William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“Understandable, I think, given the circumstances. Did you do anything else before you left the premises?”

“While I waited for the detectives to arrive, I looked for members who might be able to tell me what happened.”

“Did you find any?”

“Not at first. The house was empty. Apparently some big fraternity function was taking place elsewhere on campus and most of the members were there. But I did find an e-mail message left up on one of the computers in an upstairs bedroom that talked about an ‘afterglow’-that was their word-taking place at midnight at Remote Control. So I radioed that information into HQ and they sent officers to the bar. After the detectives arrived, my partner and I returned to our vehicle and went back out on the street to resume our duties. But to tell you the truth-it was a struggle.”

“You couldn’t get back to work?”

“No. I just kept thinking about what I had seen. That horrible scene. Couldn’t get it out of my mind. I ended up having to knock off early. I can’t explain it very well but when you’ve seen something like that-” He shook his head. “I mean, it isn’t just that it’s so visually disgusting, although it was that. It’s the thought that someone-anyone-would be capable of doing such a thing to another human being. Who could be so heartless?”

Ben felt the eyes in the jury box turning toward Johnny.

“I thought about applying to be on the investigating team looking for the assailant, but I put it out of my head. And you know why? Because I’m a big believer in the law. Law and order. And I knew that if I ever found the man who had done that, I wouldn’t be interested in reading him his Miranda rights. I’d just want to make sure that bastard never had a chance to do anything like that to anyone else ever again.”

Ben objected, of course, but it was pointless. The officer wasn’t delivering evidence, and the jury had already heard his commentary. There wasn’t much he could do on cross, either, since he didn’t doubt anything the officer had said, and his testimony didn’t yet link the crime to Johnny. It would be a tactical error to browbeat a witness who was just delivering the undiluted and unquestioned facts. So he contented himself with trying to lay a foundation for the future.

“When you entered the fraternity house, did you see any signs that a beating had taken place?”

Montgomery looked at Ben as if he’d lost his mind. “I certainly saw the results of the beating.”

“You know what I mean, Officer. I’m trying to determine where the beating occurred.”

“There was blood under the body.”

“Although perhaps not as much as you might expect if this extensive beating had actually taken place there.”

“I couldn’t say. I’m not the coroner.”

“Did you notice any overturned chairs or furniture?”

“No.”

“No scuffs, no dents, no broken lamps, no bits of duct tape, no damage whatsoever.”

Montgomery frowned. “Maybe the boys were careful not to hurt their house when they tortured their victim.”

“I can think of a more likely explanation, Officer. And I bet you can, too.” Ben glanced at the jury, hoping to see their brains whirring. Some defense lawyers tried to spell everything out in capital letters during cross. He always thought that it was better if he gave the jury the necessary information but let them reach the conclusions on their own. If they thought they were being clever-thinking ahead of the game-they were more likely to go where he wanted them to go. “Now, after you found the corpse, you assumed that the assailant had been a member of the fraternity, right?”

“It seemed a logical conclusion.”

“But in fact you never saw any member of the fraternity with the victim, did you?”

“Obviously not.”

“And in fact you testified that no members were in the house at that time, right?”

“Right.”

“What’s more-the front door was open.”

“That’s true.”

“So anyone could’ve brought the boy into that house. As far as you know.”

“The coroner’s re-”

“As far as you know, Officer. You’re here to tell the jury what you know.”

Montgomery sat back in his chair. “I didn’t see who brought him into the house.”

“Good. Thank you for clearing that up for me.”

During the break, Ben asked Vicki if she had any suggestions. She might be a bit on the meek side, but she was very organized, and organization was by far the most important asset when trying a case. Her notes were detailed and accurate; her files were systematically arranged and accessible.

“Anything I left out?” Ben asked.

“I thought you were great,” she said, not quite making eye contact. “I didn’t see how you could do anything with that witness. But you did-without being confrontational or alienating the jury. I could see where you were going. I think the jury could, too.”

“Let’s hope. I’m going to get some coffee. Can I get you anything, Johnny?”

He shook his head. For a boy sometimes given to great bursts of Sturm und Drang, he had been quiet, almost invisible, since the trial actually began. Ben had see this phenomenon before. Pretrial-it never seems quite real. More like some crazy TV movie-of-the-week that’s sure to have a happy ending. But once testimony begins, it becomes very real. As do the potential consequences.

“I could use some coffee. Assuming I can’t have anything stronger.”

“A safe assumption. Okay, that’s three coffees and one chocolate milk.”

Vicki put down her legal pad. “I’ll come with you.”

“There’s no need-”

“I want to,” she said, looking down toward his shoes. “I’m going to stick to you and Christina like glue. I want to get the full trial experience.”

Ben gave Christina a look. “Maybe we should let her take the next witness.”

Sergeant Sasser was one of three officers who went to Remote Control the night of the murder, following up on the lead from Sergeant Montgomery. He was a middle-aged man with a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache and hair that reminded Ben of praline pecan ice cream.

“What did you do when you entered the club?” Drabble asked him.

“We made a few inquiries and soon found the group of young men from the Beta house. There were six of them, all sitting together in a corner booth around a table. They were laughing and drinking, hooting and hollering. They weren’t hard to find.”

“Are any of the men who were at that table in the courtroom today?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding toward the defendant’s table. “Jonathan Earl Christensen.”

“Did you confront the men?”

“Not at first. The other two officers and I took a seat at an adjoining booth. I wanted to hear what they were saying.”

“And were you able to overhear anything?”

“Oh yeah. They didn’t seem to care who heard.”

“What were they saying?”

“Objection,” Ben said, rising to his feet. “Hearsay.”

Judge Lacayo nodded. “Sustained.”

Drabble frowned, then rephrased. “What, if anything, did you hear the defendant say?” Admissions by the defendant against his own interest constituted an exception to the hearsay rule.

Sasser did not hesitate. “He was bragging about beating up Tony Barovick.”

“Did he call Mr. Barovick by name?”

“No. He called him ‘that flaming faggot’ and ‘that sick queer’ and-well, other harsher terms.”

“The court appreciates your discretion,” Judge Lacayo said speedily. “And it does not believe any further detail is necessary. We get the idea.”

“Did he provide any specifics about what he had done to this… victim?”