Cruel Justice bk-5 Page 3
“Drove away? You’re kidding!”
“Why would I kid? Looked like she was going somewhere in a hurry.”
Ben cast his eyes upward. “This is so like Julia. Only she could leave and forget to take her baby. I don’t believe this!”
Jones rose from his desk. “Stay calm, Boss.”
“Stay calm? How can I stay calm? I’m due in court. And my sister disappears and leaves me with this—this—” He looked down at the bundle in his arms.
Joey’s tiny blue eyes suddenly widened. After gazing up at his uncle’s face for a second or two, he began to wail.
“Omigosh.” Ben pulled the baby up to his face. “I didn’t mean anything—I mean—don’t take it personal, but I have this court date, see. …”
“He’s seven months old, Boss. I don’t think he understands about court dates.”
“Oh, jeez.” Ben swung the baby back and forth in a herky-jerky manner. The wailing attained an all-time-high decibel level. Ben awkwardly cradled Joey in his arms and tried to prop him against his chest. The bawling continued, but went into decrescendo.
“Jones, he’s crying!”
“I noticed, Boss. We all did.”
“Did I hurt his feelings somehow?”
“More likely he has a wet diaper.”
Ben held the baby out at arm’s length. “Really?”
“Or maybe he’s hungry. Beats me.”
“Well, you’re the would-be detective. Detect already.”
Jones rummaged through the red diaper bag Julia had left on the floor. “Here’s some toys. Lots, actually. Say, this is nifty stuff.”
“Jones, stop playing with the baby toys!”
“Oh, right.” He continued searching. “Several outfits of clothes.” He frowned. “And diapers. Dozens of diapers. Hmmm.”
“What do you mean, hmmm?”
“What I mean is,” Jones said slowly, “I don’t think Julia left him behind by mistake.”
“What are you saying?”
“Remember? Julia said she wanted to start that graduate program in Connecticut, but there was a problem? The problem was, she had a seven-month-old baby.” Jones clasped Ben on the shoulder. “So she left the baby with Uncle Ben.”
“With me?” Ben’s face flushed. “But—I can’t have a baby. I’m a lawyer!” He looked down at Joey. His cheeks were puffy and red and streaked with tears. “I’m sorry, little guy. If I knew why you were crying, I’d do something about it. But I don’t.” Ben looked up abruptly. “Here, Jones. Take him.”
“Me? I don’t know nothin’ ’bout holdin’ babies.”
“Well, learn. I have to get to court!”
“What am I going to do with him? This is a law office—sort of. Not a day-care center.”
Ben pressed the baby against Jones’s chest. Joey’s sporadic sobs reverted to a full-throttled wail. “You’re a resourceful guy, Jones. You’ll think of something. I’ve got to get to the courthouse before Judge Hart holds me in contempt.”
Jones cautiously took the infant into his arms. “Boy, Boss … if I do this …”
“I know. I’ll owe you.”
“You already owe me. We’re now talking about a debt the magnitude of which most men have never contemplated.”
After a five-minute sprint in the sweltering downtown heat, Ben made it to the Tulsa County Courthouse at Fifth and Denver. The courthouse elevators were the oldest and slowest in all creation, and Ben couldn’t afford to wait around, so he panted up the stairs to the sixth floor. Breathing heavily, he slid through the doors to the Honorable Sarah Hart’s courtroom, hoping he could enter unnoticed.
No such luck. “Mr. Kincaid,” the judge said, the instant he stepped through the door. “How kind of you to grace us with your presence.”
“Sorry, Judge. I was unavoidably delayed.”
Judge Hart nodded. “Creditor problems again?”
“Uh, no.” Well, not entirely, anyway. “Someone brought me a baby.”
“A baby?” Hart lowered the glasses on her nose. “Does this relate to some previously undisclosed episode in your past?”
Ben smiled. Hart could be a tough judge, but at least she had a sense of humor. “No, ma’am. It relates to the dangers of being a member of a family.”
