William Bernhardt - Murder One

27

THE FIRST DAY OF trial was always Ben’s least favorite, although in a case like this, picking a favorite was like trying to choose the least offensive from a smorgasbord of deadly poisons. All his usual nemeses were present: the reporters stalking a sound bite, the spectators fighting off boredom by entangling themselves in the drama of other people’s tragedies, the judge who would rather be anywhere else, and of course, the district attorney, who acts as if his prosecution is God’s Own Work, a characterization which inevitably casts the defense attorney in the role of the Prince of Darkness.

Well, Ben was feeling rather satanic at the moment, as the judge rattled through the preliminaries that launched the monster modern-day trials have become. Christina was sitting at the defense table—between Ben and Keri. Every time Keri so much as leaned in Ben’s direction, Christina shot her an evil look that could probably hold back an advance of the demons of hell. LaBelle was keeping his distance, not shaking Ben’s hand, not even glancing in his direction, as if his very touch or gaze might somehow contaminate him. Ben knew it was a show for the benefit of any potential jurors who might be around or any potential voters who might be watching on television, but it didn’t make him love the judicial system.

Judge Cable seemed particularly crabby this morning and Ben didn’t know why. It was impossible to tell with judges. It could be that he didn’t get the kind of cereal he liked for breakfast that morning. Or it could be his unhappiness at actually having to hear this miserable Take-Two case. Ben had been trying to contact Mike, but no one was willing to give him any information about where his friend had gone. He was beginning to doubt that anyone knew. And even though he needed to focus his full and total attention on the trial at hand, it was almost impossible not to keep thinking back to the hospital room where Paula’s life hung in a delicate balance.

For Ben, getting into the trial mind-set was a process of submersion. It was as if the courtroom was a submarine, and the further the trial progressed, the deeper they sank beneath the waves. The whole trial experience was one of separation, apartness from the real world. As Ben became more and more consumed by the incredibly complex trial process, he lost touch with almost everything that was a part of his normal life: fun, friends, family—hell, even his cat.

Why did he do it? Ben had asked himself on more than one occasion. In many respects—in most respects—he hated being in trial. And yet, at the same time, there was something elusively thrilling about it. Granted, there was the opportunity to actually do some good in the world, to be of service to other people, and Ben knew he had been, on more than one occasion. But there was something else, something hidden away beneath all the objections and legal obscurities and lies. Being in the courtroom was like being in the arena. It was unmasked conflict, one man against another. It was a small sort of warfare, and yet it was sanctioned by law. If it was true that all men, even civilized sorts like Ben, had a spark of the warrior in their heart, this was an occasion when that instinct was truly revealed.

Whether Ben cared to admit it or not, being in trial was like nothing else in the world.

“ The State versus Keri Louise Dalcanton, Case No. C-01-874.” Judge Cable rattled the papers from which he read. “Court is now in session. Are the parties ready to proceed?”

Ben and LaBelle both indicated that they were.

“Gentlemen, let’s pick a jury.” He redirected his attention to the bailiff. “Please call out the first twenty names on the list, Brent.”

Brent the bailiff called out the names of the potential jurors—“driver’s licenses,” lawyers liked to call them, because of the keenly scientific basis by which they were chosen. Brent had a clear, bass voice; he would’ve been good on radio, Ben mused. But in the courtroom, his voice gave a sense of authority and gravity to what was basically a mundane procedural matter.

The lucky twenty took their seats in and around the jury box. They knew the case for which they were being called. Ben could see it in their eyes; he could feel it in their movements, in the way they carried themselves, the way they looked at one another.

LaBelle knew it, too, and he made no bones about the fact when he began his juror examinations. “You know why you’re here,” he said, positioned still as a statue just beyond the rail demarking the jury box. “I won’t go into a lot of details about the cruel, inhuman crime that lies at the heart of this case. You’ll hear plenty enough about it later; I won’t describe the horror any sooner than necessary. It isn’t fair to you.”

That, Ben thought, plus it would draw an immediate sustained objection and mess up his whole voir dire.

“You know why you’re here, but do you know why you’re here?” LaBelle paused, letting the words sink in, as if he had uttered some great profundity. “You’re here because you have been asked to be part of the most important branch of our government. The branch that keeps us safe. The branch that strives to see that justice is done, that virtue is rewarded, that evil is punished.”

This was a bit heavy-handed, even for LaBelle, Ben thought. He wondered if the man was making a tactical error, coming on so strong when the evidence wasn’t yet on the table. Still, LaBelle had tried more cases than he had; Ben had to assume he knew what he was doing.

“When you become a part of the judicial process, you enter something larger than yourself, something greater than all of us combined. You become a part of society’s quest for correction and perfection. A never-ending battle. A crusade, if you will. You probably already know this, but I want to remind you of it now, at the outset, so you will remember that you must take your duties seriously and perform them to your utmost ability, with honesty and fearlessness. In short, you must not be afraid to do what is right.”

Christina leaned into Ben’s ear and whispered. “The trial hasn’t started and he’s already pressuring them to convict. Shouldn’t we object?”

“No,” Ben whispered back. “The jury will be suspicious if you try to shut him down every time he starts to talk about the defendant, and Judge Cable is the sort of judge who is only going to tolerate so many objections, whether they’re right or wrong. Save it for something that matters.”

LaBelle began his direct questioning of the jurors, first as a group, then individually, particularly when a raised hand gave him answers he didn’t like. Most of his questions appeared designed to weed out potential bias and preconceived ideas that might not be to his advantage. “I want you to understand that I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” he emphasized. “But my job is to root out candidates who might not be appropriate for this jury. Doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. Just means this isn’t the right trial for you to hear.” Because you’re a bigoted moron, presumably, but LaBelle omitted that part.

He mercilessly quizzed anyone who’d had prior problems with law enforcement, or anyone who’d witnessed such troubles in their immediate families. He trolled for jurors with grudges against police officers—a sensible precaution, since most of his witnesses would be cops. And he looked for people who didn’t believe in the trial process, either for philosophical or religious reasons. When Juror Number Fourteen, a heavyset woman in her late forties, explained that she believed all people should follow the Word of the Lord and “turn the other cheek,” Ben knew she would be the first one LaBelle yanked. Forgiveness was not on his agenda.