William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“Which is?” Baxter said, eyebrow arched.

Mike didn’t answer. He stared at the photo. It gave him a much better picture of what the deceased looked like than he had gotten from the shattered remains in the men’s room. “You know, I’ve seen this face before. But I can’t quite place where.”

“Ever work vice?” Swift asked.

“Not for any length of time.”

“Drugs? DEA files?”

Mike batted his fingertip against his lips. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’ll come to me. I hope.”

“Maybe you should see the department hypnotist,” Baxter suggested.

Mike shook his head. “Memories recalled under hypnosis aren’t reliable. You can almost never get them admitted in court. Judges are really down on it.”

“Where do they stand on massage therapy?” Swift asked, her full-lipped grin spreading. “I’ve heard mine is very stimulating.”

“I’m not surprised,” Baxter said, “given how much practice you must’ve had.”

“R-r-r-r-ar.” Swift made a cat claw in the air. “So whaddaya say, handsome? Haven’t you held me at bay long enough?”

“Not that I’m not tempted,” Mike said, “but I’m heading back to your office. Give me enough time, and possibly enough beer, and I’ll remember.” He tucked the photo under his arm. “This could be the break we’ve been waiting for.”

After the disastrous testimony from the psychiatrist, Ben comforted himself thinking that it couldn’t get any worse, not with the innocuous list of witnesses left to the prosecution. Once again, he was dead wrong.

“The state calls Gary Scholes.”

Ben whispered to his client. “You sure this is going to be okay?”

“I’m tellin’ ya-nothing to worry about,” Johnny insisted. He seemed more upbeat than he had since the trial began. “Gary and I are brothers. We took a pledge of loyalty. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”

“Then why is he testifying against you?”

“He was subpoenaed, man. He can’t help it. But he’ll make ’em sorry, once he’s up there. We Betas stick together.”

Ben watched as the gangly college student ambled to the front of the courtroom. All witnesses were nervous, but he seemed particularly unhappy to be where he was. And Ben noticed that the man did not look at his pal Johnny as he passed by their table.

In the first few minutes, Drabble established that his witness knew Johnny Christensen, that he was a member of the same fraternity, and that he had attended some of the meetings of the Christian Minutemen. “Were you a member of that organization?”

“Yes. Have been for years.”

“Even though it’s an antigay group?”

“The Christian Minutemen aren’t anti-anything.” Scholes ran a hand through his hair. He was wearing a suit and tie-standard courtroom attire-but looked ferociously uncomfortable in them. “We are opposed to homosexuality. Homosexuality is a sin, as the Bible makes explicitly clear. But we embrace all people. We try to help gay people find the way. We help them find a cure for their problem.”

Drabble tilted his head. “A cure?”

“Yes. The Christian Minutemen believe that homosexuality is a disease, possibly a mental disorder, and I might add that many well-known and respected authorities support our position. We believe that with therapy and conditioning and spiritual counseling, people can overcome this disease and lead wholesome, natural lives.”

Ben tapped the end of his pencil on the table. He never liked it when he was unsure where the prosecutor was going. Why was Drabble going to such pains to establish his witness’s position on gay issues?

“So you bear no enmity toward the homosexual community.”

“No. I may not approve, but I bear them no malice. I believe in counseling, therapy. I do not believe in violence. The Minutemen do not officially promote violence, and we’ve done our best to squash the rumors that some of our members were involved in… gay-bashing.”

“How long have you known the defendant, Jonathan Christensen?”

“Since he joined the fraternity.”

“Were you friends?”

“I’d say so. We spent a lot of time with each other, along with the other frat guys.”

“Did you ever hear him express his opinions regarding gay men?”

“Oh yeah. He-”

“Objection,” Ben said, approaching the bench. Drabble followed. “Hearsay. Not relevant. More prejudicial than probative.”

“Goes to motive,” Drabble replied. “Obviously.”

“My client’s position regarding homosexuals is well established,” Ben rejoined. “Anything more on this subject is just cumulative. Worse, the prosecutor is implying that Johnny’s disapproval of homosexuality proves he committed murder.”

“It does seem to me as if we could skip this part,” Judge Lacayo said. “Let’s move on to the heart of the man’s testimony.”

Drabble grudgingly complied. “Mr. Scholes, were you with Johnny Christensen on the night in question?”

“Part of the time, yeah.”

“Which part?”

“I saw him around eleven P.M. in a club near campus called Remote Control.”

“And not before?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why were you at Remote Control?”

“It was a regular hangout for the guys in our frat house. You could probably find some of us there any night of the week. An e-mail had gone around inviting members to meet there after a sorority function taking place earlier that night.”

“Did you know Johnny Christensen would be there?”

“Not till I arrived, with three others. We saw Johnny and Brett, so we joined them.”

“How long were you with them?”

“Until the police arrested Johnny and Brett.”

“What were the topics of conversation?”

“There was only one.” His lips puckered, as if he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “Johnny and Brett were describing how they’d just beaten up some… homosexual.”

“Were they bragging about it?”

Scholes took a deep breath. “Yes. They were very proud of themselves. Played it all out for us, practically in real time. Made a big joke of it.”

“Wait a minute,” Johnny whispered, back at the defendant’s table. “What’s going on here?”

Ben didn’t answer. Seemed the fraternity of brothers wasn’t as tight as Johnny thought.

Drabble continued. “It was a joke?”

“Yes, they thought it was very amusing. They were particularly delighted by their victim’s pleas for mercy, his begging for his life. Johnny would kind of imitate the boy’s voice, you know, real high and effeminate-sounding. ‘Please don’t kill me. Please. I’ll do anything.’ ” Scholes licked his lips. “He thought that was hilarious.”

The courtroom fell silent. All eyes were on the defendant, not the witness.

“Did Johnny reenact the beating?”

“Oh yeah. He was high as a kite, you know? Irrepressible. Showed us his mean right, his uppercut. ‘This is the swing I used to break his jaw,’ he said. And he showed us all his tools-the knife, the Taser. Brett told us about the hammer.” He shook his head. “They were so proud of themselves.”

“What was the reaction from the rest of the group? Did they laugh?”

Scholes shrugged. “Some of them did. A little. Especially after they’d had a few beers. But mostly Johnny and Brett were entertaining themselves. They were oblivious to the rest of the world.”

“And what was your reaction?”

“I was sick. I stayed because I didn’t want to create a scene, but the whole thing repulsed me. Bad enough to torture another human being like that-but then to take so much pleasure in it. To laugh and brag about it. I thought I was going to vomit.”