Naked Justice (24 page)

“What is it?” Ben asked. “What’s going on?”

Barrett adjusted his tie, then rose to his full height. “Ben, I’m giving some interviews today.”

“What?”

“Look, I know you don’t like this, but I don’t think I have any choice.”

“Choice? Of course you have a choice. You can just say no.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing. Taking your advice. And look what’s happened!” The sudden boom in the bass register of his voice told Ben this was something Barrett felt strongly about. “Everyone in the goddamn world is convinced I slaughtered my own family!”

“That will change at trial.”

“You’re delusional! Everyone’s mind will be made up before we get to trial, if they aren’t already. How long do you think people can resist this constant media bombardment, day after day, always insinuating that I’m guilty? Oh, sure, they never use those words, but that’s what they’re saying. You can see it in the slant, what they choose to report and what they choose to leave out. They don’t want the truth. They want a hero turned murderer. That’s where the big ratings are.”

“But still—”

“How do you think I feel, sitting in the jailhouse every day, listening to the lies they spew out about me? How would you like it if they said those things about you?”

Ben shook his head. “Cases should be tried in the courtroom, not in the media.”

Barrett’s large hands balled up. “That’s pretty damn easy for you to say, Mr. High-and-Mighty. It ain’t your neck on the chopping block. People aren’t saying you killed your wife, your precious children.”

Ben turned away. He didn’t know what more he could say. “Christina, come talk to him.”

Christina didn’t budge. “Sorry, Ben. I think he’s right.”

“What?”

“In a perfect world, I’m sure what you say would be true. But we don’t live in a perfect world. We live in a world where gossip passes for news, and sensationalism passes for journalism. If we don’t play along, we’re going to lose out.”

Ben turned back to Barrett. “Look, I’m your lawyer, not your mother. I can’t tell you what to do. But I think this is a mistake. If you do it anyway, remember—anything you say can and probably will be used against you by the prosecution.”

“I understand,” Barrett replied. “I know how to handle myself. It’s not like I’ve never given an interview before.”

“Fine.” Ben popped open his briefcase. “Any other little surprises you’d like to spring on me?”

“Actually, yes.” The same nervousness Ben had spotted before seemed to return. “I was talking to your legal assistant here.”

“Yes?”

He took a deep breath. “I think we should hire a jury consultant.”

“Oh, jeez.”

Barrett held up his hands. “I know, Christina told me you thought they were a waste of money.”

“Worse than that. They can be a real pain in the butt.”

“But I think we’re going to need some help on this one.”

“You mean you think
I’m
going to need some help with this one.”

“We all need help, Ben. Now more than ever.”

“Christina is an excellent judge of people,” Ben noted. “She’s better than any professional know-it-all I’ve seen in my entire career.”

“Probably so, but she’s got work of her own right now. I want someone who can go out and take the pulse of the people, maybe run some polls, find out what they think. Then we can tailor our defense accordingly.”

“Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I always try to tailor my defense around the truth.”

“C’mon, Ben, get with it. Of course we’re going to tell the truth, but the consultant will tell us how to tell it. What notes to play, what buttons to push. How to win the people over.”

“Wallace, I think you’re confused. This is a trial, not a campaign.”

“Is there a difference? We’re trying to win the votes of twelve people.”

“Christina?”

She shrugged. “Sorry, Ben, I—”

“Right. You agree with him.” He turned back to Barrett. “Fine. It’s your money. You want to throw it away, that’s your business. But I don’t want him butting in and trying to tell me what to do at trial. Once voir dire is over, he’s gone.”

“Understood.”

Barrett sat down on the lower bunk in his cell. “One last thing, Ben.”

“There’s more?”

“Yeah. Something I didn’t tell you.”

Ben didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Tell me now.”

“There was a time in my life when … well, when I was pretty damn depressed. It was after my football career, before I got my business going. I didn’t know what to do with myself. No one seemed interested in me anymore. I’d gone from constantly being in the limelight to being nobody. I couldn’t handle it.”

Ben nodded sympathetically. “Yes?”

“Not too many people know this, Ben, but I had a nervous breakdown. Had to get some psychiatric counseling. In fact, I spent two weeks in a hospital. In—you know. One of those hospitals.”

