William Bernhardt: Murder One

He had to face facts. Barring some kind of miracle, Keri Dalcanton was going to be convicted.

The media mob was no less aggressive when Ben and Christina returned after the lunch break. Even though Keri was not with them, the press pushed, shoved, and thrust themselves into Ben’s path, trying to bait him into delivering a tasty sound bite for the evening news.

“Assistant D.A. Dexter says the prosecution has a slam-dunk case. Care to comment?”

Ben refused to play. “Sorry, I won’t talk about an ongoing trial. The judge doesn’t like it—and neither do I.”

After that, the questions flew past in an unrestrained flurry.

“How can you possibly refute the mountain of evidence the prosecution has against your client?”

“Is it true Keri Dalcanton’s diaphragm was found in the victim’s mouth?”

“Can you confirm the rumor that McNaughton’s widow has hired a hitman to take out your client?”

A woman Ben recognized as one of the evening newscasters grabbed his arm. “Are you aware that polls show over eighty percent of all Tulsa citizens believe your client is guilty? How can you continue to defend her under these circumstances?”

Ben stopped. This was one he couldn’t let pass. “You know,” he said, trying not to look into the minicams, “there’s a reason why our founding fathers instituted the jury system. It’s so the accused could be tried based on evidence, rather than based on public opinion. Because public opinion can be so easily manipulated—especially by people like you.” He gazed out into the throng. “But you can’t respect the way the system is supposed to work. You want to convict people before the trial has started. You want to hang them based on rumors and polls and the suspicions of a populace that gets its information from your slanted ratings-hungry broadcasts. Everything you do disrupts what should be a simple process and makes it more complicated. Can’t you see what a gigantic disservice you’re doing?”

Ben’s lecture did not appear to have much impact. “What can you tell us about your client’s alleged sexual perversities?” someone shouted. “Is it true the chains were a regular part of their satanic lovemaking rituals?”

Ben shook his head. It was hopeless.

“When you look in the mirror, do you see a monster staring back at you?”

Ben stopped again. This was a question he hadn’t heard before. “Only when I’ve been up all night watching Xena reruns.”

“How amusing. I guess this is all one big joke to you. A fun way to bring home a big bucket of cash. You sicken me.”

Ben turned toward the raven-haired woman positioned before the courtroom doors. She was in her midforties, although she looked younger. She was tall and still quite attractive, her beauty marred somewhat at present by her red puffy face. She had been crying—judging by appearances, for days.

Ben knew who she was, although he wished he didn’t. She was Andrea McNaughton. The victim’s wife. Widow, now.

“Mrs. McNaughton,” Ben started, “I know this must be hard for you—”

“Don’t patronize me.” She raised her hand and slapped him hard across the face. “I don’t have to take that from you.”

Ben pressed his hand against his stinging cheek. Behind her, he saw the news cameramen jockeying for position. It seemed they were going to get something special for the six o’clock news after all. “Mrs. McNaughton, I understand your feelings. But please try to understand that I have a duty—a duty to provide a zealous defense for my client.”

“Don’t try to justify your poisonous existence to me!”

Ben sighed. “Mrs. McNaughton, perhaps it would be best if you didn’t attend the trial—”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like me to give your conscience a break. Well, I’m not going to do it, do you hear me? I won’t let up for a moment. I’ll be in that courtroom every day. Every time you try to humiliate a witness, I’ll be looking over your shoulder. Every time you pull one of your flashy courtroom tricks, I’ll be watching. I’ll be in your dreams—and your nightmares. I’ll never let you rest.”

And a good day to you, too, Ben thought. He stepped around her and walked quietly into the courtroom.

It got easier with time, in a way. And in a way, not. Certainly he was used to the media’s efforts to encapsulate the truth in tidy melodramatic snippets, their inclination to focus on the most exploitative details. Certainly he was used to the popular denigration of defense lawyers and the all-too-easy right-wing refusal to acknowledge the importance of their work. And certainly he was used to the tumult and outrage of those close to the deceased, who inevitably assuage their grief, and possibly their guilt, by latching their hatred onto whoever the police first suspect.

It did get easier to handle. But it didn’t make him like it.

The prosecution’s first witness that afternoon was Detective Sergeant Arlen Matthews, the Tulsa P.D. detective who led the team that conducted the initial search of Keri Dalcanton’s apartment.

“After I got the warrant from Judge Bolen,” Matthews explained, “I took two uniformed officers and drove to Ms. Dalcanton’s apartment just off Seventy-first Street.”

“Was the suspect at home?” Assistant D.A. Dexter asked.

“Yes, she was.”

“Did she admit you into her apartment?”

“She didn’t want to. But I had a warrant. She didn’t have any choice.”

“So what did you do, once you were inside the apartment?”

“We split up.” Matthews was a short, compact man with a direct, no-frills demeanor. His hair was close-cropped and he had a square, slightly protruding jaw. “It was a small apartment—just a central living area, a kitchenette, and a bedroom. We each took a room.”

“What was Ms. Dalcanton doing while you and your men conducted the search?”

Matthews drew in his breath. “Throwing a hissy fit, if you know what I mean.”

Ben made a note on his legal pad. Hissy fit —was that a Tulsa P.D. term of art?

“She was screaming, calling us names, getting in the way. She scratched one of my men with her fingernails.”

“That was an accident,” Keri muttered under her breath.

“She was wild-eyed and red-faced—she’d lost it,” Matthews continued. “She was crazy-actin’. I thought she must have some kind of mental problem—either that or she was very worried about what we might find.”

Ben jumped to his feet. “Objection.”

Judge Hart nodded. “Sustained. The witness will restrict his testimony to what he saw and heard—without speculating.”

“She was like a banshee,” Matthews continued, utterly unrepentant. “She jumped on me, piggyback style, trying to pull me back. She pounded me with her fists, on my chest, and the sides of my head. If that isn’t crazy, I don’t know what is.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Keri murmured quietly. “They were tearing my home apart. Breaking everything in sight. They knew about me and Joe and they hated me. They were intentionally trying to humiliate me.”

Ben nodded. He understood her side of the story. But he also understood the impact this testimony was having on the jurors—every one of whom was currently staring at Keri.

“Were you able to proceed with your search?” Dexter asked, continuing the examination.

“With some difficulty, yeah. At one point, she threw herself in front of me, trying to stop me from looking under her bed.”

“Were you able to look under the bed?”

“Oh yeah. That’s where we found the proof.”

“The proof?” Dexter took a step closer to the witness stand. “What was that?”

“The suit. This black leather bondage getup. Dog collar and everything. Soaked in blood. We believe it’s what the victim was wearing when he was killed.”