William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

And the Tarzan suit. Most of all, he would miss the Tarzan suit.

When they arrived at the terminal, Charlie stepped cautiously off the bus. He scanned the parking lot, the station-everything and everyone. He was so close. If he could just get out of town-surely that would bring this horror story to an end.

He went inside the station and got in line for a ticket. He didn’t have that much money, given the paltry share the escort service let him keep, but he had enough to get somewhere. Anywhere.

After purchasing his ticket, he took a seat in one of the clamshell chairs near the ticket booth. These seats must’ve been designed to discourage loitering, because they were as uncomfortable as anything he’d ever experienced. He had almost half an hour before his bus left. If he spent it here, he might incur permanent spinal injury.

He wandered over to the vending machines, bought himself a Coke and a Snickers bar. Comfort foods for the underprivileged, he told himself. And they tasted good going down, too. Maybe it was just the sugar rush, but his mood was definitely improving.

Any minute now, he’d see his bus roll up outside the front door and hear the caller tell them all to get on board. Best to take a quick bathroom break while he had a chance. He detoured into the men’s room, went to the urinal, took care of business, zipped up, turned around.

Surprise.

“Hello there. Long time no see.”

Charlie was so stunned he couldn’t think straight. He stuttered like an idiot. “W-w-what are you doing in here?”

“Looking for you, Charlie.”

He glanced at the door. A broom had been wedged through the handle. No one else could get in. No one could help him. He tried to edge away, but the obstruction in his path wasn’t budging.

“Look, I’m leaving town. I haven’t spoken to anyone and I don’t plan to. Keep the money. You can trust me.”

“My experience with trusting others has not been very good.”

Charlie could feel himself failing. His knees were wobbling so badly he could barely stand. “Just let me get on the bus. I promise I’ll be out of your life forever.”

“So you say. But what happens when you’ve been drinking too much at the local tavern, desperately trying to elevate the sex drive of some rich bitch in her late seventies? Perhaps you talk too much, say something you shouldn’t. What happens if the rich bitch trade dries up and you find yourself short of cash? Would blackmail occur to you?”

“I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t take that risk.”

Backed up against the urinal, porcelain jammed into his back, Charlie had nowhere to go. “If you try anything, I’ll scream!”

A second later, the butt of a gun cracked his jaw with such explosive force that he was stunned. His legs disappeared; he crumpled to the floor and lay there, his shattered jaw pressed against the foul-smelling tile. His head felt as if it were on fire; all he could see was white. He couldn’t move his mouth. Or anything else.

A perfectly aimed kick caved in his abdomen, smashing several ribs. Pain rippled through him like a river. Then he felt hot breath beside his cheek. “Just a tip, Charlie. If you’re going to scream, just do it. Don’t give the killer a warning.”

Somehow, from somewhere, he managed to find words. “Please… please don’t do this.”

“I recall a time when I was asking for your cooperation, Charlie. You were not so forthcoming, then. And now the time for discussion has passed.”

Another unbearable blow to his rib cage, then he felt himself being twisted around, turned onto his back. The pain was excruciating. Nothing could possibly hurt more, or so he thought, until he felt the hand on his face, forcing his shattered jaw open.

“Hungry, Charlie? Here’s a snack.”

Charlie felt cold steel pressed into his mouth, overwhelming his gag reflex. He tried to muster what remaining strength he possessed to do something, anything, cry for help, push the gun away. But he couldn’t. He clenched his eyes shut, bracing himself against the inevitable.

In his final nanosecond of life, he was thinking about home.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is a crime that-”

DA Drabble hesitated. It was a slight pause, but Ben noticed, just the same. The DA could be forgiven this bobble. The last time this court had heard opening statements in this case, they had been interrupted by a fanatic with a gun. At some level, Drabble’s subconscious mind had to be searching the room, looking for any indication of danger.

“This is a crime,” Drabble continued, “of the worst sort-cold-blooded murder. And as the evidence will show, it was committed for the worst possible reason. Not for love, money, jealousy, revenge, or any of the baser emotions that normal people can understand, if not condone. This was a crime of hate-pure, blind, unreasoning hate. Johnny Christensen did not take this life because of anything Tony Barovick did. He committed murder because of who Tony Barovick was.”

Drabble was good. As before, when Ben had seen him on television, Drabble impressed him with his unforced yet deliberate manner. He didn’t come off as rigid and self-righteous, as so many DAs did. He didn’t insult opposing counsel. He didn’t resort to melodrama-well, not much-and he skipped most of the cheap theatrics, waving bloody photographs in the air and such. It was probably not a sign of any innate superiority; truth was, Drabble didn’t need to resort to any of that. He knew how to communicate, how to make the jury listen and, hardest of all, how to make them believe.

“On that chilly spring morning just a short time ago, Tony Barovick left his place of business and headed for home. He was probably thinking about the usual things-getting some groceries for dinner, what he might watch on television that night. What he didn’t know-what he couldn’t possibly know-was that he was being stalked-yes, stalked-by two students, two fraternity boys he had served back at his club. What had he done to offend them? you might wonder. Had he insulted them? Stolen from them? Hurt them? No, Tony hadn’t done any of those things. Tony hadn’t so much as mixed up their drink order. They were out to get him simply because he was a homosexual. And they didn’t like homosexuals. Indeed-they hated homosexuals.”

Ben scanned the courtroom. It was packed, as he’d expected. A few of the spectators were the usual thrill seekers, but most of the gallery was taken up by the press. CNN and Fox News and some of the other national outfits had set up camp in the hallway outside, so it was no surprise that they were allocated many of the choice seats. Several on-air personalities and celebs had been spotted in the courtroom. Rumor was that Dominick Dunne had a contract to write a book about the case, and John Cusack was negotiating for the movie rights. Everyone wanted a piece of the action.

Boxer Johnson, the bailiff who’d been clubbed over the head by the killer of Brett Mathers, was back on the job. Ben knew he’d taken a lot of grief after the execution; the shooter had knocked him out in the men’s room and stolen his uniform and gun. He seemed none the worse for it today; he stood at attention at the rear of the gallery, calm, watchful. An assured, strong presence.

In addition to the media reps, Ben also spotted a few people he’d read about last night, after he and Christina recovered from the shooting incident and finished with the police and the medics and he began cramming every bit of relevant information about this case into his head. Many of the people Tony Barovick had worked with and the potential witnesses were here, including the owner of the club, Mario Roma, and Tony’s barmaid and friend, Shelly Chimka. Scott Banner, the president of Johnny’s fraternity, was sitting behind her. Roger Hartnell was in a wheelchair, thanks to the bullet wound, but he was here, against doctor’s orders. He said it was important that he make an appearance, both as the local director of ANGER and as Tony’s former partner. They all sat together, behind the DA’s table, presumably to show their support for Tony.