William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

It had been maybe a month, living with Dean, when the man said, “Charlie, do you know what a chicken is?”

“Yeah. They sell ’ em at KFC.”

“That’s not what I mean. On the street, a chicken is a young punk like you who sells his body for money.”

“You mean, like a hooker?”

“ ‘Cept it’s a good-lookin’ hunk of a boy. Like you.”

“Why are you tellin’ me this, Dean?”

“Well, Charlie, you been livin’ here for more’n a month now. And I’ve took care of you. Took good care of you. Haven’t I?”

Charlie remained silent.

“But time comes a boy’s got to be a man. Got to take care of hisself. That time is here, Charlie. You got to carry your share of the load.”

In time, he moved out of Dean’s place, but never changed his line of work. It was just so easy, and it left so much spare time for other things. And he was good at it! He made women happy. There wasn’t anything trashy about it, not most of the time. He loved those ladies, and they loved him. What could be wrong with that? If only he’d stuck to the chicken work, and not gotten tangled up in the other mess…

But he had. And now that mistake could cost him his life.

He’d been trying to make enough scratch to get somewhere, but he didn’t have time for that now. The savings plan was on hold-it was fly or die. Even if he had to leave town on foot, he had to go. Because this person was smart. This person had some amazing resources.

He had to get to the bus station. He had enough to get somewhere, anywhere.

He climbed onto the city bus. He was beginning to feel calmer now. He wasn’t out of the woods, but at least he had a plan of action. He had options. He had hope.

All of which died the instant he sat down and looked out the window. The bus pulled away, but the face he dreaded most was back at the bus stop, smiling at him.

He’d been found.

“So you’re the guy my mom wanted in the first place?” Johnny Christensen said, peering through the protective acrylic panel.

Ben didn’t reply.

“Mr. Kincaid will be acting as my second-chair, Johnny. He’s doing it as a favor to me.”

“I see.” He rubbed a hand against his stubbled chin. “As opposed to doing it for me.”

“Or your mother,” Ben said, in a low tone.

“So how do you think our chances look?”

“I won’t lie to you,” Ben said. “The evidence has been stacked against you from the start, and we haven’t found much to counteract it. As I told you before, my cop friend is in Chicago and he has some interesting theories, but so far nothing that’s likely to help us in court.”

“Then you think… I’m gonna lose?” The color drained from Johnny’s cheeks. “You think they’re gonna fry me?”

“I can’t predict the penalty-”

“Well, I can. I’ve read the papers. If they find me guilty, I’m gonna be executed. I know I will.”

Ben couldn’t argue with his conclusion, especially given the Illinois hate crime statute. “Johnny, we’ll do everything we can.”

“I’m only seventeen. I don’t want to die.”

“We’ll do everything-”

“I’m so scared. All the time, scared. I can’t sleep. You know how much weight I’ve lost?” His eyes began to well up. “I don’t want to die.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you attacked Tony Barovick.”

“I didn’t kill him, man.”

Why pull punches? “Even if your story is true, the things you and your friend did were cruel beyond measure. You tortured a poor boy who never did anything to you.”

“I can’t help what I am,” Johnny said, his voice surprisingly tender. “The way I was brought up.”

“Your mother would never-” Ben choked his words off. “I can’t believe anyone ever taught you to hate people just because of who they are.”

“Are you kidding? At my church, the preacher used to come down on fags every other week! He told us homosexuals are all going to hell. That as Christians, it was our duty to try to lead people away from lives of sin.”

“So that’s what that beating was? A Sunday school lesson?”

“Since when were Christians ever afraid to use force? Even Christ tossed the moneylenders out of the Temple.”

“Did he break their legs?”

“Look, opposing homosexuals is part of my religion. You can’t criticize me for following my religion.”

I might, Ben thought silently. “Is religion important to you, Johnny?”

“Hell, yes. I sang in the church choir, you know. Even taught a Sunday school class. The Bible specifically speaks out against homosexuality. A hundred years ago, no one would’ve questioned it.”

“Yeah,” Christina said. “And schools were segregated. And women weren’t allowed to vote. And children went to work at the age of eight.” Having been down this road before, Christina knew it was a dead end. “Look, Johnny, we don’t have a lot of time, and we didn’t come here for a socioreligious debate. I just wanted your approval to add another lawyer to the case. And to ask you if you remember seeing anyone else at Remote Control the night you confronted Tony Barovick. Maybe someone who left the bar about the same time you did? Or Tony did?”

“There was another guy. He was hanging around the bar for a long time. I remember because… well, we talked about going after him. What he does is almost as disgusting as what Tony Barovick did.”

“What’s his name?”

“Probably not his real name. But everyone at Remote Control called him Charlie the Chicken.”

“Do you know where Mr. Chicken lives?”

“Nah. Why?”

Christina craned her neck. Talking into a phone receiver for so long made it stiffen up. “Just following every possible lead. If there’s anything else…”

“Look-” Johnny said, before she hung up the phone. “I know what the score is. I know you two don’t like me. You think I’m an ignorant putz. But I’m telling you-I did not kill that guy. Brett did not kill that guy. He was alive when we left him. I promise you. I promise .” His eyes began to well up again. “I’ll pay the price for what I did, but please don’t let them kill me for something I didn’t do. Please. Please. ”

“I just don’t get it,” Ben said as they emerged from the detention center. “How Ellen could raise a kid like that.”

“She’s only his stepmother,” Christina replied. “Maybe the damage was done before she was involved.”

Just as she had during the flight out of Tulsa, Christina continued to bring Ben up to speed on the case as she led him across the parking lot to their temporary offices in Kevin Mahoney’s suite. “I’ve got angles on all the prosecution witnesses,” she explained, “and I think I can deal with, if not totally defuse, most of them. But what I don’t have is a real defense. An alternate explanation. Kevin didn’t have one, either.”

“Any theories?”

“You know what Mike said. There may be a connection between his murder and ours-and it may have something to do with drugs.”

“That’s not much to go on.”

“Agreed. Without concrete evidence, the jury will just think we’re grasping at straws, trying to complicate an open-and-shut case. I’ve asked Vicki to go over the arrest records for-”

“Excuse me!”

Across the parking lot, Ben saw a young black man waving at them. “Could I speak with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “but I’m really pressed for time and-”

“Don’t mean to interrupt,” the man said, as he caught up to them. “But it’s the lady I want to talk to. Are you Christina McCall?”

She nodded.

“You’re handling the Christensen case?”