William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

Ben glanced over at Jack Bullock, who was sitting at the prosecution table. He did indeed know Mr. Bullock. Before Ben moved to Tulsa, they both had worked at the district attorney’s office in Oklahoma City. Jack Bullock had been his boss. More than his boss, really. His mentor. His idol. His hero.

Bullock and Ben had spent a long summer working on several incredibly complicated white-collar crime cases, Bullock as lead trial counsel, Ben as lead research grunt. And Ben had loved every minute of it. Not because Bullock was such an excellent attorney, although he was, but because he believed in what he did. When you worked with Jack Bullock, you were on a holy crusade, a battle of right versus wrong. All summer long, they worked shoulder to shoulder, upholding the letter of the law, putting the bad guys behind bars. Their work—indeed, their lives—were imbued with a sense of purposefulness, of optimism, of idealism, that Ben had seldom glimpsed since.

At the time Ben had thought he’d stay at the DA’s office forever. Till unforeseen circumstances proved him wrong. Till unforeseen circumstances turned his life upside down.

Like the man said, chance makes fools of us all.

“If you’ll give me two minutes to confer with my legal assistant and client,” Ben said, “I’ll be ready to proceed, your honor.”

“Another delay, counsel?”

Ben held his thumb and finger barely apart. “Just a teensy-weensy one, Judge.”

She removed her glasses and laid them on the bench. “I really should find you in contempt and toss you in jail, but I’m so anxious to hear your examination of the next witness that I’m going to hold off. At least for the moment. You have two minutes, Mr. Kincaid. Teensy-weensy ones.”

Ben tossed his briefcase on the defendant’s table, nodded politely at Bullock, and exchanged a cursory greeting with his client, a nineteen-year-old bleached blonde named Jessie (short for Jezebel) Johnson. She had run away from home a few months before and somehow ended up in Tulsa, totally broke. According to her, she was wandering the streets a few days after she arrived, aimless and destitute, when the prosecution’s star witness approached her and suggested an interesting way she could make some fast money.

Ben scanned the courtroom for his legal assistant, Christina McCall. She wasn’t hard to find. Her vivid strawberry-blonde hair billowed out, adding several inches to her five-foot, one-inch height. But the glaring clash of unmatched colors below was the real eye-catcher. Today she was decked out in a sleeveless white blouse, a bell-shaped blue skirt with large yellow polka dots, green ankle socks, and black-and-white oxfords.

“What are you wearing?” Ben asked as he approached. This is a courtroom, not a sock hop.”

“It’s part of my new summer wardrobe.” She twirled around in a small pirouette, letting her skirt and hair swirl around her. “I told you I hit some flea markets last weekend, remember?”

“Yes. The prospect of your obtaining a new wardrobe was very exciting. Now I’m having second thoughts.”

“I’m not wearing some stuffy business suit in this heat,” Christina said emphatically. “Take me or leave me.”

While Ben considered, Judge Hart spoke up. “One minute left, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Great. Listen, Christina, have you got any ideas for my cross?”

“Of course. Am I not your faithful aide-de-camp? I stayed up all night rereading the preliminary hearing transcript, and I think I’ve detected a critical discrepancy. A major faux pas. Problem is, it involves some rather, um, outré elements. … It’s … somewhat risqué. …”

Ben’s eyes rolled at the barrage of bad French. “Christina, what are you saying?”

“You won’t be able to get near it without discussing certain delicate matters relating to human sexuality, a subject with which I know you are pitifully uncomfortable.”

“Not true.”

“ Is true. I’ll never forget your expression when you were channel-surfing at my place and stumbled across the Playboy Channel. And I thought you were going to die that time we went to the zoo.”

Ben noticed the judge alternating between impatient glances at her watch and hostile glares at Ben. “No time for modesty, Christina. Tell me what you’ve got.”

3

AFTER THE BREAK, BULLOCK recalled the complainant to the stand. He was a middle-aged balding man named Harvey Applebee. According to his direct examination testimony, Jezebel propositioned Applebee just off the corner of Eleventh and Cincinnati. She took him back to a “health facility” she was sharing with five other working girls, removed her clothes, removed his clothes, and placed him in a hot tub. The complainant didn’t actually do any complaining until after the vice squad burst through the front door. Applebee traded his testimony for personal immunity from prosecution.

“What exactly did the defendant say to you when she approached you on the street?” Bullock asked.

Applebee cleared his throat. “She said I looked as if I could use some exercise and she invited me over to her facility to, er, firm up.”

Sitting beside Ben at counsel table, Jezebel giggled. Ben jabbed his elbow in her side.

Bullock continued. “Did she indicate that she had any specialized training as a … personal fitness trainer?”

“She did demonstrate a great deal of … flexibility, and she suggested some positions—I mean, exercises—that she thought I might find beneficial.”

Bullock was becoming annoyed. “Mr. Applebee, let’s stop beating around the bush.” A gruff laugh emerged from the gallery. Ben’s face turned bright crimson. “I mean, let’s get to the point. Did Ms. Johnson offer to engage in sexual intercourse with you?”

“I don’t recall that she ever used those words, no.”

“Well … did she touch you?”

“You mean, emotionally?”

Bullock ground his teeth. “No, sir. I mean did any part of her body come into contact with any part of your body?”

“At what time?”

“Before you got into the hot tub.”

“She called it a relaxation temple.”

“What ever .”

“I don’t think so. She touched my clothes, of course, but I don’t think she ever touched me.”

Bullock’s frustration mounted. “Mr. Applebee, are you changing your testimony from … earlier?” Bullock was attempting to remind the witness his immunity could be revoked without reminding the jury that his testimony had been bought and paid for.

“Not at all. The touching came later.”

“Fine. Where were you when it occurred?”

“In the relaxation temple.”

Bullock’s eyes looked skyward. “What were you wearing?”

“I was in my shorts and she had, um, removed all her clothing.”

“Were you sitting or standing?”

“Sitting.”

“And where were you sitting?”

“On the bottom of the tub. Temple, I mean.”

“And where did she touch you?”

“Well …” He looked down at his hands. ‘That’s kind of personal.”

Judge Hart intervened on Bullock’s behalf. “I’m afraid you’ll have to answer the question.”

Applebee squirmed uncomfortably. “All right, ma’am. If you say so. I just hate to—you know. Especially with ladies present.”

“Answer the question,” Bullock growled.

“She touched me on—” He stretched his neck and loosened his collar. “Well, she touched Little Elvis.”

Ben stared down at his legal pad. What a classy practice he had. No wonder he’d endured three years of law school.

Bullock continued. “And with what part of … her anatomy did she touch you?”

“Please, Mr. Prosecutor,” Judge Hart said. “Can’t we leave a few things to the jurors’ imaginations?”