tablet etched in ancient Sanskrit. Nothing.” He pushed away from his station, juggling phones and files and messages all at the same time. “What were you expecting? The trial is over.”

“I know. I just… hoped. That he’d call in with something.”

“Ride in with the cavalry at the last minute and save the day?”

“I never said the day needed saving.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The front door opened and Christina sailed into the room-then tripped. Her briefcase fell to the floor and skidded across the tile floor.

“Whoa there.” Ben ran to her side and helped her back to her feet. “You okay? You seem a little unsteady.”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t complaining.” She glanced over at Jones. “Any word?”

“No.”

“Have you talked to Dennis?”

“He’s standing by. Wringing his hands. Worried sick. Do you blame him?”

“No. I don’t. Talk about torture.”

The phone rang. The three of them stared at it. No one moved.

Ben made a small cough. “Jones, I believe this is your job.”

Jones picked up the phone. “Hello?” He listened for a good long while, then put down the receiver.

“And?”

“The jury has reached a verdict.”

Despite the fact that every single seat in the courtroom gallery was filled, there was a strange silence as they waited for judge and jury to return. Even with all the reporters in the rear, each of them eager to hear the outcome and relay it to their masters, there was a pronounced funereal atmosphere.

Ben couldn’t help but flash back to his nightmare, his mental horror movie. With himself essaying the role of the executioner.

“They were out a long time,” Dennis said, wringing his hands. “What does it mean when they’re out a long time?”

“It means they’re out a long time.”

“So there must have been some disagreement, right? Like at least one person believed what we said.”

“It’s possible.”

“And it only takes one, right?”

Ben’s throat was dry. “It’s not a hung jury. They’ve reached a verdict. One way or the other.”

Dennis’s eyebrows knitted close together. Ben could see he was in turmoil, but there was simply nothing he could do for the man at this time.

Guillerman entered the courtroom but did not stop to chat with Ben. No taunts, no bragging, no speculation. The trial was done. He apparently had no more use for collegiality. Ben was relieved.

A few minutes later, Judge McPartland entered the courtroom. His opening remarks were brief and to the point. He did caution the reporters that he wanted no inappropriate outbursts or disruptions when the verdict was read, although Ben had a hard time seeing what he might do about it, unless he had wired the seats to produce electric shocks. They would all be gone before he had a chance to issue sanctions.

When the preliminaries were complete, the judge signaled his bailiff. A few moments later, the man reappeared with the jury trailing behind him.

Ben saw that Mrs. Gregory, the elderly woman with the cat, had been chosen jury foreperson. He hadn’t seen that coming. But then, he had tried many cases and he had never correctly predicted the foreperson yet.

Over the years, Ben had heard so much contradictory speculation about the meaning of whether the jury looked at the defendant as they reentered the room that at this point he preferred not to even watch. He stared straight ahead as they took their seats. Why speculate? They would all know soon enough.

“Would the foreperson rise?” the judge said. Mrs. Gregory complied.

“Have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, your honor.”

The judge signaled the bailiff again. He took the piece of paper from Mrs. Gregory and brought it to the judge. The judge glanced at it with a perfect poker face. Then he passed it back to the bailiff, who returned it to the foreperson.

“You may read the verdict.”

Mrs. Gregory cleared her throat and began. “In case number C-09-8563, the State of Oklahoma versus Dennis Fitzgerald Thomas, on the charge of murder in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant…”

Why did they always have to pause there? Why?

“… guilty as charged.”

Ben felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. A gnawing hollowness replaced it. He reached for the edge of the table and missed it.

Dennis stared at him wordlessly.

“Pursuant to the guidelines set forth in the judge’s instructions,” the foreperson continued, “we recommend that the defendant, having been found guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree, should be sentenced to execution by the most expedient legal means.”

The judge polled the jury, but Ben was barely aware of it. “Is this your verdict?” It was, in all twelve cases. “The court will accept the jury’s recommendation.”

Ben felt as if he had been dropped into a vacuum chamber. It was almost as if it were happening somewhere else, somewhere far away from him. The clamor of the reporters, the applause from the prosecution table, the banging of the gavel, all in some faraway land.

“I want to thank the jury for their service. I know this has been a long and burdensome trial, particularly after you were sequestered, and I want to thank you for your cooperation.”

The judge turned to face Dennis. “The defendant will be immediately rendered into the custody of the county authorities. Bailiffs.”

Two officers swooped in from the sides, one on either side of Dennis. Ben spotted two marshals in the rear of the courtroom. They were ready.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Dennis asked, tears springing from his eyes.

“I’ll visit you as soon as they allow it,” Ben replied. “We will begin immediate work on your appeal.”

“Do we have grounds?”

Ben didn’t answer. The truth was, he couldn’t think of any procedural errors. But he and Christina would put their heads together and come up with something.

One of the bailiffs pulled Dennis’s arms back and slipped on a pair of handcuffs.

“Stop this, Ben,” Dennis said, weeping profusely. His voice broke. “Please stop this.”