William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

The jury smiled.

“Thank you. No more questions.”

The judge looked up from the bench. “Redirect?”

Ben knew his expert had switched alliances in midtrial. A redirect would just be asking for trouble.

But what the hell. He had to try. For Leeman’s sake. And Carlee’s.

“Dr. Allyn, have you ever spoken to the prosecutor, Mr. Bullock, before today?”

The doctor paused before answering. “No. Why?”

Ben’s mind raced. Either he was lying, or this betrayal had been arranged through a third party. It was impossible to know. Ben hated cross-exing in the dark.

“Have you spoken to anyone about your testimony?”

“Mr. Kincaid, as you know, until this morning, I didn’t even know I would be testifying.”

“Have you made a deal with the prosecutor?”

“A deal? What are you babbling about?”

“Why have you changed your testimony?”

“Changed? Changed from what? This is the first time I’ve given it.”

It was useless. Ben knew he had been stung, but he simply didn’t have enough information to prove it. “No more questions.”

As he returned to his table Ben checked the faces in the jury box. No doubt about it. The effect of Bullock’s cross had been total and devastating. Carlee Crane would be written off as a well-meaning crackpot.

Leeman Hayes was back to square one. With no defense.

How could Bullock have known what was coming? How could he be so confident the expert would cave in during cross?

As the doctor passed out of the courtroom Ben saw Bullock wink at a man in the back row. The man looked familiar.

Ben craned his neck for a better view. It took him a minute to place the man. Then the light dawned.

The air-conditioning company bill collector. The new one. The one who wouldn’t take “get lost” for an answer.

The man who had staked out Ben’s office for the past few days.

Ben turned toward Bullock, who was grinning broadly.

Their eyes met. And it all became clear.

The bill collector was a spy. Bullock’s spy. That’s how the prosecution knew Ben had a repressed-memory witness. They probably fed Jones the expert—an expert already prepped to shaft the defense during cross.

No wonder Bullock hadn’t crossed Carlee. He knew he didn’t need to.

The judge was pounding his gavel and shouting, trying to get Ben’s attention. “Any further witnesses, Mr. Kincaid, or does the defense rest?”

God, no. Not now. Even if he had nothing more to say, he couldn’t leave me jury on this note. “We will proceed, your honor.”

“Fine. Call your next witness.”

“The defense calls—”

Ben had to think on the spot. Where did he go now? Who was left? What else did he have?

His eyes inadvertently returned to Bullock. He was leaning back in his chair, his arms folded, his legs comfortably crossed. He was so smug it was unbearable.

Ben couldn’t leave it like this. No way in hell.

He inhaled deeply and pulled himself back together. “The defense calls Ronald Pearson to the stand.” He paused. “Captain Pearson, that is.”

67

LIEUTENANT MIKE MORELLI PLODDED down the pavement of Third and Nowheresville. He was following the route outlined on his map, following a trail of ever-widening concentric, circles radiating from Tulsa International. He was hot and sweaty, his feet hurt, and he had blisters on both big toes. He told himself to ignore his discomfort. He wasn’t going to stop until he found what he was looking for.

Mike might have been more willing to rest if a superior had imposed this impossible mission upon him, but since he’d thrust it upon himself, and since he knew it was only a matter of time until Blackwell brought it to an end, he couldn’t give up. He did feel bad about dumping Abie on Christina, especially when she already had Julia and what’s-his-face’s baby to worry about. Abie was pretty cute, even if he was a kid. It was hard to get too grumpy with someone who worshiped everything about you, including the rumpled coat you normally hid deep inside of.

He had an obligation to give Abie some hope of long-term safety. And that hope could come about only if the man who had kidnapped him was caught. Or dead.

Mike thought he was getting closer. He couldn’t explain why, but that didn’t particularly trouble him. The longer he served on the force, the more he realized that data was not as important to a police officer as instinct. Maybe he was deluding himself; maybe he subconsciously assumed he must be getting close because his feet felt as if he had crisscrossed the whole city three times over. Then again, maybe his subconscious was zeroing in on something his conscious mind hadn’t discovered yet. Whatever. He thought he was getting close.

Mike turned a corner too quickly and brushed shoulders with a burly teenage boy in a jeans jacket with the sleeves cut out. He was holding a can of spray paint.

“Excuse me,” Mike said.

The boy whipped around, then growled in a low voice. Yes, growled.

Mike checked the emblem sewn on the back of his jacket. A snake curled around a handgun. He was a Cobra.

Mike hated the Cobras. They pushed drugs. And they killed kids.

And now this punk had the gall to growl at him. It would have given Mike great pleasure to call that an assault and give me clown a swift punch in the chops (in self-defense, of course), but for once, better judgment prevailed. Business before pleasure. Child molesters first; thugs second.

He let the Cobra pass.

Mike resumed walking. A few seconds later he turned the corner and noticed the stop sign:

Obviously Cobra handwork. Now Mike wished he had stopped the creep; he was marking his territory and declaring his deadly intentions. Mike had learned that gang graffiti was neither random nor meaningless. You just had to know how to read it. The big letters at the top, the placa, was the territorial marker. The CB was the Cobra’s marker, KING was the kid’s gang name; DK meant Demons Killer, BOBA was undoubtedly the name of the poor Demon who had been targeted. And for what?

No question. 187 was the penal-code number for homicide.

After the hit, King would draw a cloud around Boba’s name, or perhaps add the letters R.I.P.

Mike had been right. The Cobras were on the move, planning hits to undermine the Demons’ rival drug-distributing network. If something didn’t happen soon, it would be too late for Boba. And a lot of other kids as well.

Mike punched the LED button on his digital watch and checked the time. He’d been walking for over six hours. Add that to the seven hours he’d been clocking each night for the last three nights and … well, it was probably best not to dwell on it. He’d been at it for a while. And so far all he had was … sore feet and two major blisters on his toes.

And a chance to get reacquainted with some of the worst parts of north Tulsa. What a panoramic display, Mike thought, scanning the streets surrounding him. Urban blight. Poverty. Crime. Human misery. All his favorite scenery. After all, why go to the beach when you can go to—oh, say, Dino’s Hubcap Emporium, or the Wizard’s Smoke Shop, or the crumbling remains of the ABC Taxicab Company, or—

Wait a minute. Some half-remembered detail was nagging at him. What?

The taxicab company. That was it.

Without looking, Mike plunged off the sidewalk and crossed the street. The front of the stone building was crumbling; the faded paint lettering identifying it as the ABC Taxicab Company was barely visible. The door was bolted and the windows were blocked. It didn’t look as if ABC had been in business for years.