William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

Ben tucked in his chin. “Sorry, your honor.”

“Major Morelli, are you absolutely certain about this?”

“With some regret,” Mike answered. “Because I hate it when Ben and Christina are right and I’m wrong. But yes, I’m certain.”

“Then Johnny Christensen-”

“Did not kill Tony Barovick. Hurt him badly, yes, and should be tried for aggravated assault. But not murder.”

The judge glanced at the prosecutor. “Mr. Drabble?”

Drabble did not look happy, but Ben couldn’t fault him for that. “Your honor, my people are saying the same thing. We want to drop the murder charge and refile for aggravated assault, if double jeopardy permits.”

Lacayo nodded thoughtfully. “Very well. The clerk will so enter it into the court record. Ms. McCall, for the time being your client is free to go.”

Christina closed her eyes, a smile spreading across her face. “Thank you, your honor.”

“By the way-”

“Yes?”

“Am I right,” the judge asked, “in thinking that this was your first trial as lead counsel?”

Christina nodded.

“You picked a hell of a case to start out with. Talk about trial by fire.” Judge Lacayo fell back into his cushioned chair. “Well, ma’am, I hope Mr. Kincaid gives you a raise for this, because you handled it like a pro.” He smiled. “You’ll be welcome in my courtroom anytime.”

Mike was not surprised to find Special Agent Swift and Sergeant Baxter waiting for him outside the judge’s chambers.

“Congratulations, tiger,” Swift said. “You hit the jackpot.”

He bowed his head with mock modesty. “Aw, shucks.”

“You came through like a champ. You solved the case.”

“Yes,” Baxter said, inching forward. “ We did.”

“And I want to thank you for doing it,” Swift added. “This kidnapping has been a burr in my side for far too long. You can’t imagine how pleased I am to finally have it removed.”

“Glad I could be of service.”

“You know,” Swift said, a smile dancing playfully on her lips, “I don’t normally do this-well, never, actually-but I think I could get you in at the Bureau without any trouble. Especially now, after this case.”

“That’s nice, but-”

“Now think about it, sugah. You might get tired of chasing down trailer trash liquor store shooters someday. You might want to move up to the big time.” She sidled closer to him, an eyebrow arched, a finger tugging at his belt. “And if you joined the Bureau, we’d see a whole lot more of each other.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Mike said. “Really. But I like it in Tulsa. With my friends.” He paused a moment. “And my partner.”

Baxter’s face turned a bright crimson.

“Well, ain’t that sweet?” Swift took a tiny step back. “But I’m not entirely surprised. You two be good, hear?”

“We’ll do our best,” Baxter said, the frost melting fast.

“You do that. And Mike?”

“Yes?”

She smiled. “Parting is such sweet sorrow / That I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

Two things happened this week in the bar. Two bad things. And I’m not sure which of them disturbs me the most.

We had our first hate crime. It wasn’t against me-but it could’ve been. It was against a friend of mine, Brian Meadows, the leader of the South Chicago Gay & Lesbian Alliance. He was here to conduct a meeting and three black street hoods got wind of it somehow. They drove into town in their pickups, hauled him outside to the back parking lot, threw a noose around his neck, tightened it, and dragged him around, humiliating him. They hit him a few times, cracked an egg over his head. One of them even peed on him. “We’re gonna have us a lynching, boys!” That’s what one of them said. The irony of the situation was, I’m sure, totally lost on him.

I eventually got a cop over to break it up. The punks were arrested; they spent two hours in lockup and then went free. Charges were never brought. Brian didn’t want the bad press he knew would result. I was scared to death. I went to Mario and demanded that he hire security for the back parking lot. It’s so big and dark and unfenced, anyone could get away with anything back there, especially in the wee hours of the morning. I didn’t want what happened to Brian to happen to anyone else.

Mario told me to stop being a weak sister and to get back to work.

The second incident did not strike me as personally, but scared me just the same. I caught some kids in one of the back rooms using Ecstacy. We’ve never patrolled those back caverns very carefully. We figure some of the new hitches step in there to try a few sample smoochies before they commit to going home with each other. All well and good. But they weren’t supposed to be party rooms-especially not for anything illegal. Turned out these were high school kids passing for college students. I don’t know where they got the drugs; I just hope to God it wasn’t in the bar. I confiscated what I could and told them to get the hell out and never come back. They gave me a little grief, but eventually they left.

I told Mario about it, and he responded with his typical indifference. What did he care what a bunch of punks did? If they want to ruin their lives with drugs, let ’em. After all, we serve alcohol, and that’s a drug. It was no use. I don’t think he gets it. If we develop a reputation for being a local rave house, our paying customers will be supplanted by crackheads and undercover cops. They’ll look for an excuse to shut us down and eventually they’ll succeed. I’ve put too much into this place to let that happen.

I told Shelly about it, but she didn’t take it much more seriously than Mario had. She says being gay has made me paranoid, made me afraid of authority figures, afraid of everything. I know she loves me, and she probably can see some things about me I don’t see myself. She thinks it was a fluke. She says our customers are way too smart and Ecstacy will never catch on here. And she’s probably right. Maybe I’m just a worrywart.

Which is a hell of a lot better than being a weak sister.

Maybe I’m crazy, but I do think of this place as my home. I created it, in a very real sense. I think of Mario as my grumpy dad, Shelly as my spunky little sister, our customers as my friends. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to this little joint.

It’s the one place in the world where I feel safe.

Mike met Baxter at Gate C-37 at O’Hare for their flight back to Tulsa, bearing a gift in a Starbucks cup.

“Heads up, Baxter.”

“This is for me? What brings this on?”

“Just wanted to show you that I don’t subscribe to any sexist old-world stereotypical notions. This time, I fetched the coffee.”

She removed the lid and brought it close to her face, drawing in the rich aroma. “You mean there’s coffee in there somewhere, beneath the whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles?”

Mike grinned. “That’s the rumor.”

She took a sip. “Any luck tracking down the source of Manny Nowosky’s fifty grand?”

“Alas, no.”

“And it didn’t come from the kidnapping?”

“Not directly. We’ve checked the serial numbers. Common sense tells me the ransom money is the only big cash Manny ever came near. But how did he swap out the numbers?”

“What about the Ecstacy-pushing?”

“I don’t think that would yield this kind of… of…”

Baxter leaned in. “Yes? Is something wrong?”

“Damn.” Mike’s eyes turned toward the sky, his brain racing. “Yes, something is very wrong. Damn! ” He pushed out of his chair. “Call headquarters and tell them to cash in our tickets. We’re taking a later flight.”