IF POSSIBLE, THE COURTROOM was even more crowded than it had been the day before. Word had gotten out; Courtroom Three was Tulsa’s hottest ticket. Ben had expected the media to be there in full force; he wasn’t expecting the horde of nonprofessionals: the retirees, the street people, the bored house spouses. The spectacle of seventy-year-old grandmothers squabbling for seats in the gallery was pretty sickening.
As Ben scanned the gallery he saw several familiar faces. Almost all his acquaintances from the country club were there; Crenshaw and Bentley were sitting together near the jury box. Their clothes alone were sufficient to cause them to stand out from the rest of the crowd. The Rutherfords were there also, but they were not sitting together. Harold was near the front; Rachel was in the rear, pressed into a corner. Ben couldn’t help but suspect that this separation was significant.
The back doors opened, and Mitch escorted Captain Pearson to a seat. Apparently, Mitch wasn’t staying. Poor chump; he probably had to chauffeur Pearson over.
Ben waved to get Mitch’s attention. “Baby-sitting Cap’n Ron?” Ben asked.
“No comment,” Mitch replied.
“I have a question. Suppose I wanted to learn who on the Utica Greens board was communicating with person or persons unknown in Peru. How would I go about it?”
Mitch thought for a moment. “Well, if they were communicating from someplace other than the club, I wouldn’t have any idea. But all of the board members have offices at the club. Deliveries and faxes are always logged in by the desk secretary. I could check for FedEx packages or certified letters from Peru. I could check the guest register for Spanish-sounding names. And I could check the phone bills for long-distance calls.”
“That would be great,” Ben said. “When can you start?”
“Now, wait a minute. …” Mitch looked nervously toward the back of the courtroom. “I’ll have to get approval from Pearson.”
“No. You can’t tell him you’re doing it.”
“Why not?”
“Well, principally because he’ll tell you not to.”
“Then I don’t think—”
Ben laid his hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Look, Mitch, I don’t want you to lose your job. But if I don’t get this information, and as soon as possible, my client could end up convicted for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“But still—”
“C’mon, Mitch. I can tell you’re a good guy. You’re not like these country-club clowns you work for who don’t care about anything but their own comfort. You care about other people.”
“Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”
Ben shrugged his shoulders. “I’m desperate.”
Mitch frowned. “I’ll have to do it at night. When no one else is around.”
“Excellent.”
“It’ll take several days. I have other duties.”
“Understood. But tell me what you’ve found as soon as possible.”
Mitch nodded. “I’ll stay in touch.”
“Thanks.”
Leeman was already at the defendant’s table. His eyes had pronounced circles; his expression was long and drawn. He looked tired.
And scared.
Ben was startled by a sudden thud. “Whaa …?”
“Morning, Kincaid.” It was Bullock. He had dropped a huge banker’s box of documents on the table.
“What’s this mess?” Ben asked.
“New exhibits,” Bullock replied succinctly. “We’ve added a few witnesses. But as you’ve pointed out before, trial by ambush is history. So here are the files. You’re on notice.”
“How nice,” Ben said. “And a full two minutes before the trial begins, too.”
“I always play by the rules. I’m required to give you notice. I just did.”
“By the way, I didn’t think very much of your opening statement.”
Bullock cocked his head to one side. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
“Your opening had nothing to do with the truth. It had to do with prejudicing the jury by focusing their attention on the attorneys instead of the evidence.”
“Is that against the rules?”
“Maybe not, but—”
“When the evidence shows the defendant is guilty, like in this case, for instance, then I prosecute him. That’s my job. That’s what I believe in. Your problem is that you don’t have any convictions. How could you? I know I’m performing a service. I’m acting for the greater good. That’s why I don’t mind pushing. I won’t violate the rules, but I have no problem doing anything within the rules that will help make my case. Consider yourself warned.” He marched to the prosecution table without a backward glance.
A few minutes later Judge Hawkins stomped into the courtroom. After letting the bailiff do his bit and giving the jury their daily instructions, Hawkins invited Bullock to call his first witness.
“The State calls Dr. Hikaru Koregai to the stand.”
Ben almost smiled. He felt like he and Dr. Koregai were old friends. Koregai had been a medical examiner for over twenty-five years; he’d worked on every homicide Ben had been involved with since he moved to Tulsa. He was well-known for his expertise in forensic medicine, his ability to stay cool under cross-examination, and his in-your-face “why the hell should I help you?” manner. The coroner with an attitude.
After establishing Koregai’s expertise and credentials, Bullock took him back to the night of the murder. Koregai was called to the scene of the crime by a Sergeant Tompkins shortly after the body was discovered.
“What condition was Maria Alvarez in when you arrived?”
“She was dead.”
“Did you confirm this opinion?”
Koregai arched an eyebrow. He didn’t like being doubted, not even by friendly interrogators. “Yes. I searched for vital signs. There were none. She was dead.”
“Do you have an opinion as to the cause of her death?”
“Technically, she died of cranial cerorexia—the loss of oxygen to her brain. The more immediate cause of death was the loss of blood and the collapse of her respiratory system.”
“And what caused that?”
“The shaft of a golf club had been forced through her neck. The wound was fatal.”
“Would death have been immediate?”
“Possibly.”
“But not certainly?”
“The wound was fatal,” Koregai continued, “but not necessarily immediately so. She may have died quickly. Or she may have been pinned to the wall, in excruciating pain, for some time.”
“I see,” Bullock said somberly. He shook his head sadly from side to side, then cast a firm glance at Leeman. The jury did the same.
“Dr. Koregai,” Bullock continued, “I have some pictures I’d like you to identify.”
“Wait a minute,” Ben said. “I object. Mr. Bullock has made this discussion grisly enough. We don’t need to see photos.”
Counsel approached the bench. Bullock gave the photos to the judge, who passed them to Ben.
Every one was a grotesque, full-color, blood-splattered picture of the victim pinioned to the wall. Bullock was obviously trying to turn the jury against Leeman by emphasizing the grotesque nature of the crime.
“I repeat my objection,” Ben whispered to the judge, out of the jury’s hearing. “These pictures contribute nothing that hasn’t already come out through Dr. Koregai’s testimony. They have no probative value, and they could greatly prejudice the jury. Their verdict should be rendered based upon the facts, not passion stirred up by inflammatory nonevidence.”
“Your honor,” Bullock said innocently, “the law requires me to positively identify the victim.”
Judge Hawkins gazed at the photos. These were so hideous even he didn’t want to look at them. “Don’t you have any other photos of the victim? Perhaps one that doesn’t show blood gushing from her neck?”
“Your honor, this was the condition of the corpse when Dr. Koregai arrived. He can only identify what he saw.” Bullock leveled his eyes. “If I can’t use these photos, my case will be greatly prejudiced. I might even have to dismiss.”
Hawkins grimaced. “Oh, very well. Objection overruled.”
“Judge, I protest!” Ben said.
“Your objection is already on the record,” Hawkins said huffily. “Let’s get on with this.”
Ben ground his teeth together and returned to his table. If he had any doubts about his standing in this trial before, they were all gone now. Hawkins was a prosecution man through and through. He was going to be no help to Ben at all.
Koregai identified the pictures, and the bailiff duly presented them to the jury. Each juror studied them for a few painful moments, then wordlessly passed them down the row.
Ben didn’t have to read minds to know what they were thinking. They were thinking that this murder was more than a murder. It was an abomination, a sacrilege. They wanted to convict the person who did this.
And without exception, each juror, after he or she examined the pictures thoroughly and passed them on to the next juror, looked across the courtroom at Leeman Hayes.