Ben tried not to evidence his reaction, but the possible impact of this little development on the trial was obvious.

“Yeah, I know,” Barrett continued. “If the prosecution finds out, they’ll say crazy once, crazy always. They’ll use my psychiatric history to try to make me look unbalanced, like some psycho.”

Ben nodded grimly. He pulled some papers out of his briefcase. “See this? It’s a subpoena. They want your medical records.”

“Then they already know.”

“I don’t think so. The subpoena’s too vague. This is just standard procedure. They’re on a fishing expedition.” Ben put the subpoena back in his briefcase and snapped it shut. “We have to see that they don’t catch anything.”

“Can you do that?”

“I’ll do my best. The hearing’s just before the trial.”

A new voice interrupted. “Excuse me.”

It was one of the sheriffs, standing outside the cell door. “Didn’t mean to cut in, but there’s a message for you, Mr. Kincaid. Looks urgent.”

Ben took the message from the man, scanned it quickly. “Oh my God.”

Christina’s eyes widened. “What is it?”

Ben grabbed his briefcase. “We’ll check back with you later, Wallace. We’ve got to get back to the office.” He nodded toward Christina. “Come on.”

Loving was in the lobby, sprawled out in a desk chair. Jones was pressing a large ice pack against the back of his head. “What happened? Are you all right?” Ben asked as he and Christina huddled round.

“Sorry, Skipper,” Loving said. Each word seemed to cause considerable pain. “I screwed up.”

“Never mind about that. Are you hurt?”

“Aww … nothin’ serious. Someone bashed me in the head with a baseball bat.”

“Oh, is that all? Loving, have you seen a doctor?”

“I don’t need no doctor. I’ve been hurt a lot worse than this before. I’m just sorry I let the creep get the drop on me.” He bit down on his lower lip. “They were there at the park. Just like you said they’d be.”

“Did you see anything?”

“I saw it all. Whitman and some longhaired creepazoid punk.”

“Did he admit that he killed Barrett’s family?”

“Not in so many words. But there’s no doubt about it—Whitman sent the kid out to Barrett’s neighborhood. And he’s got cheap hit man written all over his face.”

“But can we prove it?”

Loving lowered his head, obviously ridden with guilt and shame. “Not by me. I lost the camera. And the film. Whoever knocked me over the head ran off with it.”

Christina put her arm around him. “You never mind about that. We’re just glad you’re alive.”

Loving shrugged. “I’ll take the stand if you want, Skipper, but—”

“But who would believe a guy who’s working for the defense attorney.” Ben agreed—it wasn’t a very promising prospect. Especially since he knew Bullock would run rings around poor Loving. “You just rest and try to get better. We’ll figure out what to do later.”

“There’s something else, Boss.” There was a tremor in Jones’s voice that wasn’t normally there. A tremor he hadn’t heard since … “This came in the morning mail.”

Ben hesitantly took the overstuffed envelope from Jones and withdrew a black videotape. “I gather this isn’t the latest episode of
Melrose Place
.”

Jones shook his head. “I borrowed a VCR from Burris’s pawnshop next door. It’s on Christina’s desk.”

Ben walked over to the machine, turned it on, and inserted the tape. After a few moments of snow, the picture came to life. The camera was focused on a barren wall, a corner. Nothing was there. But there was a rhythmic sound in the background.

Ben turned up the volume. It was a ticking sound. A clock? No, each tick was more of a double beat. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

It was a heartbeat.

On top of the heartbeat, there was the sound of a bell ringing, followed by some sort of clicking noise, like a lever of some sort being tripped. About a second later, they heard a humming noise, like a small engine being activated.

A shrill cry emerged, electrifying the room. The cry went on and on. It was the sound of something in terrible pain, something in more misery than it could possibly bear. A hideous, chilling shrieking.

“My God,” Loving murmured. “What is that?”

Christina was holding her hands against her face. “Is that … human?”

Jones shook his head. “Sounds more like an animal to me. An animal being tortured.”

The shrill, agonized cry continued to peal out from the television. “But what is it?”

