William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

“Are you sayin’ you’re backin’ out on my Leeman?”

“I’m not—I’m just—” How long can you go on representing the scum of the earth? “You have to understand—”

Ernie Hayes continued to stare at Ben with his deep black eyes.

“Seriously, it—” Ben stopped. “Look, I’ll go out and meet your son. I’ll talk to him. But that’s all I’m promising.”

To his surprise, Hayes sprang forward and shook his hand vigorously. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Kincaid. Praise the Lord. I knew you’d understand.” Ernie shook his hand a few more times, then walked out of the courtroom.

Ben couldn’t help but notice that his limp did not seem nearly as pronounced as it had before.

6

THE MAN STRODE DOWN the sidewalk, a Polaroid photo clenched in one hand. The fingers of his other hand brushed against the wrought-iron fence surrounding the playground. He felt like a fool, wearing a red fright wig and fake glasses. But it was necessary.

He would need time with his new little sweetheart. He would need to become his trusted friend. And that would take a while. He had to make sure that, in the meantime, the boy wasn’t able to describe him accurately.

He spotted the boy almost immediately, standing by himself between the swing set and the slides. Abie Rutherford. He wasn’t playing with anyone. He was just hanging out—a frown on his face, one hand on his hip—in an adorable pose of preadolescent aloofness.

What a lovely child. His photograph did not do justice to his true beauty. But then, what reproduction could do justice to such an immaculate creature? How he ached to take that child into his arms, to press him against his breast. To take care of him. To smother him with affection.

He continued strolling down the sidewalk, past the playground, then around the corner. It wouldn’t do for him to be spotted, even in disguise. Not so soon. Not before he had a chance to make contact.

He glanced at his watch. Three more hours, and then the private school would let out for the day. The boy’s home was nearby; the kid probably walked. Cross Twenty-first, cut through Woodward Park, and he’d be home. Good.

He crossed the street and looked for a place he could quietly pass the next three hours. As he reached the opposite side, however, he couldn’t resist turning back for one last look at his new golden child.

His heart swooned. “You’re all mine, Abie Rutherford,” he whispered under his breath. “All mine.”

7

BEN STOPPED BY THE public defenders’ office and checked out the Leeman Hayes file, telling them he had been asked to represent the defendant and was in the process of deciding whether to do it. Assuming Leeman consented, they didn’t object to a substitution of counsel. Not that they didn’t think the case was important. But when a staff of four lawyers has to handle over a thousand criminal cases a year, they tend to take all the help they can get.

Before he left for the treatment facility where Leeman was being held, Ben thumbed through the file. The mystery of the ten-year trial delay soon became clear. Leeman had been arrested almost immediately after the murder occurred. His lawyer, since deceased, ordered a battery of physical and mental tests. After being presented with the results, the trial judge ruled that Leeman was not capable of assisting in his own defense and therefore constitutionally could not be tried.

Leeman was committed to a series of institutions and therapy centers. The reports received were of a kind; only the words changed. Leeman Hayes was born with a genetic condition that resulted in profound retardation. The neurological disorder affected his perceptions of and reactions to the world around him. It was like a thick sheet, a gauzy veil between Leeman and everyone else.

According to the file, Leeman was generally good-natured, but he had a temper that sometimes flared up with little provocation. During these aggravated seizures, especially given his limited ability to comprehend outside stimuli, his behavior was utterly unpredictable.

Leeman had been shuffled from one center to another for years, until last spring, when a treating psychiatrist—a Dr. Herbert Fischer—suddenly declared that Leeman was mentally capable of assisting in his own defense and remanded the case to the district court for trial. The minute orders in the file suggested to Ben that the judge had little enthusiasm for this case, but he had no choice. He set the matter down for trial.

To Ben’s dismay, the file did not suggest any exculpatory evidence to support Leeman’s not-guilty plea. Despite the recent determination of Dr. Fischer, file memos of client interviews indicated that Leeman was virtually no help whatsoever. The concept of the passage of time was beyond him. Trying to get him to focus on what happened ten years ago was almost impossible. Ben would be starting from square one.

If he took the case.

Don’t be such a sucker.

Given the circumstances, only a crazy man would do it.

Ben arrived at the clinic near Shadow Mountain just off Sixty-first in south Tulsa. After a brief conversation with the physician in charge, Dr. Montague, Ben was permitted to see Leeman Hayes. The doctor asked the woman who sat at a desk outside his office—a tall, black woman whose name tag identified her as VERA—to escort Ben to Leeman’s room.

Ben wanted to ask Vera about Leeman, but he wasn’t sure whether Vera was a nurse, or secretary, or what, and he didn’t want to offend her by asking. He decided to try to work it out for himself.

“So … you work with Dr. Montague?”

“Oh yes. Every day.”

“I see.” Ben followed her down a long antiseptic corridor. “He probably depends on you quite a bit. On a day-to-day basis.”

“That’s true.”

“You probably … check on the patients every so often. Make sure they’re okay.”

“Actually, we usually let the nurses do that.”

Aha. Not a nurse. “Do you … prepare Dr. Montague’s reports?”

“Oh yes. I do all his reports now.”

Bingo. “So you must be his personal secretary.”

Vera peered down at him. “Close. I’m a doctor.”

If there had been an available closet, Ben would’ve crawled into it. “I’m sorry. I just assumed …”

“You assumed that since I’m a woman, I must be a nurse or a secretary.”

“Not at all,” Ben said, although in truth, of all the possibilities he had considered, somehow doctor never came to mind. “I just—I assumed that since you did his paperwork, you must be his secretary. Goodness knows my secretary does all my paperwork.”

“I do his paperwork because I have to. I’m a GP—a family physician. He’s the specialist—a clinical psychiatrist with specialized training in intellectual disorders. Since I’m a mere generalist, I do the paperwork, and the dictation, and all the other grunt work. Soon I’ll probably be washing his Jaguar.”

Ben thought this might be an opportune moment to change the subject. “How well is Leeman Hayes able to communicate?”

“Only in the most rudimentary way. His verbal skills are keenly lower than even most developmentally disabled persons.”

“Developmentally disabled—”

“That’s the current politically correct euphemism for mental retardation. I know, it’s hard to stay on top of them all. If people spent half as much time developing remedies as they spent trying to tell other people what words to use, we’d probably have a cure for the common cold.”

“And, because Leeman is … developmentally disabled … he can’t communicate?” Somehow, that didn’t seem right. Ben had met mentally retarded persons before, and he’d always been able to talk to them. “Why is that?”