“Again, these are all issues for cross-examination.”
“By that time, the damage will be done. This is a new and still uncertain science. It doesn’t prove anything; it just suggests circumstantial evidence via statistical probabilities. But juries don’t know that. They see some guy in a suit with a closet full of degrees take the stand, babbling a lot of jargon they don’t understand, and he tells them the defendant is guilty. Who are they to disagree?”
“The jury is always free to disregard evidence.”
Ben decided to try another tack. “But, your honor, don’t you see what’s happening here? The jury isn’t drawing its own conclusions. They’re drawing the conclusions they’re told to draw by some high-dollar expert. Juries lose more power every day; all the important decisions are made by prosecutors and experts and the press, all telling them what to believe. With all the hubbub, how can we go on pretending that people are being judged by a jury of their peers? We need to draw the line.”
“An intriguing argument, Mr. Kincaid, but alas, not a successful one. I’m going to let the evidence in. If there’s nothing else”—she slammed her gavel on the bench—“we’re in recess. The trial will begin Monday morning at nine o’clock sharp.” She glanced up at the cameramen. “That’s Central Standard Time.
The bailiff brought everyone to his feet and the judge beat a hasty retreat. Before Ben could make it back to his table, he found Bullock under his nose.
“Must be feeling pretty cocky with your pet judge on the bench, huh?”
“You’re fantasizing. Judge Hart is emminently fair—perhaps that’s why you’re worried.”
“Remember, Kincaid, the eyes of the world are on Judge Hart. They’re on all of us. This is the big time.” Bullock stepped so close Ben could feel his breath on his face. “I’m going to put that filthy baby-murdering client of yours in prison, if not in a graveyard. That’s a promise.” Bullock whipped around and stomped to the back of the courtroom, where he was greeted by a horde of reporters.
The eyes of the world, Ben thought. Now that was the scariest thought yet.
He packed his briefcase and headed out, hoping he could avoid the press. The stage was fully set now. Judge Hart wouldn’t be giving him any breaks. She couldn’t, not this time. Neither would the press. And Bullock would be doing everything in his power to get a conviction.
And Ben? All he had was a few hunches, none of which he could prove in a court of law. That would have to change. Ben didn’t know how, but somehow, that had to change.
Otherwise, Wallace Barrett didn’t have a prayer.
Chapter 32
JONES WAS WAITING FOR Ben and Christina when they returned to the office.
“How did it go?” Jones anxiously inquired.
Ben walked right past him. “Don’t ask.”
“Does that mean not well?” Jones inquired.
“You can never tell with Ben,” Christina replied. “He’s so moody. The judge scowls at him and he thinks he’s lost the case.”
Jones stopped Ben before he could duck into his private office. “Did you quash the subpoena?”
“What?” Ben snapped out of his reverie. “Oh, that. Yeah, I did get that.”
“Congratulations!”
“But I lost the DNA motion.”
“No kidding. Did you really think the judge was going to exclude the most incriminating evidence in the case?”
“Well, I had hoped …”
“Then you were dreaming. You’ll still figure out some way to prove Wallace is innocent.”
“Is that right? I wish you’d explain how. Did you contact Whitman?”
“Yeah. He denies being anywhere near O’Brien Park last Thursday night. Says he has at least ten witnesses who will testify he spent the night at home. Says if we go public with these accusations, he’ll sue.”
“A great American. What’s Loving doing?”
“Trying to find the man who met Whitman at the park, or someone who can identify him.”
“Any luck?”
“Not yet.”
“So, basically, the trial starts Monday morning, and we have no defense.”
“We have Wallace Barrett.”
“No one will believe him.”
“You do.”
“I don’t watch television.” Ben opened his office door and tossed in his briefcase. “Once that DNA evidence gets in and the jury starts hearing Ph.D.s babble about probabilities and gene identifiers and whatnot, the jury will be so confused they’ll end up believing exactly what the media has been telling them to believe for weeks. That Wallace Barrett killed his family.”
Christina laid her hand on his shoulder. “You’ll think of something. You just need to reflect a bit. Seek out inspiration. View the world through your third eye.”
Ben grimaced.
Jones stepped in. “Here’s the morning mail, Boss.”
Ben took a stack of letters and a book-sized package. “Thanks. Hold my calls.”
“Okay. Why?”
Ben smiled faintly. “I’ll be busy reflecting and seeking out inspiration.”
Ben closed the office door behind him, threw off his suit coat, and slumped down into the chair behind his desk. Never in his life had he dreaded a trial like the one he was facing now. Never had he felt so powerless. Never had he seen the shortcomings of the judicial system as keenly. He knew Barrett had not killed his family. He knew it! And Loving had gathered strong evidence indicating who did. But he was almost totally unable to prove it in court. The truth would not be heard. And even if it was, it would not be believed.
Ben sorted through the phone messages Jones had stuffed into his hands. Most of them were from reporters requesting interviews. Even some of the network television people were interested. Gee, he thought, Katie Couric is awfully cute. And smart, too …
But no. The media were in this case far too deeply already. He was barely able to breathe as it was. How could you conduct a defense, investigate, plan—how could you think?—when you knew, to use Bullock’s phrase, the eyes of the world were upon you constantly? Can you give a man a fair trial inside a pressure cooker?
Ben rubbed his fingers against his temples. He needed to see Barrett, to give him a report on the hearing, but he just wasn’t up to it. He couldn’t face a trip to the jailhouse right now. He never liked doing that.
He never liked doing that because he never once did it without remembering his first visit to a jail cell, the one that had ended so horribly, the one that had literally changed his life.
The time he had gone to visit his own father.
If Ben hadn’t known so many people in the sheriff’s office, as a result of working at the DA’s office, he never could have gotten in. The fourth day of trial had run late and visiting hours were long since over.
His father greeted Ben as he entered the cell. “What the hell are you doing here? I didn’t ask for you.”
“I thought we should talk.”
“You thought wrong. Guard!”
“Relax. We won’t be disturbed for ten minutes, no matter how much fuss you make. They’ve gone for coffee.”
“Oh, you’ve got it all arranged, haven’t you? Bully for you.”
Ben stood awkwardly before him. There was no place to sit, no place to put his hands. “So … how’s it going?”
His father made a snorting sound. “You’re the goddamn lawyer. You tell me.”
Bad start. Ben tried again. “I see The Daily Oklahoman is running frontpage editorials on the case.”
“Yeah, well, they do that sort of thing.”
“The trial isn’t going too well, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. That should make you very happy.” He turned away. “Maybe your client will give you a raise.”