Murder One (2 page)

A bad question, as it turned out. “We believe she drove the body there. We found faint traces of tire tracks on Fifth, parallel to the fountain. Someone drove onto the pedestrian walkway beside Bartlett Square. We believe she wrapped the chains around the body’s hands and feet while it was still in the car, then dragged him to the fountain. As the coroner can confirm, the body had any number of scrapes and abrasions that could be the result of being dragged over the pavement in this manner. Once she had the chain around the fountain, we believe she was able to improvise a rudimentary pulley system to haul the body up.”

Ben silently cursed himself. This was a classic case of asking one question too many. “It still sounds to me as if it would require a good deal of strength.”

“Maybe. But if I’ve learned anything in my years on the force, it’s that size is no indicator of strength. Sometimes the most potent medicine comes in small bottles.”

“That’s quaint, officer, but are you seriously suggesting—”

“Besides,” Callery said, rushing his words in edgewise, “whoever said Keri Dalcanton wasn’t strong?” A small smile played on his lips. “I hear she gets lots of exercise. All that high-octane dancing must build up some stamina.”

There was an audible response from the gallery. Callery was referring to the fact that Ben’s client worked—at least until she became a permanent resident of the Tulsa County Jail seven months ago—at a “gentleman’s club” at Thirty-first and Lewis. In other words, she was a stripper. Another dramatic—and damning—fact that everyone in the courtroom already knew
all
too well. The press wouldn’t let them forget. No article overlooked the salacious side of the story. The headlines began
STRIPPER SUSPECTED
and continued with
SEX CLUB SIREN SEIZED.

“Sergeant Callery, it took three men to lower McNaughton’s body to the ground. Are you seriously suggesting—”

“Hey, I saw that picture in the paper. You know, the one with her in nothing but a bright red G-string thingie? Looked to me like she had lots of muscles.”

“Your honor, I object!” Ben knew what Callery was talking about, though. The day Keri Dalcanton was arrested, a morning paper, in an unaccountable lapse of taste, had run a picture of her taken on the job. Something a reporter swiped from a backstage bulletin board, apparently. Tasseled pasties on her ample breasts; bright red G-string on her rock-’n’-roll hips. The paper apologized the next day, explaining that it was the only photo of Ms. Dalcanton they could locate, as she had covered her face when arrested. One of the lamest excuses for tabloid coverage by purportedly “legitimate” journalists Ben had heard yet.

Ben approached the bench. “Your honor, I object to any discussion or sly references to my client’s former occupation.”

Judge Hart lowered her eyeglasses and gave Ben the no-nonsense look he knew all too well. “On what grounds?”

“It will work extreme prejudice against Ms. Dalcanton.”

“Probably. But she should have thought of that before she took the job. Overruled.”

“But your honor—”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Then I’ll object on a different basis.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And that would be …?”

“I object because … because the photo in question has not been admitted into evidence.”

“Do you want it to be?”

“Hmm. Good point.”

Ben returned to the defense table knowing that his cross had been a bust. He hadn’t put a dent in the prosecution’s case, and given what few arrows he had in his quiver, he was unlikely to do so at any time in the future. He could see the determination in the eyes of the prosecution and police officers, and he could see the revulsion in the eyes of the jury. Even Judge Hart, normally a sympathetic, fair judge, was cutting him no slack. This time, the stakes were too high. The crime was too appalling, and too well known.

He had to face facts. Barring some kind of miracle, Keri Dalcanton was going to be convicted.

The media mob was no less aggressive when Ben and Christina returned after the lunch break. Even though Keri was not with them, the press pushed, shoved, and thrust themselves into Ben’s path, trying to bait him into delivering a tasty sound bite for the evening news.

“Assistant D.A. Dexter says the prosecution has a slam-dunk case. Care to comment?”

Ben refused to play. “Sorry, I won’t talk about an ongoing trial. The judge doesn’t like it—and neither do I.”

After that, the questions flew past in an unrestrained flurry.

“How can you possibly refute the mountain of evidence the prosecution has against your client?”

“Is it true Keri Dalcanton’s diaphragm was found in the victim’s mouth?”

