Naked Justice (50 page)

“Joey, look.” Ben began desperately running about, grasping at toys. “Look, it’s a Magna-Doodle. See, I wrote your name!”

Joey sat with his hands in his lap, wailing. His face flushed beet red. Tears dribbled down his chin.

“Okay,” Ben said, “how about a talking clown?” He desperately grabbed the doll and pulled its talk string. “ ‘It’s time to have fun, kiddies! Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!’ ”

Joey was oblivious. He screamed like he’d lost everything, like there was no reason to go on living. Worst of all, he had not come out of his shell. He was still isolated, unresponsive, self-absorbed. He was just miserable as well.

Ben began to feel seriously guilt-ridden. What right did he have to demand that the child react to him, anyway? Still, he tried to maintain his resolve. “Look, how about card tricks?”

He reached down furiously for a deck of cards on the floor, but slipped on the area rug and fell into the nearby armchair. He hit the chair sideways, face first, rolled off it, and tumbled down on the hardwood floor.

Ben lay flat on his back on the floor. As soon as his head cleared, he began taking a mental inventory. Everything seemed to still be attached, no major spinal damage, although he definitely had a sore spot on his backside. But something had changed. It took him a moment to realize what it was.

Joey had stopped crying.

Ben pushed up off the floor. Joey was looking at him.

It took a moment to register. Wait a minute …

Joey was looking at him!

This was something he hadn’t seen in months. The boy was looking straight at him, and … and …

And he was beginning to smile.

“Gin,” Joey gurgled.

Ben looked at him in amazement. “What? Did you say something? You did! You said something!” He paused suddenly. “What did you say?”

“Gin,” Joey repeated, followed by something that sounded a lot like laughter.

“Joey!” Ben said. “I can’t believe it! You’re—” He tried to listen closer. “But what are you saying?”

“Gin!” Joey insisted.

“Gin? You mean again? Do it again?” Joey’s pronunciation was far from perfect, but not bad considering that he had barely made a peep for the last six months. “But what do you mean?”

Joey looked up at the armchair. “Gin.”

“You mean, you want me to do it again? But, Joey, that was an accident.”

Joey looked away. His smile faded.

“But that’s okay!” Ben leaped to his feet. “If you want it ’gin, I’ll do it ’gin. I knew you’d like that. I meant to do it. Yeah, that’s my story. I’m a whiz with kids. Look, Joey, I’ll do it again.”

Joey did look up. And Ben flopped forward, first into the armchair, then down onto the floor. Doing it on purpose, of course, made it a good deal less graceful than when he had fallen by accident, and he hit the floor a good deal harder, too. “
Owww!
”

Joey giggled. His face lit up a like a candle. He clapped his hands together.

“Joey!” Ben crawled up and swept Joey up his arms. “You’re paying attention! You know who I am! Don’t you? Say ‘Uncle Ben.’ Can you? Say ‘Uncle Ben.’ ”

Joey giggled even more. “UngaBen.”

“I knew you did! I knew if I could just get through to you—” Ben stopped talking and pressed the child close to him. “Thank you, Joey!”

Joey smiled back at him. “Gin.”

“Again? Oh, right. Whatever you say.” Ben got into position and took another swan dive into the armchair. He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. His back was beginning to ache, but he barely noticed.

Because Joey was laughing. Happy, hysterical laughter.

Ben smiled his biggest smile. His eyes were starting to water. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “It’s just—it’s not—oh, hell.” He stopped fighting and let the tears fall. “Joey,” he said, crawling close to him, “you’re the best little boy in the world, you know that? The best little boy who ever was.” He gave Joey another bear hug. “By God, if I can bring you around, I can bring that jury around, too.”

Joey smiled back at him and clapped his little hands together. “Gin.”

S
OMEHOW BEN MANAGED TO
avoid the now-permanent camp of reporters on the plaza outside the courthouse. They had erected a large tent to protect themselves and their equipment from the erratic Oklahoma weather. WallyWorld, the local wags were calling it.

The reporters shouted out questions as he passed through.

“Do you think anyone believed your client’s story?”

“What about the blood and the DNA?”

“Is it true Barrett gave you his bloodstained clothes and they’re hidden in a safe in your office?”

Ben’s jaw tightened. “No comment.”

“What are you going to do with yourself when this trial is finally over?”