“You’ll forgive me if I fail to follow up on this intriguing dialogue, but the assistant district attorney is anxious to continue the trial. I believe you know Mr. Bullock. So you know how insistent he can be.”
Ben glanced over at Jack Bullock, who was sitting at the prosecution table. He did indeed know Mr. Bullock. Before Ben moved to Tulsa, they both had worked at the district attorney’s office in Oklahoma City. Jack Bullock had been his boss. More than his boss, really. His mentor. His idol. His hero.
Bullock and Ben had spent a long summer working on several incredibly complicated white-collar crime cases, Bullock as lead trial counsel, Ben as lead research grunt. And Ben had loved every minute of it. Not because Bullock was such an excellent attorney, although he was, but because he believed in what he did. When you worked with Jack Bullock, you were on a holy crusade, a battle of right versus wrong. All summer long, they worked shoulder to shoulder, upholding the letter of the law, putting the bad guys behind bars. Their work—indeed, their lives—were imbued with a sense of purposefulness, of optimism, of idealism, that Ben had seldom glimpsed since.
At the time Ben had thought he’d stay at the DA’s office forever. Till unforeseen circumstances proved him wrong. Till unforeseen circumstances turned his life upside down.
Like the man said, chance makes fools of us all.
“If you’ll give me two minutes to confer with my legal assistant and client,” Ben said, “I’ll be ready to proceed, your honor.”
“Another delay, counsel?”
Ben held his thumb and finger barely apart. “Just a teensy-weensy one, Judge.”
She removed her glasses and laid them on the bench. “I really should find you in contempt and toss you in jail, but I’m so anxious to hear your examination of the next witness that I’m going to hold off. At least for the moment. You have two minutes, Mr. Kincaid. Teensy-weensy ones.”
Ben tossed his briefcase on the defendant’s table, nodded politely at Bullock, and exchanged a cursory greeting with his client, a nineteen-year-old bleached blonde named Jessie (short for Jezebel) Johnson. She had run away from home a few months before and somehow ended up in Tulsa, totally broke. According to her, she was wandering the streets a few days after she arrived, aimless and destitute, when the prosecution’s star witness approached her and suggested an interesting way she could make some fast money.
Ben scanned the courtroom for his legal assistant, Christina McCall. She wasn’t hard to find. Her vivid strawberry-blonde hair billowed out, adding several inches to her five-foot, one-inch height. But the glaring clash of unmatched colors below was the real eye-catcher. Today she was decked out in a sleeveless white blouse, a bell-shaped blue skirt with large yellow polka dots, green ankle socks, and black-and-white oxfords.
“What are you wearing?” Ben asked as he approached. This is a courtroom, not a sock hop.”
“It’s part of my new summer wardrobe.” She twirled around in a small pirouette, letting her skirt and hair swirl around her. “I told you I hit some flea markets last weekend, remember?”
“Yes. The prospect of your obtaining a new wardrobe was very exciting. Now I’m having second thoughts.”
“I’m not wearing some stuffy business suit in this heat,” Christina said emphatically. “Take me or leave me.”
While Ben considered, Judge Hart spoke up. “One minute left, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Great. Listen, Christina, have you got any ideas for my cross?”
“Of course. Am I not your faithful aide-de-camp? I stayed up all night rereading the preliminary hearing transcript, and I think I’ve detected a critical discrepancy. A major faux pas. Problem is, it involves some rather, um, outré elements. … It’s … somewhat risqué. …”
Ben’s eyes rolled at the barrage of bad French. “Christina, what are you saying?”
“You won’t be able to get near it without discussing certain delicate matters relating to human sexuality, a subject with which I know you are pitifully uncomfortable.”
“Not true.”
“Is true. I’ll never forget your expression when you were channel-surfing at my place and stumbled across the Playboy Channel. And I thought you were going to die that time we went to the zoo.”
Ben noticed the judge alternating between impatient glances at her watch and hostile glares at Ben. “No time for modesty, Christina. Tell me what you’ve got.”