“Can you confirm the rumor that McNaughton’s widow has hired a hitman to take out your client?”

A woman Ben recognized as one of the evening newscasters grabbed his arm. “Are you aware that polls show over eighty percent of all Tulsa citizens believe your client is guilty? How can you continue to defend her under these circumstances?”

Ben stopped. This was one he couldn’t let pass. “You know,” he said, trying not to look into the minicams, “there’s a reason why our founding fathers instituted the jury system. It’s so the accused could be tried based on evidence, rather than based on public opinion. Because public opinion can be so easily manipulated—especially by people like you.” He gazed out into the throng. “But you can’t respect the way the system is supposed to work. You want to convict people before the trial has started. You want to hang them based on rumors and polls and the suspicions of a populace that gets its information from your slanted ratings-hungry broadcasts. Everything you do disrupts what should be a simple process and makes it more complicated. Can’t you see what a gigantic disservice you’re doing?”

Ben’s lecture did not appear to have much impact. “What can you tell us about your client’s alleged sexual perversities?” someone shouted. “Is it true the chains were a regular part of their satanic lovemaking rituals?”

Ben shook his head. It was hopeless.

“When you look in the mirror, do you see a monster staring back at you?”

Ben stopped again. This was a question he hadn’t heard before. “Only when I’ve been up all night watching
Xena
reruns.”

“How amusing. I guess this is all one big joke to you. A fun way to bring home a big bucket of cash. You sicken me.”

Ben turned toward the raven-haired woman positioned before the courtroom doors. She was in her midforties, although she looked younger. She was tall and still quite attractive, her beauty marred somewhat at present by her red puffy face. She had been crying—judging by appearances, for days.

Ben knew who she was, although he wished he didn’t. She was Andrea McNaughton. The victim’s wife. Widow, now.

“Mrs. McNaughton,” Ben started, “I know this must be hard for you—”

“Don’t patronize me.” She raised her hand and slapped him hard across the face. “I don’t have to take that from you.”

Ben pressed his hand against his stinging cheek. Behind her, he saw the news cameramen jockeying for position. It seemed they were going to get something special for the six o’clock news after all. “Mrs. McNaughton, I understand your feelings. But please try to understand that I have a duty—a duty to provide a zealous defense for my client.”

“Don’t try to justify your poisonous existence to me!”

Ben sighed. “Mrs. McNaughton, perhaps it would be best if you didn’t attend the trial—”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like me to give your conscience a break. Well, I’m not going to do it, do you hear me? I won’t let up for a moment. I’ll be in that courtroom every day. Every time you try to humiliate a witness, I’ll be looking over your shoulder. Every time you pull one of your flashy courtroom tricks, I’ll be watching. I’ll be in your dreams—and your nightmares. I’ll never let you rest.”

And a good day to you, too, Ben thought. He stepped around her and walked quietly into the courtroom.

It got easier with time, in a way. And in a way, not. Certainly he was used to the media’s efforts to encapsulate the truth in tidy melodramatic snippets, their inclination to focus on the most exploitative details. Certainly he was used to the popular denigration of defense lawyers and the all-too-easy right-wing refusal to acknowledge the importance of their work. And certainly he was used to the tumult and outrage of those close to the deceased, who inevitably assuage their grief, and possibly their guilt, by latching their hatred onto whoever the police first suspect.

It did get easier to handle. But it didn’t make him like it.

The prosecution’s first witness that afternoon was Detective Sergeant Arlen Matthews, the Tulsa P.D. detective who led the team that conducted the initial search of Keri Dalcanton’s apartment.

“After I got the warrant from Judge Bolen,” Matthews explained, “I took two uniformed officers and drove to Ms. Dalcanton’s apartment just off Seventy-first Street.”

“Was the suspect at home?” Assistant D.A. Dexter asked.

“Yes, she was.”

“Did she admit you into her apartment?”

“She didn’t want to. But I had a warrant. She didn’t have any choice.”

“So what did you do, once you were inside the apartment?”

“We split up.” Matthews was a short, compact man with a direct, no-frills demeanor. His hair was close-cropped and he had a square, slightly protruding jaw. “It was a small apartment—just a central living area, a kitchenette, and a bedroom. We each took a room.”

