William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

He wasn’t sure whether Kincaid was telling the truth. It could be some kind of trick or trap. But he couldn’t take the risk, could he? And he had been wanting to take the damn lawyers out, anyway. Toying with them obviously hadn’t been enough. He had to deliver a more final solution. So why not now? He just had to make sure he avoided whatever little defenses Kincaid might’ve arranged. And the best way to do that was to strike fast-before he expected it.

They should never have left Oklahoma, he thought, chuckling as he loaded his gun. Come to the big city and rub shoulders with the big boys-and two hicks from the scrubs are bound to get hurt. Permanently.

Zero hour had arrived. They would be so sorry they came to Chicago-in those final nanoseconds before he blew their brains out.

One night, Claudia Brenner came into Remote Control. I was stunned. I recognized her immediately, of course. She’s the woman who was hiking in Pennsylvania on the Appalachian Trail in 1988 with her girlfriend when a couple of backwoods freaks saw them making out and registered their displeasure-with a rifle. Her partner was killed; Claudia was seriously wounded. She wrote a book about it, Eight Bullets , probably the most moving testament I’ve read in my entire life. It was that book that inspired me to start keeping this journal. Not that anything that dramatic ever happened to me, or is even likely to. Sure, I know there are still people who don’t like gays. But I can’t imagine anything like that happening here. Not here.

Anyway, so I got a chance to talk to this woman, and she was incredible. I kept blathering on about how she was my hero and what an incredible role model she was. I probably made a gigantic jackass of myself, but she was nice about it. And when she left, I felt inspired.

I’d never been involved in gay politics. At first, because I didn’t want anyone to know I was gay, and later, because I was busy with other things. And I suppose if I were honest about it, I’d have to admit that I’m not that political. It doesn’t interest me much. But the thing is-gay rights doesn’t seem political to me. Treating people the same, not discriminating based upon sexual preference-is that political? Does that split down political lines? That’s not about Democrats and Republicans; that’s about human rights, about taking the freedoms we claim are the philosophical basis of this nation and making them real.

Ever since that night, I’ve been involved. I’m still not what you’d call a big activist, but I try to do my part. I joined the local Gay & Lesbian Alliance. I’ve marched in their parades. I’ve even allowed them to hold some of their meetings in the bar, in the back caverns.

The religious types still come to Remote Control, which they perceive as a den of premarital lust and fornication, and they rattle on a lot about Judgment Day. I don’t know what Judgment Day is or will be, but I think it’s got to be more than just the celestial accountant tallying up how many times you went to church. Surely, at some point, what’s more important is what you felt. What you thought. What you held in your heart. Whether you tried to make people happier, tried to make their lives easier.

I firmly believe that most people are good at heart, that they want to be good. It’s hard sometimes, what with ignorance and peer pressure and all our basest instincts constantly being hung out to dry. But I also know that the world is changing. For the better. So many of the evils that have plagued humanity since the dawn of time have been eradicated. Slavery, racial discrimination, gender discrimination, exploitation of children. With all the good that is happening, how long can prejudice and bigotry against gay and lesbian people survive? How long can it be before we too shall be released? If being part of the Alliance has made me realize anything, it is that when all is said and done, people who hate gays aren’t prejudiced because of some obscure passage in the Book of Leviticus. This prejudice, like every other prejudice, is based on the fact that we are different from them. They don’t care that mankind was made in God’s image; they want the world to be made in their image. Bottom line, they get uptight because I’m not just like them. And that scares them. And scared bunnies do crazy things.

“Is Ben here?” Loving said breathlessly as he ran through the front doors of their temporary offices.

“No,” Jones said, looking down a long nose. “Could I possibly serve as a substitute?”

“I need Ben. When do you expect him back?”

“How should I know? He never tells me anything.”

Loving’s eyes widened. “Didn’tcha see the press conference? It was on television.”

“As if I have time for television,” Jones grunted. “Someone has to keep this office afloat.” He paused, a puzzled expression on his face. “Ben gave a press conference? I thought he considered that the hallmark of sleaze.”

“So you don’t know nothin’ ’bout what happened in the courtroom today?”

“As I said-”

“You’re not gonna believe it. This case has had more twists and turns than the Million Dollar Highway.” Loving continued recounting the day’s events. It was only a matter of moments before Jones became so entranced he turned away from his computer monitor. After a minute, he dropped his pencil, hanging on every word. He was so wrapped up in Loving’s account that he didn’t even look up when the front door chime sounded.

The visitor crossed the front lobby and approached Jones’s desk.

“… and once Ben proves who the fourth partner is, my bookie’s laying three-to-one odds that the judge-” He stopped abruptly as the visitor entered his field of vision. “Psst. Jones.”

The visitor was a large man. His posture spoke of strength and power and a blustery sort of confidence. He was wearing a nondescript blue suit with a bland black tie. About the only noteworthy thing about him was his face-or lack thereof. He was wearing a mask, one of those cheap plastic Halloween masks that come from discount toy stores. Jones couldn’t be certain, but he thought he was looking into the simulated face of Captain Kirk.

“May I help you?”

“Yes,” said the deep voice behind the mask. “I’d like you both to come with me.”

A deep furrow crossed Jones’s brow. “Come where?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Jones and Loving exchanged a look. “Then… why would we want to come?”

The man’s hand emerged from his suit coat pocket holding a small revolver. “Because if you don’t, I’ll have to kill you.”

Ben and Christina trudged from the parking lot back to the building where Kevin Mahoney had his offices. Ben was carrying a large and heavy banker’s box. Christina was hauling a catalog case in each hand.

“Have I mentioned that this is the worst part of any trial?” Ben said.

“Only every day,” Christina grunted back.

“I don’t know why they won’t let us keep our stuff in the courtroom.”

“Because it isn’t safe. If something happened to it, they don’t want you trying to blame the court because your case goes south. Besides, you never know what you’ll need to prep for the next day.”

Christina dropped one of the cases and opened the glass lobby door. “At least this time around we have Vicki-an extra set of hands and an extra car. That saves at least two or three trips a day.” She gathered up the case with a grunt. “She’s a bit on the timid side, of course, but she sure gets the job done. And her French is excellent.”

Ben grinned. “And that’s important when you’re trying a brutal homicide case.”