Perfect Justice (23 page)

“And all he has to do is plead guilty to a crime he didn’t commit.”

Swain plopped his briefcase on Ben’s table. “Kincaid, I know you haven’t had time to get up to speed on this case, much less prepare a defense. Let me tell you—we’ve got more than enough to put your boy away. I’m not trying to buffalo you. I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. My only concern is that while we’re in here playing lawyer games, Silver Springs is going up in smoke.”

“Sorry, Swain. My client says he wants a trial.” Thank goodness that was finally true.

“Once the trial begins, my offer is off the table. Once this circus is under way, it can’t be stopped until your man has a death sentence hanging over his head.”

“Thanks for the early warning, Mr. Swain. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for trial.”

Swain left, shaking his head as if Ben had single-handedly ushered in the end of civilization. Ben only hoped he hadn’t made a tragic mistake for Donald Vick, either. He hated to see a man plead guilty to a crime he didn’t commit. But twentieth-century plea bargaining turned criminal justice into a high-stakes dice game. And if Ben crapped out at trial, the penalty for Donald Vick would be stiff indeed.

Payne was already seated at defendant’s table. He wasn’t planning to contribute, but he had to be there to maintain the facade of being co-counsel. And, Ben figured, it couldn’t hurt to have a trusted townie sitting at his table. There would certainly be plenty of locals sitting with Swain.

Two deputies escorted Donald Vick into the courtroom. They handcuffed him to the defendant’s table. In Tulsa, Ben always had the opportunity to clean up his defendants—get them a haircut, put them in a respectable suit of clothes. Not here. Vick was wearing jailhouse-gray coveralls. He was going to appear to the jury to be exactly what he was: an accused man who had spent the last several weeks behind bars.

“How do you feel?” Ben asked him. It was an inane question, but it was all he could contrive at the moment.

“I’ve felt better,” Vick replied. His nervousness was etched all over his face.

“The DA has offered us a plea bargain. You plead guilty, he’ll give you life. A long tour of duty, but preferable to death.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I told him you wanted your day in court. But it’s not too late to accept his offer.”

Vick’s brain appeared to be working double time. “Well,” he said, after a long pause, “when’s this show get on the road?”

A few minutes later Judge Tyler entered the courtroom in his long black robe. The courtroom hushed instantly; he didn’t have to touch his gavel. The bailiff called the case and Tyler noted that all parties were present and represented by counsel.

“State versus Donald Vick
will now commence,” the bailiff solemnly intoned. “All those who have business before this honorable court will come forward.

“Gentlemen,” Judge Tyler said, peering down at Ben and his client, “this trial begins now.”

“M
R. KINCAID,” JUDGE TYLER
continued. “I read your statement in the morning paper.”

“Statement? I never—”

“Let me tell you right up front—I don’t appreciate disrespectful comments about this Court being published in the press. If you have a problem with me, you can say it to my face. And by the way, I’ve never let my cases be decided on the basis of legal trickery, and I don’t intend to start now.”

“Your honor, I assure you—”

“That’s enough. A word to the wise is sufficient. Now then, we need to select a jury. Bailiff, call the veniremen.”

The bailiff began drawing names out of a metal cage that looked like an old-time bingo hopper. The selected people walked, some hesitantly, all nervously, to the jury box. Once the required number of bodies was seated, Judge Tyler instructed Swain to begin voir dire.

“Thank you, your honor.” Swain stood directly in front of the jury box, his arms spread wide, a warm and friendly smile on his face. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have assembled today in the midst of a great conflict. A festering cauldron of hate has spawned the most sinful of crimes—the wrongful taking of a man’s life. I don’t need to tell you the importance of the task that lies before us. I will just ask you this. Is there anyone here today that for any reason believes he cannot do his duty to God and this court of law?”

Not surprisingly no hands were raised.

“If we prove the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and we will—is there anyone here who would be unable to apply the maximum sentence mandated by law for this heinous crime?”

No hands. But just in case there was some doubt about the sentence to which the DA was referring …

“Is there anyone here who feels he or she might be unable to issue a sentence of death, if the law and the circumstances commanded it?”

