William Bernhardt - Capitol Offense

“What difference does it make? Chris is dead. Dennis Thomas took the rap. And here we are.”

“Yeah,” Loving said bitterly. “What are you gonna do with me?”

“Well, there’s really only one choice, right?” He walked away for a moment, then returned with something in his hands. “And it has to be done in a way that cannot be traced back to me. No clues. Not even a bullet.”

Loving stared with horror at the small stainless steel tube in Shaw’s gloved hands. “Don’t do it, Shaw. You don’t want this on your conscience. Do not do this.”

“Did you know they still haven’t identified Parsons? That’s how bad this stuff is. Tears you up like nothing else. Add that to the effect of the sun and critters, plus the fact that you won’t be found for weeks, probably years, out here in the vast desert.” He pulled out the plug in the tube. “It isn’t pretty. But it is necessary.”

“Don’t do this, Shaw.”

“Don’t have any choice.”

“Do you think this is what your sister would want? Do you? You said she was an angel. Would an angel want to live at the cost of so many others?”

“She will never know.”

“How can you be sure of that? Three people have died already.”

Shaw began to tremble. “Do you think I don’t already know that?”

Slowly, he tilted the brim of the tube. A silver-gray powder drifted downward onto Loving’s chest.

Loving’s eyes ballooned. He twisted from side to side, but he had been tied so tightly he could barely move. “Get that off me!”

“If it’s any comfort,” Shaw said, “you’ll be dead in about six hours. On the down side… it won’t be a very pleasant six hours.”

“Shaw!”

“Goodbye, Loving. You’ll understand, I hope, if I don’t stick around. Got an appointment to keep. And now that that stuff’s loose, I want to be as far away as possible.”

“This is wrong, Shaw! Wrong!”

Shaw turned away, covering his eyes. “I can’t stop it now, Loving. Don’t you see that? It’s gone too far. Too far. There’s nothing I can do.”

“There’s always something, Shaw. It’s never too late. You can do anything you want. You can be whoever you want to be. Get this stuff off me!”

Shaw shook his head. “No.” And then he disappeared.

“Shaw!” Loving bellowed as loudly as he could, but there was no response.

He heard the sound of a vehicle driving away. He was alone. In the desert. Under the hot sun.

The powdered cesium was burning him. Burning a hole straight through to his heart.

You can’t save everyone.

Ben stared out at the darkened city streets. He had climbed onto his rooftop perch, but tonight he found no solace there. The air was brisk, but it did not invigorate him. The electric blue moonlight cast a shimmering, ethereal glow around the midtown neighborhood, but the sense of forgiving and forgetting that he usually obtained here, at least in a small and temporary fashion, was not forthcoming. The streets were always busy on a Friday night. Everyone was going out to dinner, it seemed, and each of Tulsa’s restaurants would be packed to the brim. He and Christina usually stayed in, but it was fun to watch everyone else hopping about. Movie theaters would be packed with those anxious to get out of the house to see the latest Hollywood extravaganza in the eyeblink before it showed up on DVD. He could see a group of teenagers walking along, singing, shouting, raising a ruckus. A local gang? They didn’t look dangerous. Bored, mostly. Looking for something to do. Something to define their existence on a warm spring Friday night.

And what would Dennis Thomas be doing right now? Ben closed his eyes tightly shut. He didn’t want to think about it, but the imagery came unbidden. By now the booking would be complete. He’d be in coveralls tonight. Guards acting out power fantasies, or hiding their insecurities with bitterness. Either way, the effect would be equally unpleasant for Dennis. He would not be allowed to bring books. He would not be allowed a window. He would be put in a cold cellblock in a small room with someone he didn’t know and had nothing in common with until it was time to haul him away to the penitentiary where he would in all likelihood spend the rest of his life. However brief that might be.

Ben ran his fingers through his hair. Christina had tried to comfort him, of course, but it hadn’t worked. He not only didn’t respond to it, he resented it, if he were to be honest with himself. He didn’t want to hear a lot of claptrap about how he had done his best. What good was that? He hadn’t been asked to do his best. He had been asked to win. It was no consolation to hear that you can’t win them all. At this moment in time, there was only one case, and he had lost it. That was why Dennis was spending the night on a metal cot staring at the ceiling, wondering if he would ever sleep well again.

This was not like most cases. Ben had been reluctant to get into this mess at all, but that didn’t matter. He had taken the case, and he had bumbled and lost it. Dennis had placed enough trust in him to put his life in Ben’s hands. His faith had been misplaced. His gamble, lost.

To Ben it was never just a case, never could be just a case. He was there to help his client, to do the right thing, to try to extract a little justice from a system that had all too often forgotten that justice was its goal. He’d failed.

Why did he do it? Why was he driven to take these impossible cases? To defend the lost, the hopeless, and, as Jones would point out, the invariably unprofitable. Was he still desperately trying to prove to his long-dead father that he had not made a fatal mistake, not chosen a profession of no value? Or was he trying to prove something to himself? Was he trying to calm the demons roiling inside by showing that he had something to contribute, that he could make the world a little better, one case at a time? Was he trying to find his worth in his work, or was his work trying to tell him who he really was? And how long would Dennis have to suffer because Ben had tripped and fallen on his journey to find his life purpose?

Ben leaned back against the roof, wishing there was some way he could neutralize the thoughts racing through his head. Nothing worked-not food, not television, none of the usual diversions. He had tried playing the piano, the most natural mood elevator he knew. But he couldn’t get his heart into it. Not even a good Eliza Gilkyson tune could cure this angst. There would be no release, not even in sleep, when it finally came, because the sleep would be filled with dreams, and his dreams tonight would be nightmares, dark and nasty and remorseless.

Christina had reminded him that this had been an impossible case and that he’d still given the jury a lot to think about despite the absence of any facts or evidence to help him. Ben bought none of it. He had been trying cases for a good while now. He knew the score. The fact was, Guillerman had beaten him because he’d put on the better case. He had outmaneuvered and outfoxed Ben from the beginning. Seen him coming. Outflanked him. The courtroom was a battlefield, and Ben had been pummeled by enemy artillery. Decimated.

That stung.

You can’t save everyone, Christina had tried to tell him. And the logical part of his brain knew that she was right. But what he was feeling at this moment had nothing to do with logic.

He knew he wasn’t being fair to himself. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to be fair. He didn’t deserve it. On this warm spring Tulsa night, he had no memory of all those he had helped in the past. All he could remember was the man lying on the metal cot staring at the ceiling for what would be the first of so many sleepless nights, alone, apart, separated from everything he ever knew or loved. Until it was time for him to be put down. Because Ben hadn’t been able to save him.