William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“Personally,” Christina said, taking her seat at the head of the office conference table, “I thought Drabble’s cross of Ellen was lame.”

Ben’s eyes fluttered closed. He hated these posttrial postmortems. “I thought it was brilliant. What did you think, Vicki?”

The petite intern couldn’t seem to bring her eyes up off the table. “I… did think he made his point.”

Christina frowned. “Well, whether the jury bought it or not, Johnny has to make a good impression.”

“You’re telling the wrong person,” Ben said, pointing at the defendant sitting between them.

“Johnny,” she said, looking intently into his eyes. “You understand how serious this is, don’t you?”

“Hard to miss.” He was wearing more casual clothes than the blue suit Christina dressed him in for court each day, but under the conference table, his feet were shackled. The marshals were posted in the corridor just outside their office. The court had allowed him to come back to the office to prep for his testimony, but they still weren’t taking any chances. “This trial isn’t exactly going my way.”

“That’s all right. Tomorrow is another day. Have you got that legal research I asked for, Vicki?”

“On restricting hearsay admitted against the defendant’s interest? Some.” Her voice became even less audible than usual. “Most of it isn’t helpful.”

“Then keep looking. If we could suppress some of the testimony Drabble is sure to use to impeach Johnny, it would be a big help.”

She nodded. “I’ll be at the computer terminal just across the hall.” She left the room.

“The most important thing is that you seem sincere,” Christina explained to Johnny. “Even when you admit to less-than-admirable things, as you’re going to have to do. You must seem truthful. And remorseful. The prosecution has been painting you as a monster. You have to show them that you’re not.”

“I’m not anyone’s monster,” Johnny said indignantly.

“Don’t act defensive. Best to speak in a calm, relaxed manner,” Ben said. “Maybe a little slower than you normally would. Give yourself time to think.”

“That’s especially important on cross,” Christina added. “Drabble will try to rev things up, get you talking fast, talking before thinking, leading you down the garden path, then catching you in some kind of trap. Before you answer any question, you have to ask yourself-what is he after?”

“You think he’ll cross me more than he did my mother?”

“I can guarantee it. Your mother was a sympathetic figure, so he made his point delicately and sat down. With you, the gloves will be off.”

“Is it so important that he trashes me?”

“To his case, yes,” Christina answered. “But more to the point-it will be easy.”

“What, because I’m so stupid?”

“No. Because what you did-what you’ve admitted you did-makes you such an easy target.”

“Look at the jury from time to time,” Ben advised, “but not all the time. They don’t want someone playing to them, they want to observe you interacting with the prosecutor. But glance their way occasionally, especially when you’re making important points. Just to show them you’re not afraid to. Eye contact always suggests sincerity.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“Most of all,” Christina said, leaning in close, “you must not lose your temper. No matter what Drabble says. Losing your temper would be disastrous.”

“Not a problem. I’m not a hothead.”

“Johnny-”

“I’m not!”

“Johnny, almost every time I’ve talked to you, you’ve started shouting.”

“That’s because you ask me things just to cause trouble.”

“And you think Drabble won’t? His whole cross will be designed to get your goat. Because if he can make you blow up on the stand, the jury will be all that much more likely to believe you lost it the night of March 22 and beat a man to death. Intentionally. With malice.”

“Okay, no temper flares. I promise.”

“One more thing,” Ben interjected. “You cannot rattle on about your personal beliefs regarding gay people or gay lifestyles. Not a word of it.”

“I thought we had the First Amendment in this country.”

Ben’s teeth clenched. “If you want to die by lethal injection for your First Amendment rights, fine. Because I can guarantee that if you start rattling on about wreaking God’s vengeance on sodomists, that’s what’s going to happen.”

“This isn’t San Francisco, you know. Some of those jurors might agree with me.”

“Yeah, they might, but this isn’t a political debate. It’s not a referendum on lifestyle choices. This is your trial for your life.”

“It goes to motive,” Christina explained. “If you start some jeremiad about homosexuals, the jury will believe you could feel self-righteous enough to do what the prosecutor says you did for the reason he says you did it.”

“Well, I’m not going to lie.”

“I’m not asking you to lie.”

“But,” Ben jumped in, “I can guarantee Drabble will grill you on your beliefs regarding gay people. And if you launch into some hyperzealous screed, he’ll crucify you. No-you’ll crucify yourself.”

Johnny’s brow creased. “Then what the hell am I going to say?”

“I think it’s okay to say that based on your Christian values, you disagree with the homosexual lifestyle,” Christina said. “But there’s no reason to go on and on about it. And you have to say it without the least trace of anger or malice.” She paused. “I think that’s the most important thing, don’t you, Ben?”

“No. I think the most important thing is to seem remorseful. That’s what the forgiving, unconvinced jurors-if there are any-will be looking for.”

“I don’t get you.”

“It’s a lead-pipe cinch Drabble will ask you about the beating-the part to which you’ve already confessed. He’ll probably take you through it blow by blow. You’ll have to repeat what you’ve already admitted-but you can’t seem proud of it. You can’t try to justify what you did. To the contrary, you need to seem awash in regret. Tell the jury it was a mistake-you lost control, you were swayed by your friend, whatever. But don’t say you were right to do what you did or that you enjoyed it or that you were doing God’s work. You do that, you’re blowfish.”

“I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not.”

“I’m just asking you to be smart. I know for you that may be a tall order. But your life depends upon it.”

At ten o’clock sharp, the marshals knocked on the door and escorted Johnny back to the county jail.

“Think he can pull it off?” Christina asked.

“No,” Ben said flatly. “But you have no choice. You have to put him on. And hope for the best.”

“I still don’t see where he came from. His mother is so different.” She shook her head. “It must be particularly hard for you. Since you knew her, all those years ago. And cared for her.”

“No discussion.”

“I know, I know.” She sighed. It was late, and they were the only two people left in the office…

“Thanks again,” she said quietly. “For helping with this case. I know you didn’t want to.”

Ben shook his head. “I should’ve been on board from the start. I just-” He turned his eyes toward the window. “I can’t explain it. Hearing from her again, after all this time. Because she needed something from me. Seeing her again. It just… I don’t know. Threw me for a loop. I wasn’t rational.”

“You’ve got ample cause.”

“No excuses. Just-I’m sorry.”

They sat for a long while, not looking at each other. Ben stared out the window; Christina pretended to be intrigued by the stack of unopened transcripts on the table. Finally, when she couldn’t stand it any longer, she reached out and squeezed his hand.