William Bernhardt - Perfect Justice

“Well, it’s been a tense week.”

“Lucky I got you on this table before you exploded in the middle of the courtroom.”

She took him through her repertoire of strokes—kneading, pressing, tapping, and vibrating. “Of course, this is just one example of each stroke. There are several variants.”

“I think we should try them all,” Ben murmured.

“This is the Anara massage technique.”

Ben could tell the movements of her hands had changed, not that it made much difference. It all felt delicious.

She started working on his thighs. “Strong legs for a desk jockey,” she commented.

“I get plenty of exercise chasing my cat.”

“Who’s looking after her while you’re on this extended vacation?”

“My landlady, Mrs. Marmelstein. She’s always happy to help out. Cat-sitting gives her an excuse to go through my closets.”

Belinda continued moving down his legs. “Man, you are just unbelievably tense. You keep it all locked up inside, don’t you?”

Ben chose not to comment.

“Now, this is an example of the Shiatsu massage technique.”

To Ben’s surprise, her fingertips danced lightly over the soles of his feet. “Hey, that tickles.”

“So there’s life in you after all.” She used her thumb and forefinger to rub out the tension in his feet. “Finally I want to demonstrate the famed Montgomery massage.”

“The Montgomery massage?”

“Right.” She began lightly kissing his back, then worked her way up the nape of his neck. Goosebumps rose on his skin. “Does this tickle?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Ben rolled over and took Belinda into his arms. “Can I play?”

“Please do.” The first kiss was followed by several others, each more passionate than the first.

Belinda pulled away for a moment and reached behind her back. A second later her business suit lay in a pile on the floor.

Ben felt his heart palpitating. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

Belinda lay down beside him. She kissed him again on the lips, then let her own lips roam where they would. “I’m not sure, but I think you’re becoming less tense,” she said quietly. Her fingers ran up his chest and through his hair.

Ben explored the soft contours of her perfect body. “Did you really major in massage therapy?”

She smiled, then rolled over on top of him. “Nah. But I thought it was a great way to sneak a peek at your boxer shorts.”

45.

THE NEXT MORNING BEN made it to the Silver Springs courthouse well before nine and began reviewing his notes. He’d had a great night’s sleep. Once he and Belinda finally got around to sleeping.

Two deputies brought Vick back to the defendant’s table and the crowd began to flood into the courtroom gallery. Most of the people he had recognized the day before had returned. Plus Grand Dragon Dunagan and a small coterie of ASP muscle.

“What brings you here?” Ben asked as he passed by them.

“Came to keep a close eye on you,” Dunagan said.

“I thought you considered me lead counsel for the forces of goodness and light.”

“That was before I found out you were a Vietcong sympathizer,” Dunagan spat out. “Before I found out you were in league with that demon whore Hamilton.”

Ben’s jaw clenched. “You have no business talking about Belinda like that.”

“I know what she is!” Fortunately the drone of the crowded courtroom muffled his shout. “And I know what you are now, too.”

“You hateful—” Ben swallowed the expletive on the tip of his tongue. He turned his back on Dunagan and walked away. He noticed that Colonel Nguyen from Coi Than Tien was in the gallery. And in the front row, Belinda sat beside her associates Frank Carroll and John Pfeiffer.

Judge Tyler entered the courtroom and the crowd was silenced. “Opening statements, gentlemen. Mr. Prosecutor, would you like to begin?”

“Thank you, your honor.” Swain planted himself in his intimate, up-front position inches away from the jury,

“Thuy Quang Vuong—known by his friends as Tommy—was a Vietnamese American. But that isn’t what this case is about. He was a young man, and subject to many of the troubles most young men face. That isn’t what this case is about either. Tommy Vuong was a living, breathing human being, with as much right to live his life as any one of you sitting in this jury box.”

Swain leaned forward and made eye contact with each of the jurors. “And that’s what this case is about. Because you see, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Tommy Vuong wasn’t permitted to live. He wasn’t permitted to marry, or to have children, or to experience any of the quiet, simple joys most of us take for granted. Because on July twenty-fifth, on a hot summer night, someone ripped his life away by firing two metal crossbow bolts at close range into his chest and his neck.”

He glanced at Vick, an unmistakable bit of nonverbal communication. “And then the killer planted a burning cross over Tommy’s bleeding head.”

A discernible tremor passed through the courtroom. That was a detail that had been withheld from the press; most people didn’t know about it. Unfortunately it was also a detail that appeared to confirm Vick’s guilt.

“You might think,” Swain continued, “that two crossbow bolts would produce a quick death. You would be wrong. Tommy Vuong’s life drained away, slowly and painfully, as his blood poured from his veins. And as if that wasn’t enough, the cross caught Tommy’s clothing on fire. And he began to burn. ”

Another shudder passed through the gallery. Ben felt a bit of a shudder himself.

Ben could object; this dramatic recitation was hardly likely to aid the jury in their fact-finding mission. But he knew it would be pointless. Every prosecutor had the inherent right to portray the facts as melodramatically as possible. Swain was trying to stir up sympathy for the victim—and hatred for the defendant. And he was doing a commendable job. The jury already disliked Vick; Ben could see them sneaking peeks at him, then quickly averting their eyes. And they had yet to encounter a single bit of evidence that indicated he was guilty.

“Not just anyone could commit a crime like that,” Swain continued. “Not just anyone could be so … cold. So utterly devoid of feeling. So heartless. No, it took a special kind of man to commit this crime. A man with hatred burning in his gut.” He turned and stood squarely before Vick. “Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence we will present will prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the man who committed this horrible deed was the defendant—Donald Vick.”

Swain and Vick made eye contact. It was like a contest of wills; neither wanted to be the first to flinch. Eventually Swain turned away and continued his opening.

Swain provided few clues about the testimony he would be presenting. Perhaps, Ben mused, the evidence wasn’t as strong as Swain had been suggesting. More likely he just didn’t want to give Ben any advance notice. Swain made passing references to trace evidence on the crossbow and Vick’s fight with Vuong, and a purported confession. What concerned Ben most was Swain’s elliptical reference to “Vick’s fatal mistake—the selection of the deadly and exotic crossbow as his instrument of death.”

Swain finished his performance and reclaimed his seat.

“Would you care to give your opening statement now, Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Tyler inquired, “or to reserve it until the start of the defendant’s case-in-chief?”

“I’ll go now,” Ben said, rising to his feet. It was crazy to reserve opening until later. The jury could sit for days without hearing any version of the facts other than the prosecutor’s.