William Bernhardt - Perfect Justice

Ben continued voir-diring the veniremen for another half hour, but he acquired no fresh information. All of them knew enough about the case to have preconceived conclusions, but no one would admit it. Ben would have to proceed on instinct.

Unfortunately Ben knew his instincts were lousy. This was a part of the trial where he typically depended on Christina. She had a knack for puncturing the subterfuge and perceiving what was really on people’s minds. But Christina wasn’t helping today. She wasn’t even in the courtroom.

In chambers, Swain used only one of his preemptory challenges, to take Mr. Clemons off the jury. Ben removed Mrs. Conrad and four other older women. Older women tended to be harsher judges and to give harsher sentences. A statistical generalization, to be sure. Barely better than a stereotype. But at the moment it was all Ben had.

And that left twelve jurors. No recalls were necessary. In barely more than an hour they had selected the twelve men and women who would decide Donald Vick’s fate.

The judge and lawyers returned to the courtroom. Judge Tyler charged the final twelve jurors.

“I’m glad we got that taken care of,” Tyler said. “Lawyers tend to be a long-winded bunch. Anytime we can select a jury in less than a day, I feel accomplished. The rest of the veniremen in the courtroom are dismissed.”

Tyler glanced at his watch. “We’ll call it quits for the day and let you all get home and make the necessary arrangements with your employers and families. Be back at the courthouse at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Tyler glanced at the counsel tables. “That includes you gentlemen, too, of course. Have your opening statements ready, and let’s keep them down to half an hour, tops. And then, ladies and gentlemen, we shall see what we shall see.”

44.

“DON’T FORGET DINNER,” BELINDA said as she and Ben left the courtroom. “You promised.”

“And it’s a promise I don’t intend to break,” Ben replied. “But I have tons of work to do before the trial resumes tomorrow. And there’s another stop I want to make before it’s too late.”

“How about you pick me up outside the Hatewatch office around eight-thirty?”

“Deal.”

Ben walked three blocks down Main Street, past the autoparts store, Ed’s Gas’M’Up, and the Bluebell Bar. He resisted the temptation to stop in and chat with Mac. He had a hunch Mac wouldn’t be that happy to see him; in fact, he might try to bill Ben for the damage to his pinball machine. Instead Ben kept walking until he arrived at the offices of The Silver Springs Herald.

Unfortunately The Herald saw him coming. As he approached the streetfront window, a middle-aged man in a tweed suit jumped up and made a beeline for the entrance.

Ben managed to get his foot in the door just before it was shut.

“Sorry,” the man said. “We’re closed.”

“I want to speak to the editor,” Ben said.

“He’s not in!” the man insisted. He was wearing a name tag: HAROLD MCGUINESS—EDITOR.

“You’re McGuiness!” Ben shouted. “You’re the man who keeps writing about me. I have a bone to pick with you.”

“I write all the articles for The Herald. What of it? We’re still closed.” McGuiness tugged on the doorknob, trying to pull it shut.

“My name is Ben Kincaid.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t read my own paper?”

“I’ve been misquoted in your distinguished journal. Repeatedly. I want you to print a retraction.”

“Sorry. Can’t be done. Now, if you’ll kindly remove your foot—”

“I’ll remove my foot when you agree to print the retraction. Bad enough you’ve convinced everyone in town I’m a sleazebag. Now you’ve got the judge thinking I’m badmouthing him. I never uttered a single syllable that you attributed to me.”

“Never said you did.” McGuiness yanked the door so hard the glass rattled in its frame. “Now get out of here.”

“I could sue you for libel. You put quotation marks around a statement I didn’t make.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s an exact quote. Least that’s what the United States Supreme Court says. And as long as I didn’t act with malice, I’m well within the bounds of the law.”

Unfortunately, Ben was familiar with the current case law on libel. “Look, I don’t want to sue anyone. I merely want to set the record straight. Why don’t you interview me—”

“Thanks, don’t care to. Got what I need from secondary sources.”

“You’ve ruined my reputation. Everyone in town thinks I’m going to use city-slicker tricks to put a murderer back on the street.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“My goal is to see that Vick gets a fair trial. And your newspaper is making that almost impossible.”

“If that’s supposed to make me shed tears for your client, it doesn’t.” He kicked Ben in the shin. Ben’s foot involuntarily drew back and McGuiness slammed the door shut.

Ben picked up Belinda around nine, and together they walked arm in arm to Bo-Bo’s Chinese Restaurant. It was the only place still open other than the Bluebell, and Ben definitely wasn’t taking her there. He did have some doubts about Bo-Bo’s authenticity, however. First, there was the question of the owner’s name. Second, Bo-Bo’s was the first Oriental restaurant Ben recalled that also served red beans and rice, grits, and fatback.

As Ben and Belinda waited to be seated they stood behind a middle-aged Vietnamese woman who was picking up a carry-out order. The teenage girl who was supposed to be the cashier was standing in the doorway to the kitchen fighting off (not very hard) the amorous advances of a boy about her age in a chef’s cap. Eventually the Vietnamese woman captured her attention. The girl passed the woman a plastic-wrapped bundle of cardboard cartons, still giggling at the boy in the back.

“Seventeen fifty-two, please.”

The Vietnamese woman passed a bill across the counter.

“Seventeen fifty-two out of twenty. Your change will be two forty-eight.” The girl pulled two ones out of the cash register and counted them into the Vietnamese woman’s hand. “That’s one, two—”

She glanced down at the register. “Wait a minute. You gave me a ten, not a twenty.”

The Vietnamese woman stared blankly at the girl.

“What are you trying to pull? You can’t take seventeen outta ten.”

“Seven dollar,” the Vietnamese woman said. “Paid.” She reached out for her ten, still lying on top of the cash drawer.

“Oh, no you don’t.” The girl slammed the drawer shut. “Now give me back that food.”

The woman clutched the food package tightly in her arms. “Paid already.”

“My daddy was right,” the girl said. “He told me you people have to be watched every single second. Sneaky gooks. Barbara!”

An older woman with a beehive hairdo emerged from the back of the restaurant. “What’s going on?”

“This lady tried to pass a ten off as a twenty. Now she won’t give back the food.”

The older woman frowned. “I’ll call Sheriff Collier.”

“Now just a minute,” Belinda said, interrupting. “This poor woman didn’t try to pass off anything. She obviously barely knows the language and probably misunderstood you.”

The teenage girl pressed her fists against her hips, annoyed at this interloper. “She tried to pass off a ten—”

“She thought you asked for seven dollars, not seventeen. You assumed she would give you a twenty and didn’t notice when she didn’t.”

“Who do you think you are telling me—”

“The fact is, you were flirting with that boy in the kitchen and you weren’t paying enough attention to your job. And now you’re trying to make this innocent woman take the blame for your screwup.”