"None of this alleged premeditation has been proven," Ben felt obliged to point out. "I'm simply presenting a textbook, by-the-numbers case of temporary insanity."
Judge McPartland gave him a long look. "Well now, let's not push it too far, Mr. Kincaid."
"That's not what he's arguing at all," Guillerman said, "and you know it as well as I do, Judge. What he's asking for is jury nullification."
"That's not true!" Ben insisted.
Guillerman continued. "No one believes his client was insane, even temporarily, and he's not really asking them to. What he's saying is, his wife died a horrible death and it was all the police department's fault, so forget about the law and let my man walk."
"That is not correct. But what's wrong with asking for justice? When the application of the law would produce an unjust result, don't jurors have the right to use their own judgment?"
"That's jury nullification, and it's unethical and grounds for disbarment."
Judge McPartland did not respond nearly as quickly as Ben would have liked. "I will admit that this aspect of the defense case troubles me."
"Your honor," Ben said firmly, "all I'm trying to do is show the jury what could cause a perfectly ordinary and harmless man to contemplate the most extreme actions. He didn't just lose his wife-he lost her in the most horrible way imaginable. It wasn't an unavoidable accident. The police had the power to find her a few hours after she disappeared. They chose not to. I am not in any way saying that made it okay to kill Detective Sentz. But I am saying that such dramatic and catastrophic events can render the most healthy brain temporarily unhinged. And this theory will be reinforced by my psychiatric witness."
"For the price of six hundred dollars an hour," Guillerman muttered. "That's a lot of money for an opinion of insanity."
"I'm reminded of something Oscar Wilde said," Ben remarked. "'In all matters of opinion, our adversaries are insane.'"
"For that much money, our adversaries could be declared insane."
"That's enough, counsel." McPartland leaned back in his chair, obviously taking a few minutes to collect his thoughts. "I'm not happy about this aspect of this case, as I said. What else is new? This case has been a thorn in my side from the start. But I will see it out."
He took another deep breath, then glared at the two attorneys. "I will allow Mr. Kincaid to call his psychiatric expert and to tie his testimony in with the other testimony we have heard. For the purpose of establishing a case of temporary insanity. And nothing else. Do you hear me, Mr. Kincaid?"
"I do, your honor."
"Mr. Guillerman?"
"Loud and clear."
"Good. There will be no arguments for jury nullification or any other inappropriate claims. Got it?"
"Yes," they both answered.
"Good." He banged his gavel on the bench. "We're taking fifteen before the next witness, gentlemen. I need my blood pressure medicine."
The judge left the courtroom, and most of the people in attendance headed toward the back doors. Guillerman stopped Ben before he could go anywhere.
"I'm filing a complaint with the bar association, Kincaid."
"What, another one?"
"You know what that means?"
"You think I'm winning?"
He jabbed a finger into Ben's chest. "I've got a lot of friends on the Grievance Committee. You could lose your license over this."
"That would free up a lot of time."
"Even if you don't, we can tie you up in so many investigations and proceedings your candidacy will be impossible. I've got friends on the Democratic Party committee, too. No one will support you."
"Are you threatening me?"
"You heard what I said."
"What I think I heard was the district attorney making a personal threat for the purpose of gaining an advantage in a criminal trial. And that really is grounds for disbarment."
"You're in over your head, Kincaid," Guillerman growled, bearing down on him, "and you're going to lose. I will see to that personally. You're going down in flames." He turned on his heel and stomped away. "Both you and your client."
26
Perseverance, Al. The key to uncovering the unknown.
That's what his father used to tell him, Loving mused, daydreaming a little as he stared at the hospital for the third day running. Before he shoved off, Loving's dad used to take him on camping trips down near Tahlequah. Sometimes they'd float the Illinois; other times they'd go on long hikes through the woods. They would pretend to be pioneer scouts, Kit Carson and his men, tracking bad guys through the dense brush. They would look for clues, broken twigs, telltale footprints in the mud. What kind of animal has a foot like that? his dad would ask.
And of course, his father had been strangely fascinated with the analysis of what he called "scat." You can tell what animal had been there by analyzing the scat. At the time, Loving had doubted his father's credibility on this subject. Turns out it was true, although it took him many years to learn that. A friend at the Nature Conservancy had even given him a pictorial scarf illustrating the various types of scat indigenous to the Oklahoma prairie.
His father had been a good man before he disappeared. Loving still didn't know why he left. He knew his mother was high-strung and not the easiest to look after. He should know-he'd been doing it on his own for almost thirty years now. But why his father had made such a sudden break, as if he just couldn't stand it another day, that he didn't understand.
Just as Loving could not comprehend why his father had never wanted to come back since he left. Not even just to stop in and say hello.
Loving rubbed his eyes and slapped the sides of his face. Funny how your mind wanders when you've been staring at the same urban structure for three days. The point of the reverie was that his father had taught him patience, perseverance, the ability to wait for what you want. That was a lesson that served him well in his current life as a private detective.
Ever since that strange meeting with Officer Torres in the grove of trees outside Scene of the Crime, Loving had staked out St. Benedict's Hospital. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but this was the only lead he had, so he was not letting it go. If there was something happening here, surely he would eventually see a hint of it. He'd been watching all around the clock. He moved his van to a new position every now and again, to avoid attention. But he always made sure he had a view of the front doors and the loading dock on the side. If something unusual was going down, that would most likely be where he would get a glimpse.
St. Benedict's filled a midtown niche, closing gaps between St. John's modern urban complex and St. Francis's sprawling pink cinder block. Despite the fact that he was a detective, Loving still didn't know what had motivated the St. Francis powers-that-be to paint a hospital pink. He had heard so many contradictory stories, they had taken on the sheen of urban legends. Pink paint surplus. Comforting to the ill. St. Francis of Assisi's favorite color. As if you would pick your color scheme based upon the preferences of a guy who talked to birds. It was even more strange now that they added the Children's Hospital, which was bright blue with green windows. It looked like a giant Lego construction with a mismatched piece at the end.
By contrast, St. Benedict's was smaller and lower-key. The entire building was a single story, like a hospital designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. It was not as large as either of the other two major hospitals but was renowned for its research and its willingness to tackle difficult cases. Almost too successfuclass="underline" they had a reputation for dealing with those in the worst, most terminal condition. Telling someone that a mutual friend had "gone to Benedict's" was guaranteed to produce a sorrowful expression; it was tantamount to saying the funeral service would be held next Monday. Loving had only been inside a few times, and none of the visits were experiences he liked to recall or hoped to repeat ever again in his life.