William Bernhardt - Death Row

“Hey-it’s job security. Don’t knock it.”

“Don’t you get tired of being the AG’s gofer?”

Weintraub appeared indignant. “Who’s a gofer? I’ve outlasted three attorneys general and four governors. I run the place. They take orders from me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You should never have left the DA’s office, Ben.”

“After the big blowup with Bullock? I had no choice. Not that it matters. I like choosing my own cases.”

“Well, if this is an example of what you choose, you were better off doing government work.”

A rustling from the back of the courtroom told them the judge was making his way out of chambers. “Well,” Weintraub said, “time to put on my self-righteous-law-and-order-zealot face.” He skittered back to his own table.

“All rise.” The judge’s clerk stepped out of chambers and called everyone to attention. “This court is now in session. The Honorable Richard A. Derek presiding.”

Ben’s jaw fell three inches lower. “Did he just say-”

Christina nodded solemnly.

“We were supposed to get Holmes. This is Holmes’s courtroom. The clerk told us it was going to be Holmes.”

“It seems the clerk was wrong.”

The two attorneys watched as Judge Derek, Ben’s former nemesis at Raven, Tucker & Tubb, slowly walked to the bench, a grave expression on his face. He was, as always, extremely handsome. There was more gray flecking his temples these days, but predictably it just seemed to augment his underwear-model good looks.

“Why him?” Ben muttered under his breath. “Why did it have to be him?”

“Stay calm,” Christina whispered.

“How can I stay calm? The man hates me. He goes out of his way to make my life miserable.” He cast his eyes upward. “Why couldn’t it be Ellison or Seay or Eagan -”

“Isn’t she a Republican?”

“Even so. Better a judge who wants to hang the defendant than one who wants to hang the defense attorney.”

Derek stopped on his way to the bench to harangue his clerk. Ben couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could tell the poor underling was getting a major chewing-out. Probably forgot to pick up Derek’s dry cleaning or something.

Ben sighed. The man hadn’t changed a bit in the years since they had both been at Raven. This was going to be a disaster.

Derek took his seat, placing his hand against the side of his head. He made it look like a scratch, but Ben knew better. He was checking the lie of his toupee. A more vain man never lived.

Derek gazed out into the courtroom. As soon as he laid eyes on Ben, his expression soured.

“Great,” Ben muttered. “Just great.”

His shoulders heaving, Derek read from the papers already on his desk. “This is Case Number CJ-675-03D, In Re the Habeas Corpus Petition of Raymond D. Goldman. Are counsel ready to proceed?”

Weintraub stood. “We are, your honor.”

Christina nudged Ben. “Go for it.”

Ben shook his head. “No way.”

“What do you mean, no way?” she hissed. “You can’t back out now. Think about Ray.”

“I am thinking about Ray,” he whispered back. “And guess what, Christina? You just became lead counsel.”

“Did I mention that I don’t want to be here?” Mike asked.

“No,” Baxter said wearily. “But I’m sure you will.”

Mike watched as the mourners-and there weren’t many-filed past the gravesite. Did Erin really have so few friends? he wondered. Or did the fact that her death was commonly believed to have been a suicide keep people away? Had she had so much trouble reuniting herself with the real world, after the tragedy she had endured?

A few of the ten or so people in attendance at Erin Faulkner’s funeral Mike recognized from the organ clinic-Dr. Palmetto, for one. But most he didn’t know. And as he watched, it seemed to him that most of them didn’t know one another, either.

In the movies, Mike thought, it was always raining at funerals. But not here, not today. The sun was shining and it was unseasonably warm. Some of the attendees were probably melting in their black clothes. Didn’t seem right, somehow. This was play weather. This was a day for the park. Not Bartlett Cemetery.

He and Baxter kept a good distance away so as not to be a distraction, but not so far that Mike couldn’t pick up scattered words and phrases. “We need not grieve for this woman,” he heard the minister try to assure those present. “Now she is home. Now she is at peace.”

“I think coming to Erin ’s funeral to conduct interviews is in incredibly bad taste,” Mike muttered.

“It wasn’t my idea. Sheila Knight requested that we meet her here. And I thought that as long as we’re doing one interview here…”

“This is the sort of idea that might appeal to a new cop, but anyone with any seasoning would know better.”

Baxter’s face clouded over. “I’m new to Tulsa, Morelli. I’m not new.”

Mike watched as the minister with the red scarf around his neck closed his small Bible. The interment rites would soon be over. “We should’ve met her at her home.”

“She specifically said she didn’t want us to come to her home.”

Really? That was interesting. “Then you should’ve made her come downtown.”

“And if she said no? Leave me be, Morelli. Go hit on one of the mourners or something.”

Mike shoved his fists deep into his coat pockets. “And furthermore, I hate funerals. I didn’t even go to my father’s funeral, and I adored him.”

Baxter shrugged. “We all have to die sometime.”

“Right. ‘Send not to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’ “

“Is that more of your poetry?”

“It’s Donne.”

“Thank goodness.” The funeral was over, and the assemblage was beginning to break up. “I’m going to talk to Sheila. Maybe you could track down the boyfriend.”

Because you don’t want me horning in on your interview with Sheila? Messing up the girl talk? “No, I’ll do Sheila. You find the boyfriend. He’s probably the young guy in the cashmere coat.”

Baxter frowned. “Sure you don’t want me along? It might involve some… you know. Women’s issues. Girl stuff.”

What Baxter obviously wanted, Mike realized, was for him to tell her he needed her. That she might be useful. Which he wasn’t about to do. “I’m sure. It’ll save time.”

“Suit yourself.” She started toward the gathering, then stopped. “But try not to make any remarks about her panties, okay? That sort of thing can really mess up an interview.”

Derek’s face was so flushed and angry Christina began to wonder about his blood pressure. “Are you telling me you want this court to grant relief based upon your hearsay testimony regarding the statements of a woman who is not only not present-but dead?”

“That’s about the size of it, your honor.”

“Ms. McCall, the only reason I have not already thrown you in jail is that I know you are a recent graduate and that you’ve probably acquired your understanding of evidence law from your co-counsel.” Derek’s quick glance in Ben’s direction was enough to send chills down his spine. “That could account for a multitude of sins. Incompetence is contagious.”

“I have researched this, your honor,” Christina said firmly. “There is precedent for making hearsay exceptions. For instance, the rule regarding dying declarations.”

“Which this isn’t.”

“Granted, but it only missed by a few hours.”

“You’re not helping yourself, Ms. McCall.”

Maybe not, but she wasn’t going to let him bully her into stopping the attempt. He might terrorize Ben, but to her he was just a blowhard with an overinflated ego and a bad hairpiece. “There are also hearsay exceptions pertaining to any situation where the declarant is unavailable.”