After a long pause one young man on the far end of the first row raised his hand.

“Mr. Clemons,” Swain said.

How did Swain know his name? Ben wondered. He couldn’t have memorized them all when the names were called. No—small town, Ben reminded himself. Small town.

“Mr. Clemons, would you be able to issue a sentence of death?”

“Well … I just don’t know,” Clemons said awkwardly. He was aware that half the town was watching him. “I mean …
death
—that’s an awful harsh sentence. I just—I just don’t know if I could do that or not.”

“I see,” Swain intoned. His disapproval was evident. “I appreciate your honesty.” He glanced at the judge. Swain wouldn’t ask for Clemons to be removed now, with everyone listening in, but as soon as they were in chambers, Clemons was a goner. “Anyone else?”

Apparently the possibility of becoming executioners didn’t trouble anyone else enough to speak up.

“Very well,” Swain said. “ ’Preciate your cooperation.” He returned to his table.

What is this? Ben wondered. He’s done? Jury selection in capital cases often went on for days. Sometimes selecting the jury took longer than the trial. Swain had barely been up there for five minutes.

Definitely not a good sign. Either Swain knew the jurors personally and believed they were already predisposed in his favor, or he considered his case so strong he didn’t care who sat on the jury. Or both.

“Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Tyler said, “you may inquire.”

“Thank you.” Ben scrambled to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are probably familiar with the words District Attorney Swain just used—beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s the standard he has to meet. If you don’t think he’s proved his case
beyond
a reasonable doubt, you must find my client, Donald Vick, not guilty.”

“Counsel,” Judge Tyler interrupted, “this isn’t closing argument. Get on with the voir dire.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Ben assured him.

“Well, maybe they allow you to plead your whole case during jury selection over in Tulsa County,” he said sternly, “but I don’t.”

A small tittering emerged from the gallery. And just in case the jurors didn’t already know Ben was the out-of-towner, the fact was now abundantly clear.

Ben approached the jury box. It was hard to know where to stand. He tried to position himself as close to them as Swain had been, but when he did, he saw the front row of jurors instinctively shrink back in their chairs. They didn’t want him that close; he was invading their personal space. The message was obvious: Swain was their friend; Ben wasn’t.

“My first question is this,” Ben said. “Do you feel that if you are called to this jury, you will be able to apply the reasonable-doubt standard?”

No hands. No reactions.

“Perhaps I should explain what I mean by that. Beyond a reasonable doubt means—”

“Now I’ll object to that,” Swain said. He popped a suspender for effect. “He’s not allowed to define
reasonable doubt.
He can’t even do that in closing argument. That’s your honor’s job.”

“The objection will be sustained,” Judge Tyler pronounced.

Ben frowned. He was getting nowhere fast. “Let me try it this way. How many of you have heard or read anything about this murder case?”

Eighteen hands shot into the air.

“Your honor,” Ben said. “Under these circumstances, my motion for change of venue—”

“Will be denied. Proceed, counsel.”

Ben sighed. “Well, how many of you have already made up your mind about what happened?”

Eighteen hands fell. Which made sense, of course. This was an exciting case. These people wanted to sit on the jury, except perhaps Clemons. They weren’t about to admit they were prejudiced.

“Do any of you know the defendant? Have you had any contact with him at all?”

Only a middle-aged woman in the third row raised her hand.

“Thank you,” Ben said. “And you would be Ms. …”

“That’s Mrs. Conrad,” Swain informed him.

Thanks, Mr. District Attorney, for reminding us that you know everyone here and I don’t. “Mrs. Conrad. How do you know Donald Vick?”

“Well, it’s like this,” she explained carefully. “After that tornado last spring took the north wall off my house, I moved into a boardinghouse where this man was also staying.”

“I see,” Ben said. “Would that be Mary Sue’s place?”

“Why—yes,” she said, obviously surprised. Score one for the out-of-towner.

“Did you get to know Mr. Vick during that time?”

“Well, not too much. He was a quiet one. Kept to himself. Rather morose. Always seemed like he was … thinking. Or planning—”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Conrad, I think I’ve got the idea. Anyone else?”

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.”

“D
ON’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.”