3
AFTER THE BREAK, BULLOCK recalled the complainant to the stand. He was a middle-aged balding man named Harvey Applebee. According to his direct examination testimony, Jezebel propositioned Applebee just off the corner of Eleventh and Cincinnati. She took him back to a “health facility” she was sharing with five other working girls, removed her clothes, removed his clothes, and placed him in a hot tub. The complainant didn’t actually do any complaining until after the vice squad burst through the front door. Applebee traded his testimony for personal immunity from prosecution.
“What exactly did the defendant say to you when she approached you on the street?” Bullock asked.
Applebee cleared his throat. “She said I looked as if I could use some exercise and she invited me over to her facility to, er, firm up.”
Sitting beside Ben at counsel table, Jezebel giggled. Ben jabbed his elbow in her side.
Bullock continued. “Did she indicate that she had any specialized training as a … personal fitness trainer?”
“She did demonstrate a great deal of … flexibility, and she suggested some p
ositions—I mean, exercises—that she thought I might find beneficial.”
Bullock was becoming annoyed. “Mr. Applebee, let’s stop beating around the bush.” A gruff laugh emerged from the gallery. Ben’s face turned bright crimson. “I mean, let’s get to the point. Did Ms. Johnson offer to engage in sexual intercourse with you?”
“I don’t recall that she ever used those words, no.”
“Well … did she touch you?”
“You mean, emotionally?”
Bullock ground his teeth. “No, sir. I mean did any part of her body come into contact with any part of your body?”
“At what time?”
“Before you got into the hot tub.”
“She called it a relaxation temple.”
“Whatever.”
“I don’t think so. She touched my clothes, of course, but I don’t think she ever touched me.”
Bullock’s frustration mounted. “Mr. Applebee, are you changing your testimony from … earlier?” Bullock was attempting to remind the witness his immunity could be revoked without reminding the jury that his testimony had been bought and paid for.
“Not at all. The touching came later.”
“Fine. Where were you when it occurred?”
“In the relaxation temple.”
Bullock’s eyes looked skyward. “What were you wearing?”
“I was in my shorts and she had, um, removed all her clothing.”
“Were you sitting or standing?”
“Sitting.”
“And where were you sitting?”
“On the bottom of the tub. Temple, I mean.”
“And where did she touch you?”
“Well …” He looked down at his hands. ‘That’s kind of personal.”
Judge Hart intervened on Bullock’s behalf. “I’m afraid you’ll have to answer the question.”
Applebee squirmed uncomfortably. “All right, ma’am. If you say so. I just hate to—you know. Especially with ladies present.”
“Answer the question,” Bullock growled.
“She touched me on—” He stretched his neck and loosened his collar. “Well, she touched Little Elvis.”
Ben stared down at his legal pad. What a classy practice he had. No wonder he’d endured three years of law school.
Bullock continued. “And with what part of … her anatomy did she touch you?”
“Please, Mr. Prosecutor,” Judge Hart said. “Can’t we leave a few things to the jurors’ imaginations?”
“If you wish, your honor. Mr. Applebee, did this … touching appear to occur by accident?”
“Uh, no.”
“And did Ms. Johnson appear … awkward about it?”
“Oh, no. On the contrary, she handled herself very adroitly.”
“What happened after she … touched you, Mr. Applebee?”
“That’s when the police broke in.” He sighed heavily.
“Indeed.” Bullock’s face became stern. “But you weren’t disappointed about that, were you?”
“Oh, no. Of course not,” Applebee said. “I was relieved. I had begun to suspect that she … wasn’t a trained health-care professional.”
Ben and Christina exchanged a look.
“That’s all I have,” Bullock said, stepping away from the podium.
“Very well,” Judge Hart replied. “Care to cross, Mr. Kincaid?”
“Yes, your honor,” Ben said, springing to his feet.
“You may inquire. If you dare.”
Ben positioned himself between the prosecution table and the witness. “Tell me, Mr. Applebee, had you ever been in a hot tub before?”
“No.”
