William Bernhardt - Naked Justice

After dinner, Ben made a few unsuccessful attempts to play with Joey, then settled for playing the piano for him, which Joey seemed to like, or not dislike, anyway. Ben played some Mozart (because he had read that children’s IQs could be raised by listening to Mozart). Then he played a Christine Lavin tune, “Old-Fashioned Romance,” and a James Taylor favorite he and Mike had performed back in their college days, “If I Keep My Heart Out of Sight.” By the end of the last, he noticed Joey’s eyelids beginning to droop. He gave his nephew a quick bath, tucked him into bed, and read several storybooks to him. When Joey was asleep, Ben turned on the Natural Sounds comforter (hear high tide in your own bedroom!) and left the room.

Ben was tired, but he knew he couldn’t sleep yet. He had a decision to make first. He would’ve liked to have had more time, but it wasn’t fair to keep Mayor Barrett in the lurch. He had to decide immediately if he was taking the case.

Not that it was necessarily so hideous to represent someone who was guilty. He’d taken cases before for people he—well, if he didn’t know they were guilty, he certainly had strong suspicions. But this was different. The charge was murder. Murder of the defendant’s own family. A heinous, absolutely unforgivable crime. The thought of being in the same room with someone who could do such a thing made Ben’s blood run cold.

The media exposure was another factor. Mike was right; it was going to be a circus. He’d dealt with the press before, usually ineptly, but never on this level. Of course, publicity might be advantageous for a struggling attorney. On the other hand, he couldn’t stand the thought of being labeled by millions as the guy who represented the Family Killer. The Baby Murderer. He’d rather go broke.

And why not admit it? He’d thought about it often enough during the day. What would his mother say?

He knew there were ethical reasons why he should take the case, but he still didn’t want to do it. He wanted to be on the side of the angels.

So why hesitate? Just say no and be done with it. But there was something nagging at him, something he hadn’t quite put his finger on yet.

Sighing, he pulled his box out from under his bed and sorted through his childhood treasures till he saw what he needed. He lifted the black orb with both hands and flipped it upside down.

“Oh, Oracle of the Magic 8-Ball, guide me in this moment of crisis. Should I take this case?”

He peered down at the white letters shimmering through the inky blue fluid: NO ANSWER AT THIS TIME.

That wasn’t much help. He asked the question again and flipped the 8-ball. TRY AGAIN LATER.

Well, thanks a hell of a lot, Oracle of the Magic 8-Ball.

Maybe while he was at it, he should ask for advice on what to do about Joey. He still couldn’t believe that Joey was unhappy, that there was something wrong. Perhaps something serious. But the evidence was becoming harder to ignore. Tonight, when he had gazed into that little boy’s eyes …

Wait a minute. Something glimmered in the far reaches of Ben’s memory. Gazing into his eyes …

His memory hopscotched back past Joey, beyond the evening, to the Friday before. Back at Forestview, before Barrett was arrested, before the tragedy.

Of course. He could see it clearly now, almost as if it was happening all over again. He saw Barrett picking up his two little girls. He remembered it so well because he had been so jealous. Jealous of the adoring way those two girls beamed at their daddy.

And the way he beamed back at them.

Barrett loved those little girls. Loved them with all his heart, all his soul, all his mind. Loved them with every ounce of his being. It was as if all the love he had to muster crystallized and glistened in his eyes.

And the eyes don’t lie.

The man Ben had seen would never hurt his little girls. Absolutely never.

Ben put the 8-Ball back in the box. Wallace Barrett did not kill his daughters. He was certain of it.

And if Barrett didn’t, that meant someone else did. Someone who was still on the loose. Someone the police weren’t even looking for.

Well, someone should be.

Ben slid the box back under his bed, picked up the bedroom phone and dialed. “Christina? … Yeah. Yeah, we are. Look, here’s what we’re going to do.”

Two

The Eyes of the World

Chapter 14

NOTHING COULD HAVE PREPARED Ben for the reception that awaited him the instant he stepped out of his car in the courthouse parking lot. Reporters descended upon him from nowhere and circled tightly around, blocking his access to the courthouse door. His vision was obscured by microphones bearing the insignia of all five local television stations, one from Oklahoma City, one from New York, and one from CNN. The same journalists who had been bombarding his office with phone calls and interview requests since his decision to represent Barrett had been made public.

“Mr. Kincaid!”

“Can you give us a statement?”

“How are you going to plead?”

Ben tried to push his way through the mob, keeping his lips zipped. He was aware that any muttered comment or offhand remark would be picked up by one of the microphones currently thrust in his face and replayed continuously throughout the day.

“Can you give us a clue about what’s going to happen inside?”

Ben pushed through the electronic thicket and headed resolutely toward the front door of the courthouse.

“How do you feel about representing a guilty man?”

Ben stopped. “Who said that?”

The reporters quieted. They looked from one to another.

“Come on, this isn’t a playground. Who said it?”

One of the local reporters, a young man with blond permaplaqued hair, took a step forward. “That was me.”

Ben covered the microphone with his hand and blocked his camera with his briefcase. “Let me give you a little remedial Civics 101, pal. Here in America, everyone is presumed innocent until proven otherwise. No one is guilty until a jury says so.”

“But—”

“No one. No exceptions. And suggesting otherwise could have some serious legal ramifications. Got it?”

The reporter nodded. Ben turned and walked into the courthouse, this time unimpeded.

Shouldn’t have done that, Ben told himself. You’ll regret it. The first time that blow-dried blowhard gets a chance to shaft you on the air, he will. But the guy could do a lot more damage if he went on the air blatantly assuming Barrett was guilty. Oh sure, he would never say it in so many words, but his coverage would be slanted and the feature would be structured and timed and edited in such a fashion as to make everyone watching suppose Barrett must be guilty. And some of those couch potatoes, the ones who still think the way to find out what’s going on in the world is to watch the local news, would end up sitting on the jury. He had to do everything possible to preclude that kind of reporting before the jury pool was irremediably tainted.

Four men from the sheriff’s office were waiting outside a courtroom on the seventh floor with the mayor, now defendant, Wallace Barrett. Today the mayor had eschewed his usual Armani pin-striped three-piece suit in favor of standard-issue loose-fitting bright orange coveralls, designed to attract attention in the event of an escape because they were so garish and ugly. Quite a comedown.

The instant Ben stepped into the frame beside Barrett, a flurry of flashbulbs illuminated the hallway. The page one money shot.

“How’re the boys treating you?” Ben asked.

Barrett smiled, revealing a tiny glimmer of the charisma that put him in office. “Not bad for city employees.”

“Well, they’re overworked and underpaid.”