William Bernhardt - Naked Justice

“Do you think you could identify the members of Tulsa’s city council?”

“I couldn’t even name one.”

“Well, let me ask you this. Is the man you saw sitting in that brown sedan in this courtroom?”

Sanders seemed surprised, taken aback. His eyes began scanning the packed courtroom. “I don’t know.”

“Let me make it easier for you.” He walked over to the prosecution table and asked Bullock to stand. Bullock grudgingly complied. “Is this the man you saw in the brown sedan?”

Sanders shook his head. “No. Definitely not.”

Ben gave Bullock a gentle pat. “Looks like you’re off the hook this time, Mr. Prosecutor.” The jurors, as well as most of the courtroom, laughed.

Ben passed through the swinging doors into the gallery. He approached Brian Erickson, the city councilman from the far south district, and asked him to stand. “What about him, Mr. Sanders? Is he the one you saw in the car?”

Sanders stared at him carefully, then answered decisively. “No.”

Ben crossed the nave of the courtroom and stood beside Interim Mayor Whitman. “Would you please stand, sir?”

Whitman glared up at Ben with a look that could turn Kool-Aid to Popsicles. Wordlessly he pushed himself to his feet.

“I object,” Bullock said. “Is counsel planning to go through the entire courtroom one at a time? This is nothing but a fishing expedition.”

“Maybe so,” Judge Hart said, “but I gave you plenty of leeway when you were putting on your case, and I intend to give the defense the same latitude. Overruled.” Ben couldn’t be sure, but he thought the judge had definitely chilled toward Bullock.

“What about this one, Mr. Sanders? Is he the man you saw in the brown sedan?”

Sanders stared intensely across the courtroom. His eyes locked onto Whitman. For the longest time, no one in the courtroom stirred.

Finally Sanders turned toward the judge. “Your honor, may I take a closer look?”

“Of course. You may step down from the stand. Get as close as you like.”

Sanders moved off the witness stand and slowly, almost timorously crossed the courtroom. It was a dramatic moment, and he seemed to be playing it to the hilt. He didn’t stop until he was only a foot away.

Sanders’s eyes slowly widened; his lips eventually parted. “It is him,” he whispered.

The courtroom roared. The television cameras whirled around to monitor Whitman’s reaction. Spectators stood in their pews, trying to get a closer look.

“Take a close, careful look,” Ben urged him. “Make certain. This is very important. Are you absolutely sure that this is the man you saw in the brown sedan on the street outside Wallace Barrett’s house?”

Sanders’s face became set and resolute. “I’m certain,” he said firmly. “It’s him.”

The rumble in the courtroom continued unabated. Judge Hart pounded her gavel, fighting it back.

“It’s a lie,” Whitman spat out.

“I know what I saw,” Sanders shot back. “It was you !”

Judge Hart pounded even harder. “That’s enough. The witness will return to the stand. Everyone else will sit down and be quiet or you will be escorted out of the courtroom.”

The room gradually quietened, but most eyes were still focused on the interim mayor, whose face was a rapidly fluctuating mix of surprise and rage.

“Anything more?” Judge Hart asked.

Ben knew how to quit when he was ahead. “No, your honor.”

Bullock jumped to his feet. “Your honor, I move that this entire examination be stricken from the record. It is grossly misleading, prejudicial, and irrelevant. Even if this dubious testimony is believed, and Mr. Whitman was driving a car on the street outside the defendant’s house, does that make him an accomplice to murder? It doesn’t prove anything.”

“Mr. Kincaid hasn’t rested his case yet, counsel.” Judge Hart’s voice was cold. She seemed to have little patience for Bullock. “We’ll see where it goes. Overruled. Would you care to cross?”

Bullock sat down sullenly. “No.” Apparently, the prospect of impugning the testimony of a witness he had first called to the stand himself didn’t much appeal to him.

“Very well,” the judge said. “We’re certainly making good time today. Mr. Kincaid, call your next witness.”

Ben rose to his feet. “First, your honor, I have a special request—that Interim Mayor Bailey Whitman not be permitted to leave the courtroom until court is recessed for the day.”

“Granted,” Judge Hart said instantly. “The sergeant at arms is so instructed.”

“Thank you. Now, your honor, we call Bradley ‘Buck’ Conners to the stand. He’s waiting outside.”

Chapter 63

NORMALLY, EVEN THE SLEAZIEST swine in the universe dress up for court. Buck Conners, alas, had never had a chance. Ben had managed to get Judge Hart to issue an emergency subpoena and warrant; the second the server laid the paper in Buck’s hands, two men from the sheriff’s office escorted him across the plaza to the courthouse. He had had no opportunity to upgrade his attire. More important, he had had no opportunity to call Whitman, or anyone else for that matter, other than an attorney, which he declined.

He was not, as Ben had hoped, wearing the now-famous green fatigues, but his tattered blue jeans and black T-shirt didn’t seem far from the mark. He had shaved off the goatee, however, and his hair seemed significantly shorter than it had been when Loving saw him at O’Brien Park.

“Would you state your name, please?”

Buck cleared his throat. “Uhh … that’s, um, Bradley Conners. My buds call me, uh, Buck.”

Ben nodded. “You’ll excuse me if I call you Mr. Conners.”

“Whatever.”

“Mr. Conners, what do you do for a living?”

A small crease slithered down the center of his forehead. His concern was understandable; he had no way of anticipating what question would come next. He didn’t even know why he had been dragged to court. Not for certain, anyway. “I’m a data processor. In the mail room. In the city building.” He pointed. “You know. Just across the way.” He shrugged. “Sometimes when they get busy I help sort the mail.”

Ben suppressed a smile. Buck had given him twenty-eight words in response to a question he could’ve answered with four. Just the kind of witness lawyers liked. “How long have you worked there?”

“ ’Bout six months.”

“Do you use a computer?”

“It’d be pretty hard to data-process without one.”

“Does your computer have e-mail capability?” Ben briefly explained what that was for the benefit of the non-computer-literate jurors.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Who can you get e-mail from?”

He shrugged. “I think anyone in the building who’s got a computer.”

“Good.” Ben was trying to lay all the necessary groundwork before he asked the questions that were likely to make Buck balk. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Buck grinned. “Several.”

Ben did not grin back. “Do you know a sixteen-year-old girl named Martha Meanders?”

Buck’s face paled. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I know her.”

“Spend a lot of time with her?”

He did his best to appear indifferent. “Some.”

“Hang out together?”

“Whatever.”

“Go for walks?”

“Right, right.”

“If I’m not mistaken, you particularly like to go for walks on Terwilliger Avenue. Where Wallace Barrett and his family lived.”

Bullock jumped up. “Objection, your honor! He’s leading, plus this entire examination is a ridiculous fishing expedition. Are we going to hear from everyone who ever walked down this street—”

“Counsel, sit down.” Judge Hart pivoted her chair decisively away from Bullock. “As for the leading, I will declare Mr. Conners to be a hostile witness. As for the objection, it’s overruled. Mr. Kincaid, you may proceed.”