“Did you find it … unpleasant?”
“Well, no. I found it … quite stimulating.”
“How deep was the water?”
Applebee frowned. This was obviously not the line of questioning he’d been prepped for. “I’d say about three feet, from the bottom to the top. Maybe more.”
“I see.” Ben moved in closer. “And I believe you testified that you were sitting on the bottom of the tub.”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you move later?”
A line formed between Applebee’s eyes. “No.”
Bullock rose to his feet. “Your honor, I’m not following Mr. Kincaid’s line of questioning.”
That’s the general idea, Ben thought. “I’ll tie it up, your honor.”
“Please do, counselor. We’re all waiting breathlessly.”
Ben turned back to the witness. “Then you were still sitting on the bottom of the tub when Ms. Johnson allegedly touched”—he pressed his fingers against his forehead—“Little Elvis.”
“That’s correct.”
Ben paused. “Mr. Applebee, let’s be honest with the jury. You’ve been granted immunity by the prosecution, right?”
“Well …” He glanced uncertainly at Bullock. “Yes …”
“The only reason you’re testifying today is because you made a deal with the prosecutors exonerating you if you testify against Jessie.”
“Well … that isn’t the only reason. …”
“Tell us the truth, Mr. Applebee. When you got into that hot tub, you weren’t trying to get fit. You were trying to get laid.”
“That isn’t so!” He began to fluster. “I thought it was a health spa!”
Ben put on his best disbelieving sneer. “Give us a break.”
“I did!” Applebee said indignantly. “That’s what I thought.”
“Well, what did you think when she took off her clothes?”
Applebee twined his fingers nervously. “I thought that was … very therapeutic. …”
“Come on, now. A naked woman snuggles up to you in a hot tub and you think it’s time for calisthenics?”
Applebee began to stammer. “But—but it wasn’t like that!”
“It wasn’t?”
“No. She didn’t snuggle up to me in the tub. Temple, I mean.”
“She didn’t?”
“No!” Applebee insisted. “She never even got wet.”
“I see.” Ben faced the jury and smiled. “That’s what you said at the preliminary hearing, too. She never even got wet.”
“It’s true. Amazing woman.”
Ben leaned in for the kill. “Sir, would you please explain how it would be possible for her to touch you, um, there, when you’re sitting on the bottom of three feet of water—without getting wet?”
Applebee’s mouth opened, then closed.
Ben continued. “If the water was three feet deep, even subtracting a few inches for your, um, buttocks, that would leave your lap over two and a half feet underwater. It would be impossible for Ms. Johnson to touch you without getting wet—unless Little Elvis is over two and a half feet long.”
Amused expressions crossed the faces of a few of the jurors. One older woman covered her eyes.
“Well,” Ben asked insistently. “Is it?”
Applebee’s eyebrows met in the center of his face. “Is it what?”
“Is Little Elvis over two and a half feet long?”
“You mean now?”
“Or at any other time, sir. I’m not particular.”
“Your honor,” Bullock said, “I must protest.”
“Indeed you must,” Judge Hart replied. “Have you got any grounds?”
“Well … Mr. Kincaid is ridiculing the witness.”
“Is that forbidden in cross-examination now? Procedures must’ve changed since I went to law school.”
“But it doesn’t have anything to do with the case!”
“I disagree,” Ben interjected. “It goes directly to the credibility of the witness’s testimony.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree,” the judge said. “Proceed, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Thank you, your honor. So, Mr. Applebee, I repeat: Is Little Elvis over two and a half feet long?”
“Well … I don’t exactly know.”
“How long is it? Or should I say, how long is he?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Well, there’s an easy way to find out, isn’t there?” Ben whipped a tape measure out of his coat pocket.
Applebee looked horrified. “What the hell!”
Ben addressed the judge. “Your honor, I move that the evidence in question be produced by the witness and published to the jury.”
“Wh-what?” Applebee yammered.
Judge Hart rubbed the place where her glasses had rested on her nose, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Any response, Mr. Bullock?”