A voice suddenly erupted from the tape. It was a deep, dark voice, speaking unnaturally slowly. “What’s … wrong … with … Kitty?” There was a pause, then bone-chilling laughter. “Kitty … has … a … sick … heart!” There was more laughter, then a sudden crashing noise.

The picture went to black, but the tape wasn’t over. They heard a clock ticking, ticktock, ticktock, and a few seconds after that, the sound of a tremendous explosion.

After the rumble of the explosion had finally faded, the deep voice returned and spoke two more words: “
You’re next
.”

Ben turned off the VCR. This time
his
hand was shaking. “I think it’s fair to say that our correspondent has progressed from harassment to intimidation.”

Christina looked stricken. “But who could it be?”

“Who couldn’t it be?” Jones said. “Everyone on God’s green earth has heard about this case.”

Christina’s face did not relax. “Who is he after? Who is he threatening?”

Ben turned slowly. “Do you know if Barrett has a cat?”

“No,” Christina replied. “He doesn’t.”

Ben slowly turned his head. “I do.”

B
EN SPED BACK TO
his apartment as fast as his well-worn Honda could get him there. The front left headlight was beginning to dangle out of its socket, and his muffler scraped the pavement every time he hit a bump, but he ignored both. He had called first, but there was no answer, which could mean one of two things—and one of them made his heart stop just to think about it.

He parked his car on the street and bolted at top speed toward Mrs. Marmelstein’s boardinghouse. Just as he hit the front lawn, he saw Joni coming from the opposite direction. To his relief, he saw she was cradling Joey in her arms.

“Thank God,” Ben gasped as he ran up to them. “Where have you been?”

One glance at his face told Joni that he was not inquiring out of idle curiosity. “We went to the mall. Baby Gap. Clothes shopping, remember?”

Ben tried to calm himself down. “How long have you been gone?”

“Pretty much all morning. Why? Should we have stayed home?”

“No. It’s just as well you didn’t.”

“What? Ben, what’s going on?”

“I’m not sure. But I think we may have had company.” He glanced over at the front window to his apartment. “Doesn’t Giselle normally sleep on the windowsill this time of day?”

Joni glanced at the house. “You know, come to think of it, she does. That’s funny, she was there when we—”

There was no point in finishing her sentence, because Ben was already gone. He tore up the front wooden steps, barely missing Mrs. Marmelstein’s garden. He ran up the stairs, forced the key in the lock, and ran inside.

“
Giselle!
” he cried out, but who was he kidding? She didn’t come when he called even under normal circumstances. More drastic measures were required. He bolted into the kitchen and opened a can of Feline’s Fancy, Giselle’s favorite food. He held the can up in the air, letting the sweet aroma (well, he assumed cats liked it) waft its way through the apartment. Normally, ten seconds would be sufficient to draw her out of the farthest corner of the apartment.

Nothing happened. No cat.

“Giselle!” He set the can down on the floor and began a search. He felt a profound aching in his chest. He had to search, but he was bitterly afraid of what he might find.

“Giselle!” He pushed open his bedroom door and looked all around. Could she be caught in the closet, in a dresser drawer, under the bed? Each possible place turned up empty.

He tried the bathroom. No luck. Then the front living area—under the sofa, inside the end table. Even inside the piano, for God’s sake. But she wasn’t there.

The sick feeling expanded and rose up Ben’s throat. This just wasn’t like Giselle. If she were here, she’d have come to him by now.

If she could.

Joni and Joey came through the front door. “Found her yet?” Joni asked.

“No,” Ben said. “Why don’t you take a look?” But even as he said it, he knew she was no more likely to find Giselle than he had been.

Think
, he told himself. Assume that this person did want to hurt him. The point of the videotape was to prolong the pain, to drag out the twisted suspense. And to tell him … what?

Ben tried to recall what he had seen and heard on the tape. That was definitely a cat he had heard shrieking. But what were the other sounds? There was a bell, followed by a clicking, followed by a whirring noise. Some kind of engine running. What was this sicko trying to tell him?

Ben ran it over and over in his mind as his eyes scanned the apartment. Click. Bell. Hum. Click. Bell. Hum.

It hit him the instant his eyes moved to the kitchen.

It was a microwave.

You click the door closed, the bell rings, and the microwave hums into action.