William Bernhardt - Perfect Justice

“Got any evidence to support this theory of yours, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Well, how could I? I haven’t taken a poll.”

“Anybody come up to you and say they were going to convict your man no matter what?”

“Of course not.”

“You’ll have the chance to voir dire every prospective juror just like everyone else. If you find anyone who’s biased, you may excuse them.”

“Your honor, no one is likely to admit that they favor a quick conviction just because they’re frightened.”

“Then what am I supposed to rule upon? Your motion is denied.”

“Judge, that was only my first ground for a change of venue.” Ben had hoped he wouldn’t need the second. But now it appeared he was going to have to go all the way. “The second reason for a transfer is the trial judge’s obvious bias against my client.”

“What? How dare you—!”

“Judge, you told me yourself you read the DA’s file on the case. That’s improper. You said the evidence against my client looked pretty bad. You’ve already made up your mind.”

The judge rose halfway out of his chair. “I was simply stating facts!”

“The jury is supposed to determine the facts,” Ben said. “Not the judge. I want a transfer.”

“Mr. Kincaid, I am beginning to understand why you’ve had such a hard time holding down a job! I have served on this bench for twenty-eight years, and never— never! —have I been accused of being unfair!”

“You may not be conscious of it, sir, but you’re still—”

“Be quiet!” He pounded his fist on his desk. “I heard you out, now you listen to me. You’re right about one thing. I don’t like your client. And I’m starting to like you even less. But my likes and dislikes are irrelevant. Justice is what matters. And this court will serve justice—perfect justice—to the best of my ability.

“Your client will have a fair trial. And if he loses, it will be because the evidence was against him and he was found guilty by a jury of his peers. And for no other reason. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” There was nothing else to say.

“Very good. Your motion is denied. Understood?”

Ben nodded.

“Anything further?”

All attorneys present shook their heads.

“Very good, gentlemen. See you in court.”

40.

VICK WAS HUNCHED OVER the exposed sink in the middle of his cell when Ben arrived. He was splashing water on his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He didn’t look as if he had been up long.

“ ’Morning,” Ben said amiably.

Vick peered out over his wash towel, then went on with what he was doing.

“This will probably be our last chance to talk before the trial.”

Vick threw down his towel. “Why is there going to be a trial? I thought I told you I wanted to plead guilty?”

Ben chose his words carefully. “The DA didn’t give me a deal.” Not that he asked for one.

“I don’t give a damn. I’m pleading guilty.”

“Look, Vick. I know you’re young, inexperienced, and not incredibly … worldly-wise. Let me explain the facts of life to you. This case is going to trial, whether you like it or not. Therefore you have fulfilled your goal of protecting whoever it is you’re determined to protect. Maybe you’re concerned that if the jury finds you not guilty, the prosecution will go on trying people until they get a conviction. Wrong. Prosecutors bet all their chips on the first trial. If they win, great. If they lose, they complain that they were screwed by the judge or the lawyers or the press. They almost never bring charges against a second defendant following an acquittal. After all, to do so would be to admit they made a mistake.”

“I don’t need your—”

“Just shut up and listen. Given that this trial is going forward, and given that no one else will ever be tried for this crime unless he confesses his guilt on national television, the only remaining question is what the outcome of your trial will be. Will I get you off, or will you be on the receiving end of a lethal injection?”

Vick stepped away from the iron bars.

“It isn’t going to make a bit of difference to anyone else. Only to you. So what’s it going to be? Will you let me try to save you?”

Vick walked back to his cot, then seated himself on the edge. His eyes remained locked on Ben.

“I made a promise,” he said finally.

“Fine. Keep your goddamn promise. We’ll work around it.”

Eventually Vick’s head began to nod. “What do you want to know?”

Hallelujah. “They found a bloodstain on the crossbow. They say the blood is your type. Any idea how it got there? I thought possibly you were practicing with the crossbow out at the ASP camp one day and cut your finger. Then maybe someone else picked up the crossbow and used it to kill Vuong.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Forensic evidence doesn’t lie,” Ben said. “If I can’t come up with an explanation for how your hair and blood got on that crossbow, the prosecution will ram it down our throats.”

“Nothing like that ever happened,” Vick said.

Oh, well. It was worth a try.

Vick’s answers were largely useless, but Ben was nonetheless encouraged. Vick hadn’t actually proclaimed his innocence, but he was at least expressing interest in something other than a one-way ticket to death row. “Have you heard about the fire? At Coi Than Tien.”

“I read the paper the sheriff gave me.”

“Was this an ASP operation?”

“How would I know? I’ve been locked up in here for weeks. Was the fire … bad?”

“Destroyed one home, damaged two others.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“A few people with scorched lungs or smoke inhalation. One woman was burned severely. We don’t know if she’s going to live.”

Vick looked down at his hands. His sorrow appeared genuine.

“So,” Ben continued, “if you know who set the fire—”

“I don’t,” Vick said firmly. “No idea at all.”

Ben hated to add to Vick’s already hefty guilt load. On the other hand, if there was any chance he might have information about the night of the fire …

“There was a baby in the burned home,” Ben said softly. “We found her in the ruins. Her remains, anyway.”

Vick stared up at him, his eyes wide. “A”—his voice choked—“baby?” He barely got the word out.

“Yeah. Newborn. We don’t know who she was or where she came from. Do you?”

“Of course not.”

“I just thought that since you’re—”

“I said I don’t know anything about it!” Vick’s voice echoed down the narrow stone corridor. “What the hell does it have to do with Vuong’s murder, anyway?”

“I think there’s a connection,” Ben said, “although I’m not sure what it is. But I can tell you this for certain. Everyone in town thinks ASP is responsible for the fire, just as they think ASP is responsible for this murder. And those people are going to be your jurors.”

“Maybe you should talk to someone at the camp.”

“I’ve tried,” Ben said. “Without any luck. But speaking of your friends at the camp, I gather you weren’t all that friendly with them. Any reason in particular?”

Vick looked away. “I’m new to the club. Relatively. Takes a while to make friends.”

Ben suspected Vick could have been in this club for decades and never made any friends. He just didn’t belong. It was as if ASP was a gigantic “What’s wrong with this picture?” puzzle, and the answer was Donald Vick. “You wouldn’t have fallen in with these people if not for your father, right?”

Vick didn’t answer him.

“Donald, there comes a time when you have to shake loose of the person your parents want you to be. You have to be yourself.” Ben stopped and listened to his own words. Good advice, Ben. Good advice.