Ben stopped, then pivoted. “Actually,” he said, “I’m planning to go backpacking. I need to exercise something other than my lips.”

He rode to the seventh floor and entered Judge Hart’s courtroom. As he walked to the front, he spotted a female network anchorperson sitting on the defense table. He recognized her—CNN, he thought—but couldn’t come up with her name. Her cameraman and his assistant were in front of her; obviously they were preparing to broadcast.

Ben tried to contain his irritation. After all, court was not in session and he didn’t own the courtroom. He just walked quietly behind her and started setting up.

The anchorwoman whirled around. “Excuse me. You’re in my key light.”

“Excuse me,” Ben shot back. “You’re on my table.”

She did not appear to be amused. “Couldn’t you stand back long enough for me to tape this intro?”

“Sorry, I have work to do.” He continued taking papers out of his briefcase.

She placed her hands on her hips. “How am I going to tape this lead-in with you making that racket?”

“Life’s hell sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Look, can’t you give me five minutes?”

“Sorry. This trial could start at any moment.”

She looked perplexed. “Haven’t they told you yet?”

“Told me what?” Ben did a quick scan of the courtroom. It did seem unusually empty. Bullock wasn’t here, nor any other member of the prosecution team, much less the judge. “What’s going on?”

“I wish I knew. All I know is that the judge’s bailiff read a prepared statement explaining that the trial was on hold indefinitely, and that he would be meeting with all counsel in chambers as soon as they arrived.”

Ben sprang out of his seat. “I’ve got to get in there.”

“Thank goodness.” The anchorwoman turned back toward the camera and smiled. “Roll ’em.”

When Ben burst into Judge Hart’s chambers, he found the judge at her desk and Bullock and his assistants sitting in chairs surrounding a brunette middle-aged woman. He couldn’t remember her name, but he knew who she was.

Juror number twelve.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Kincaid,” the judge said. “Have a seat and we’ll get started.” She cocked her head to one side. “You’re walking a bit stiffly this morning. Did you hurt your back?”

“Uh … yeah …” Ben said as he angled into the nearest available chair. “Several times.”

Judge Hart appeared mystified, but didn’t pursue it. “Gentlemen, we have a problem.”

Ben eyed the juror carefully. She was sitting with her hands in her lap, kneading them with such force that it was painful to watch.

“Juror Number Twelve”—she glanced at her legal pad—“Deanna Meanders was brought to my chambers first thing this morning. At her request.”

“Why?” Bullock’s eyes seemed sunken and uneasy. Did he fear some juror misconduct might spoil his imminent victory?

Deanna began to speak. “I just—”

Judge Hart stopped her. “Let me handle this. It seems Ms. Meanders should never have been placed on this jury. She has some personal knowledge relevant to the case that she believes might potentially influence the jury’s deliberation, if revealed. Having discussed this matter with her in camera, I have to agree.”

Bullock seemed almost as nervous as Deanna. No one had spoken the word yet, but it was foremost in everyone’s mind.
Mistrial.
“Well,” he said, “we have two alternate jurors. Can’t we just replace her?”

Judge Hart held up her hands. “I’d prefer to have the concurrence of counsel before I take that step.”

“The prosecution consents,” Bullock said immediately.

Judge Hart nodded. “Mr. Kincaid?”

Ben leaned forward. “Can I voir dire her first? Find out what she knows?”

Judge Hart shook her head. “Not while she’s a juror.”

Ben sat back. The dilemma was becoming clear to him. “Okay, I consent.”

“Very well. Juror Number Twelve, you are hereby relieved of duty. Bailiff, please notify the first alternate that she is now a member of the primary panel.” She glanced toward Deanna. “You’re free to go.”

“Wait,” Ben said. “I want to talk to you.”

“Your honor, I object.” Bullock leaned against the edge of the judge’s desk. “We’re in the middle of the trial. The defense is putting on its case.”

Ben shrugged. “So?”

“If he’s allowed to quiz this woman, he might be able to use her information during his case. This gives him an advantage—since our case is completed, we
won’t
have a chance to use her. It’s unfair.”

“Unfair?” Ben’s face tightened. “If I’m not given every possible opportunity to clear my client, that’s unfair.”