“What was Ms. Dalcanton doing while you and your men conducted the search?”

Matthews drew in his breath. “Throwing a hissy fit, if you know what I mean.”

Ben made a note on his legal pad.
Hissy fit
—was that a Tulsa P.D. term of art?

“She was screaming, calling us names, getting in the way. She scratched one of my men with her fingernails.”

“That was an accident,” Keri muttered under her breath.

“She was wild-eyed and red-faced—she’d lost it,” Matthews continued. “She was crazy-actin’. I thought she must have some kind of mental problem—either that or she was very worried about what we might find.”

Ben jumped to his feet. “Objection.”

Judge Hart nodded. “Sustained. The witness will restrict his testimony to what he saw and heard—without speculating.”

“She was like a banshee,” Matthews continued, utterly unrepentant. “She jumped on me, piggyback style, trying to pull me back. She pounded me with her fists, on my chest, and the sides of my head. If that isn’t crazy, I don’t know what is.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Keri murmured quietly. “They were tearing my home apart. Breaking everything in sight. They knew about me and Joe and they hated me. They were intentionally trying to humiliate me.”

Ben nodded. He understood her side of the story. But he also understood the impact this testimony was having on the jurors—every one of whom was currently staring at Keri.

“Were you able to proceed with your search?” Dexter asked, continuing the examination.

“With some difficulty, yeah. At one point, she threw herself in front of me, trying to stop me from looking under her bed.”

“Were you able to look under the bed?”

“Oh yeah. That’s where we found the proof.”

“The proof?” Dexter took a step closer to the witness stand. “What was that?”

“The suit. This black leather bondage getup. Dog collar and everything. Soaked in blood. We believe it’s what the victim was wearing when he was killed.”

“And this was found under Ms. Dalcanton’s bed?”

“You got it.”

“Did you find anything else noteworthy in the apartment?”

“Yeah. We found chains that matched those used to strap the victim to the fountain in Bartlett Square.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. We found Joe McNaughton’s badge and wallet, also under her bed.”

“I see.” Dexter turned toward the jury. Ben knew this was going to be one of those improper—and unstoppable—summations in the form of a question. “So you found bloodstained clothes, the victim’s wallet, his badge, and matching chains—all in Ms. Dalcanton’s possession.”

“We did, yes.”

“Did Ms. Dalcanton have any explanation for these discoveries?”

“Eventually. At first, she claimed she didn’t know anything, didn’t know who Joe McNaughton was, he’d never been to her place. So forth. But after we showed her everything we’d found, she began to crack. Started to confess. We read her rights, and she waived counsel. In writing. She started crying, wailing. Kind of fell apart at the seams. Then we began to hear some truth.”

“Objection,” Ben said again.

Judge Hart nodded. “Again I will remind the witness that he is to give an account of what he saw and heard, without attempting to characterize it.”

“Sure,” Matthews grunted.

“The jury is instructed to disregard the witness’s last remark.” Hart peered sternly toward the witness box. “I do not want to have to give you this reminder again, Detective.”

“Got it.”

Dexter resumed his questioning. “How long did you interrogate Ms. Dalcanton?”

“At that time? About an hour.”

“Did you make a record of the conversation?”

“Yeah, we taped it. And I took notes.”

“Do you have those notes here with you today?”

“I do.”

“Feel free to consult them as necessary to refresh your recollection.”

“Sure.” Matthews reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small notepad. “Thanks.”

“Please tell the jury what Ms. Dalcanton told you on this occasion.”

He nodded. “Like I said, after we showed her everything we had, she changed her story. Admitted that she’d been having an affair with Joe McNaughton. Apparently she met him at this strip joint on Thirty-first where she works. He’d gone in with some of the boys after work one night and … one thing led to another. He was married, of course, but as you can see, Ms. Dalcanton is a seriously attractive kid, and being a stripper, she knew how to do things that … well, I don’t think she left Joe much of a chance.”

This time, Judge Hart didn’t wait for an objection. “Is that what she said, Sergeant?”