“Bull. This is a private tragedy that the press has latched onto because a celebrity is involved. Worse crimes occur every day. But the press loves celebrity stories. They sell papers; they boost ratings.”
“I think you’re wrong, Ben. This case raises a lot of serious issues.”
“That’s the excuse the press always uses. If they want to publicize some lurid statutory rape, well, it’s a child-abuse issue. If they want to dig up trivial mistakes a candidate made thirty years ago, it’s a trust issue. If they want to pry into someone’s sex life, it’s a character issue. What it really is, is a tawdry effort to pander to our worst instincts by sensationalizing the news and turning reporters into gossip columnists.”
“Well, if you went a little easier on the press, this case might go better for you.
“True. And isn’t that a pathetic statement? If I play up to the media—not the jury, not the judge, but the media—my client might have a better shot at acquittal. Tell me who’s running the justice system now.”
“Speaking of which.” Mike reached behind his desk and lifted a hardcover book with a glossy photo dust jacket. “Have you seen this?”
Ben took the book from him. It was titled The Whole Truth, and Nothing But. It was written by Cynthia Taylor, Caroline’s sister. On the cover was a photo of Wallace Barrett, obviously taken during an off moment when he was not aware he was being photographed. His eyes were hooded; he seemed to be looking deviously out of their corners. He was wearing a tank top. His fists were pressed together in such a way that his biceps bulged. He looked like a thug. At the top left, about where his brain should be, were fuzzy, spectral images of the murder victims.
“Cynthia probably snapped the main photo at that gym where she works,” Ben commented. “Of course, it presents Wallace in a distorted manner.”
“Distorted or not, that book had an initial hardcover print run of three hundred thousand copies. She’s been on all the talk shows promoting it. Even Oprah!”
“Why would television shows participate in this obvious attempt to influence—”
“They don’t see it that way. It’s supposedly a serious discussion of a serious issue—domestic abuse. You need to get out more, Ben. This book is everywhere. It’s in bookstores, drugstores, groceries.” He paused. “Everywhere your jurors shop.”
“Great.” He thumbed through the relatively short book. “Man, she must’ve written this practically overnight.”
“I expect she had some help, don’t you?”
Ben tossed the book back on Mike’s desk. “Surely no one will read this obviously biased crap.”
“Obviously biased sells, Ben. People want the dirt. This is a very effective bit of propaganda. Nothing the prosecution has done or probably will do will influence as many people’s opinions as this book does.”
“I can’t believe people would support such an unmitigated attempt to get rich quick on her sister’s murder.”
“Ah, but you see, she’s donating all the profits to various women’s shelters across the country. At least that’s what she’s saying on the talk shows.”
“Great.”
“Don’t worry. I understand Barrett’s supporters are preparing an instant book for him. That’s going to be a fund-raiser, too. To help that multimillionaire cope with the backbreaking burden of paying your legal fees.”
“Are you serious? He hasn’t mentioned this to me.”
“Well, you’re not exactly likely to be supportive, are you? He’ll probably fill you in sometime after the Dove audiobook hits the stands.”
Ben frowned. “He probably thinks a sympathetic book will improve his image. And he’s probably right. There are already four books on the market that paint him as some demented demon from hell, not counting Cynthia’s. So long before I can call witnesses to tell the jury what really happened, the media will be leaking the allegations from these books and treating them as fact. By the time I get a chance to tell people what really happened, no one will believe it. Another example of how the media distort the trial process.”
Mike hoisted his bottle and polished off the rest of his beer. “Well, I’m not as concerned about the distorted trial process as I am about this distorted wacko who seems determined to distort you. I’ve already got a man at your apartment, and I’m posting one at your hotel, too. If you hear anything more from Sick Heart, I want to know about it immediately.”
“Don’t worry. You will.”
“And I mean anything, Ben. Don’t hold out on me.”
Ben had to smile. The concern on Mike’s face was evident and genuine. It was comforting to think that even as a grumpy grown-up, he still had a few friends in the world. “Thanks, I won’t.”
“And good luck at the trial tomorrow.” He propped his feet on his desk and pointed at the nine-inch television on the corner of his desk. “I’ll be watching.”
Ben frowned. “I know. You and everyone else.”
“I don’t mind staying,” Joni was saying as she scurried through Ben’s apartment gathering her belongings. “I know you’ve got that big trial tomorrow. I mean, who doesn’t, right? If you want me to hang around so you can prepare, that’s fine.”
“Thanks, no.” He glanced down at Joey, who was silently playing with a set of dinosaur figures Joni had picked up at Imaginarium. “I want to spend some time with Joey. Then I want to hit the sack.”
“Okay. Well, I fixed his dinner, it’s in the refrigerator—macaroni and cheese—so he should eat it. His crib has clean sheets and there’s a clean pair of pajamas draped across the sofa.”
“Thanks.” He walked her to the door. “Good night.”
A man who was obviously a plainclothes policeman sat at a small desk at the top of the stairs. He rose to his feet when Ben opened the door.
“Tomlinson!” Ben said. “I thought you were working homicide now. What are you doing on this security detail?”
Tomlinson grinned amiably. “Personal favor to Mike. He’s really worried about you, you know. I think he’d be here himself, except he knows you’d tell him to get lost.”
“He’s right.” Ben stepped back inside the doorway. “Well, I suppose I’d better lock the door. But if you need anything, just holler.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll make a duplicate key for you tomorrow. I’m going to put this kid to bed now and hit the sack.”
“That’ll be fine. You take care of yourself in that courtroom tomorrow.”
Ben smiled. “I’ll be fine. ’Night.”
Ben closed the door. I’ll be fine. That was what he kept saying, anyway. He wondered if he could possibly make anyone believe it.
He swooped Joey up in the air and held him above his head. “Look, it’s Super-Joey! Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive …” He laughed, then brought the child down and gave him a tremendous bear hug. Did Joey laugh, too? Ben checked his face. There was definitely some sort of gurgling noise. Gas, perhaps? Or had he maybe decided being stuck with Uncle Ben wasn’t such a bad thing after all? Maybe he was going to say a few words, crack a few jokes.
Well, no. Joey seemed as impassive as ever. There was no sign of a smile, much less a laugh. Just the same barren expression that told Ben nothing.
“What’s going on in there?” Ben said, squeezing the boy gently. “I wish you would talk to me.”
But he didn’t. Ben sighed, then lowered Joey to the ground. Joey crawled back to his dinosaur figures and began arranging them in a long orderly line,
Ben knew he probably should prepare for trial, but he was too beat. Maybe just a song or two on the piano, or maybe he could spin that new Janis Ian CD. Then bed. He’d get up early tomorrow and do whatever needed to be done. Who knew? With any luck, by that time Christina might’ve already done it for him.