Judge Hart held up her hands. “Calm down, gentlemen. I know argument is your life, but there’s no need for it here. I understand your position, Mr. Bullock, but I can’t agree. Mr. Barrett is, after all, literally on trial for his life. We cannot withhold any arguably relevant evidence from the defense, even under these unique circumstances. But to make sure this development is not exploited improperly, the interrogation will take place right here, in my chambers, with both sides present, not to mention me. You’ll know as much as defense counsel does, Mr. Bullock, even before you read about it in the Enquirer. And if Mr. Kincaid uses this witness and you want to respond, you’ll have cross-ex and closing. You may even be able to call rebuttal witnesses, depending upon the circumstances. However it plays out, it will play out fair. I guarantee it.” She looked up at Deanna. “Does that sound satisfactory to you?”

Deanna nodded.

“Good. Mr. Kincaid, would you like to begin the questioning of this witness?”

“I certainly would. Ms. Meanders, do you know who killed Caroline Barrett and her two children?”

Deanna twisted her fingers around themselves. “No. I mean, I’m not sure. Maybe.”

Ben whipped out his legal pad and started taking notes. “Tell me everything you know.”

About an hour later, Ben left the conference in Judge Hart’s chambers. He motioned to Christina, Jones, and Loving, who were waiting in the back of the courtroom.

“Team meeting,” he said. “Now.”

They found a private nook in the foyer outside the courtroom and huddled. “You’re not going to believe this one,” he warned them in advance. “This case gets weirder by the minute.”

As quickly as possible, Ben told them everything he had learned from Deanna Meanders.

“We have to get a hold of this Buck character,” Ben said firmly. “And we don’t have much time. Loving, are you prepared to give this your full-court press?

“You bet, Skipper. I just wish I knew where to start.”

“Even if you find him,” Ben said, “he probably won’t talk to you, much less come to court voluntarily and testify. We’ll need a subpoena. Christina, can you work that up?”

“
Tout de suite
.”

“Good. Judge Hart has agreed to stay in chambers today and make herself available. Given the way this mess has unfolded, I’m sure she’ll sign the subpoena. If we find him. Any other suggestions?”

Jones chimed in. “Maybe we should drag in Whitman, too. He’s been coming to the trial, but there’s no guarantee he won’t disappear, especially if Buck tells him he’s been subpoenaed.”

“Good thinking,” Ben said. “If Buck is the punk Loving saw at O’Brien Park, then he’s contacted Whitman at least once before. The day Christina and I went to Whitman’s office.”

“No, that’s wrong.” Christina snapped her fingers. “Don’t you remember? When we were listening in on Whitman, after we left his office. There was silence, then clicking noises. About a minute later, Buck called him.”

“It could just be a coincidence,” Ben murmured.

“That Buck calls Whitman moments after we’ve stirred up the hornet’s nest and Whitman is desperate to talk to him? No way. Somehow Whitman got a message to him.”

“But how?” Ben asked. “Whitman was in his office the whole time. He didn’t pick up the phone till Buck called him. He didn’t have time to send a letter or fax. How could he have contacted him?”

“E-mail,” Jones said. “That has to be it. Those clicking noises you heard— he must’ve been typing at the keyboard of his desktop computer. Whitman sent an e-mail message to Buck, telling him to contact him.”

That would explain the almost-immediate call from Buck, Ben thought. “Why not just call Buck directly?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Buck works near a computer terminal but not near a phone. Or maybe Whitman didn’t want a record of the contact.”

“Listen, Jones, you’re our computer expert. Are you familiar with the computer system they use at the city office building?”

“Sure. I’m over there all the time.”

“Okay, narrow the field for us. Who could Whitman have e-mailed?”

“Well, if you’re on the Net, you can e-mail anyone else on the Net, assuming you know their address. Thing is, the city office building isn’t on the Net. All they have is an intranet connection with an internal e-mail system.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning city employees can e-mail each other.” His eyes widened. “Buck works for the city.”

“Of course,” Ben echoed. “He probably works in the same building. That would explain how he and Whitman were able to work so closely together. Loving, we just narrowed the field for you.”

“Roger. I’m out of here.”

“All right. But be back by two, when the judge calls the court back in session. I’m probably going to have to put you on the stand, no matter what happens.”

Loving looked as if he might be sick to his stomach. “I’ll try not to think about it.” He hustled through the back doors and disappeared.