William Bernhardt - Naked Justice

Joey continued wailing at the top of his lungs.

“Joey, look.” Ben began desperately running about, grasping at toys. “Look, it’s a Magna-Doodle. See, I wrote your name!”

Joey sat with his hands in his lap, wailing. His face flushed beet red. Tears dribbled down his chin.

“Okay,” Ben said, “how about a talking clown?” He desperately grabbed the doll and pulled its talk string. “ ‘It’s time to have fun, kiddies! Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!’ ”

Joey was oblivious. He screamed like he’d lost everything, like there was no reason to go on living. Worst of all, he had not come out of his shell. He was still isolated, unresponsive, self-absorbed. He was just miserable as well.

Ben began to feel seriously guilt-ridden. What right did he have to demand that the child react to him, anyway? Still, he tried to maintain his resolve. “Look, how about card tricks?”

He reached down furiously for a deck of cards on the floor, but slipped on the area rug and fell into the nearby armchair. He hit the chair sideways, face first, rolled off it, and tumbled down on the hardwood floor.

Ben lay flat on his back on the floor. As soon as his head cleared, he began taking a mental inventory. Everything seemed to still be attached, no major spinal damage, although he definitely had a sore spot on his backside. But something had changed. It took him a moment to realize what it was.

Joey had stopped crying.

Ben pushed up off the floor. Joey was looking at him.

It took a moment to register. Wait a minute …

Joey was looking at him!

This was something he hadn’t seen in months. The boy was looking straight at him, and … and …

And he was beginning to smile.

“Gin,” Joey gurgled.

Ben looked at him in amazement. “What? Did you say something? You did! You said something!” He paused suddenly. “What did you say?”

“Gin,” Joey repeated, followed by something that sounded a lot like laughter.

“Joey!” Ben said. “I can’t believe it! You’re—” He tried to listen closer. “But what are you saying?”

“Gin!” Joey insisted.

“Gin? You mean again? Do it again?” Joey’s pronunciation was far from perfect, but not bad considering that he had barely made a peep for the last six months. “But what do you mean?”

Joey looked up at the armchair. “Gin.”

“You mean, you want me to do it again? But, Joey, that was an accident.”

Joey looked away. His smile faded.

“But that’s okay!” Ben leaped to his feet. “If you want it ’gin, I’ll do it ’gin. I knew you’d like that. I meant to do it. Yeah, that’s my story. I’m a whiz with kids. Look, Joey, I’ll do it again.”

Joey did look up. And Ben flopped forward, first into the armchair, then down onto the floor. Doing it on purpose, of course, made it a good deal less graceful than when he had fallen by accident, and he hit the floor a good deal harder, too. “ Owww! ”

Joey giggled. His face lit up a like a candle. He clapped his hands together.

“Joey!” Ben crawled up and swept Joey up his arms. “You’re paying attention! You know who I am! Don’t you? Say ‘Uncle Ben.’ Can you? Say ‘Uncle Ben.’ ”

Joey giggled even more. “UngaBen.”

“I knew you did! I knew if I could just get through to you—” Ben stopped talking and pressed the child close to him. “Thank you, Joey!”

Joey smiled back at him. “Gin.”

“Again? Oh, right. Whatever you say.” Ben got into position and took another swan dive into the armchair. He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. His back was beginning to ache, but he barely noticed.

Because Joey was laughing. Happy, hysterical laughter.

Ben smiled his biggest smile. His eyes were starting to water. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “It’s just—it’s not—oh, hell.” He stopped fighting and let the tears fall. “Joey,” he said, crawling close to him, “you’re the best little boy in the world, you know that? The best little boy who ever was.” He gave Joey another bear hug. “By God, if I can bring you around, I can bring that jury around, too.”

Joey smiled back at him and clapped his little hands together. “Gin.”

Chapter 61

SOMEHOW BEN MANAGED TO avoid the now-permanent camp of reporters on the plaza outside the courthouse. They had erected a large tent to protect themselves and their equipment from the erratic Oklahoma weather. WallyWorld, the local wags were calling it.

The reporters shouted out questions as he passed through.

“Do you think anyone believed your client’s story?”

“What about the blood and the DNA?”

“Is it true Barrett gave you his bloodstained clothes and they’re hidden in a safe in your office?”

Ben’s jaw tightened. “No comment.”

“What are you going to do with yourself when this trial is finally over?”

Ben stopped, then pivoted. “Actually,” he said, “I’m planning to go backpacking. I need to exercise something other than my lips.”

He rode to the seventh floor and entered Judge Hart’s courtroom. As he walked to the front, he spotted a female network anchorperson sitting on the defense table. He recognized her—CNN, he thought—but couldn’t come up with her name. Her cameraman and his assistant were in front of her; obviously they were preparing to broadcast.

Ben tried to contain his irritation. After all, court was not in session and he didn’t own the courtroom. He just walked quietly behind her and started setting up.

The anchorwoman whirled around. “Excuse me. You’re in my key light.”

“Excuse me,” Ben shot back. “You’re on my table.”

She did not appear to be amused. “Couldn’t you stand back long enough for me to tape this intro?”

“Sorry, I have work to do.” He continued taking papers out of his briefcase.

She placed her hands on her hips. “How am I going to tape this lead-in with you making that racket?”

“Life’s hell sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Look, can’t you give me five minutes?”

“Sorry. This trial could start at any moment.”

She looked perplexed. “Haven’t they told you yet?”

“Told me what?” Ben did a quick scan of the courtroom. It did seem unusually empty. Bullock wasn’t here, nor any other member of the prosecution team, much less the judge. “What’s going on?”

“I wish I knew. All I know is that the judge’s bailiff read a prepared statement explaining that the trial was on hold indefinitely, and that he would be meeting with all counsel in chambers as soon as they arrived.”

Ben sprang out of his seat. “I’ve got to get in there.”

“Thank goodness.” The anchorwoman turned back toward the camera and smiled. “Roll ’em.”

When Ben burst into Judge Hart’s chambers, he found the judge at her desk and Bullock and his assistants sitting in chairs surrounding a brunette middle-aged woman. He couldn’t remember her name, but he knew who she was.

Juror number twelve.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Kincaid,” the judge said. “Have a seat and we’ll get started.” She cocked her head to one side. “You’re walking a bit stiffly this morning. Did you hurt your back?”

“Uh … yeah …” Ben said as he angled into the nearest available chair. “Several times.”

Judge Hart appeared mystified, but didn’t pursue it. “Gentlemen, we have a problem.”

Ben eyed the juror carefully. She was sitting with her hands in her lap, kneading them with such force that it was painful to watch.

“Juror Number Twelve”—she glanced at her legal pad—“Deanna Meanders was brought to my chambers first thing this morning. At her request.”

“Why?” Bullock’s eyes seemed sunken and uneasy. Did he fear some juror misconduct might spoil his imminent victory?