William Bernhardt - Perfect Justice

“Your honor,” Ben said. “I needn’t remind the court that my client is charged with a capital offense. The jury should have the opportunity to learn all they can about the man whose fate they will determine. I ask for the widest possible latitude.”

Judge Tyler frowned, but he overruled Swain’s objection.

“How often were you involved in ASP activities?” Ben continued.

“New members are expected to spend their first two years in what amounts to an apprenticeship for ASP.” Vick looked at the jury from time to time, establishing an easy rapport. He was so fresh-faced and clean-cut, after all; it was just possible he might turn the jury around. “Personally I had hoped to go to college, but …” He shrugged. “My father and ASP had other plans.”

“What did you do during this … apprenticeship?”

“At first I handled clerical tasks in the Montgomery office. Busywork, mostly. Then, a few months ago, after this new camp was set up outside Silver Springs, I was transferred here.”

“Did your responsibilities change?”

“No. I still handled the clerical chores. Requisitions. Food, supplies. For some reason, Mr. Dunagan never assigned me more challenging duties.”

“Did your clerical chores include ordering weaponry?”

“Yes. I did all the ordering and the picking up. Not just on those crossbow bolts.”

Ben checked the jury reaction. They made the connection. His testimony cast a different light on the evidence.

“Why did you take a room in town? Couldn’t you have stayed in the barracks at the ASP camp?”

“Oh, yeah. But—I don’t know. I preferred to have some privacy from time to time. I didn’t get on all that well with the rest of the ASP guys.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. I guess we didn’t share that many interests.”

“What did the ASP members like to do?”

“Oh, drink. Lots of drinking. And talking about women like they were … well, you know. In a manner I don’t find appropriate. And they talked about what they were going to do to those Vietnamese people. Most of them never did anything to any of them and never would. But they loved to talk about it.”

Ben stood beside the jury box so Vick could easily look from him to them. “How did you feel when they talked about the Vietnamese?”

“I didn’t care much for it.”

“Why not? You’re a member of ASP, aren’t you?”

“Yes … I’m a member. …”

“And you believe in the superiority of the Caucasian race, don’t you?”

“I guess. But that doesn’t mean we have to go around beating up on all the other races. On the contrary, it seems to me that if we’re really all that superior, we should be able to live peacefully with other people.”

Ben paused, leaving plenty of time for Vick’s words to sink in. The alleged hatemonger was much more the philosopher than anyone the jury had heard from thus far.

“Donald, did you participate in the car bombing on Maple Street several months ago?”

“No. It’s true I requisitioned the materials that must have been used, but I didn’t know that was going to happen when I ordered them. I was just doing what I was told.”

“Told by whom?”

Vick hesitated. “By Mr. Dunagan. He controlled all supply orders. I only made purchases on his instruction.”

“Donald, do you remember what you were doing the night of July twenty-fifth?”

“Yes. After dinner, around ten, I went out for a walk.”

“That seems odd.”

“No, I walked almost every night. It was my habit. Mary Sue could’ve confirmed that. If anyone had asked her.”

Sure, Ben thought, rub it in. “Why did you walk at night?”

“Do I need a reason? It’s beautiful country out here, and especially beautiful at night.” Good answer; jurors tended to be civic-minded. “Gave me a chance to get away from all the swearing and chanting and plotting. Gave me a chance to think.”

“Do you recall your stroll being interrupted by Sheriff Collier?”

“Of course.”

“Were you irritated with him?”

“No, he was just doing his job. He was nicer about it than some I’ve seen.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, it was pretty much as Sheriff Collier described it.”

“Whose blood was on your shirt?”

The air in the courtroom seemed suspended; at last a question that got to the heart of the matter.

“That was my blood. I got hurt that afternoon at the Bluebell Bar. During the fight. I suppose I should have changed my shirt, but it never occurred to me.”

“And since the sheriff never analyzed the bloodstain, he never found out it was your own blood.”

“I guess that’s right.”

“The sheriff also claims that after he told you Vuong was dead, you said, ‘He deserved to die.’ Is that true?”

Vick paused only a second before answering. “Yes.”

“And why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” He directly confronted the jurors. “That’s not to say I was glad he was dead. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, especially not the way it happened to him. But he did deserve to die.”

“Donald.” Ben slowly approached the stand. “Did you kill Tommy Vuong?”

“No. Maybe he deserved to die, but I’m not an executioner. I wouldn’t do that. And I didn’t.”

“Thank you, Donald. No more questions at this time.” The jury remained very still as Ben returned to defendant’s table. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Vick’s earnest testimony had had a real effect on them.

“Fine.” Judge Tyler swung around in his big leather chair. He appeared to have been as mesmerized by Vick’s testimony as everyone else. “Mr. Swain, you may inquire.”

56.

“WELL, MR. VICK,” SWAIN said. “I had no idea you ASPers were so sensitive.” No one so much as smiled. His attempt at sarcasm had fallen flat.

“Was that a question, sir?” Vick asked politely.

“No.” Swain cleared his throat. “But this is. You seem to have omitted a very important detail from your story. Where were you on the afternoon before the murder took place? Say around four o’clock.”

Damn. Beneath the table and out of sight of the jury, Ben clenched his fists. He had hoped Swain would discuss some of the subjects brought out on direct first. But Swain was going straight for the jugular.

“I was at the Bluebell Bar.”

“Just stopped in for a drink?”

“No. Actually I don’t drink.”

“Oh, of course not.” Swain grinned. “You’re probably a buttermilk man.”

Vick didn’t flinch.

“If you don’t drink, why were you at the Bluebell Bar?”

“I was looking for someone.”

“Who?”

Vick took a deep breath. “Tommy Vuong.”

“And why were you looking for him?”

Vick looked across the courtroom at Ben. His mouth remained shut.

Ben jumped to his feet. “Objection!”

Tyler peered down at him. “Got any grounds, counsel, or do you just not want the witness to answer?”

“I object … on grounds of relevance, your honor.”

Swain piped in. “Of course this is relevant. It goes toward establishing the defendant’s motive. It also establishes a predisposition for violence toward the victim.”

“We’ll stipulate that Donald wasn’t fond of the victim, your honor. So the question is unnecessary.”

Tyler shook his head. “The objection is overruled.”

Ben didn’t sit down. “Then I object on grounds of … um … lack of proper foundation.”

Swain’s forehead crinkled. “Do I have to respond to that, Judge?”

“No.” He pointed his gavel at Ben. “The quality of your objections is quickly deteriorating, counsel. Overruled. I suggest you sit down.”