Perfect Justice (3 page)

Ben smiled, pleased. The accused would look great in front of a jury.

“Ben,” Payne said, “meet Donald Vick. Donald, this is Ben Kincaid. I’ve asked him to be my co-counsel on your case. Actually, I want him to take over. He’s a murder-trial expert.”

Ben tried not to grimace. “Pleased to meet you.”

Instead of taking Ben’s outstretched hand, Vick folded his arms across his chest and scrutinized Ben through the iron bars. “Whose side are you on?”

“Whose … side?” Ben’s brow furrowed. “Well, if I take the case, I’ll be on your side.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I guess I don’t understand.”

“Ben,” Payne interceded, “why don’t you ask Donald whatever you need to know to get through this pretrial? We’ve only got a few more minutes.”

“What can you tell me about—”

“What’s in it for you?” Vick interrupted.

“What?” This was turning into the strangest client interview Ben had ever conducted. “I suppose I’ll be paid by the court, if I accept the case. There’s probably a flat fee. Is that what you mean?”

“Hardly.” Vick threw his shoulders back and walked to his cot.

Ben lowered his voice to a whisper. “What’s bugging him?”

Payne smiled halfheartedly. “Oh, you know how it is. He’s been in jail for weeks. He’s scared, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. I’m sure a trial expert such as yourself has seen this before. So, will you take the case?”

“Don’t rush me. Who’s he accused of murdering?”

“A Vietnamese boy about his age. Name of Vuong. Friends called him Tommy. Lived in a communal settlement a few miles outside of town—about twenty or so families all running a chicken farm. You know, Fort Chaffee was a major intake point for Vietnamese hightailin’ it out of their country. Since then, Arkansas has been drowning in ’em. Most of ’em are no trouble, but this Vuong kid was no damn good. He’d been in trouble with the law ever since he got here.”

“Why do the police think Vick killed him?”

“Apparently he and Vuong got into a fight in a local bar the afternoon before Vuong was killed. I’m sure Vuong picked the fight—like I said, he was no damn good. Anyway, Vuong got the better of Donald, and Donald got tossed out on his butt. There were several witnesses who say Donald threatened Vuong. And that night, Vuong was killed. Sheriff didn’t have a good suspect, so he went for the obvious.”

Ben had seen that happen before. He knew that when a high-profile crime occurs, the pressure is on the police to haul in a suspect. “If that’s all they have on him, we should be able to get an acquittal. In fact, we should be able to get the charges dropped.”

“That’s great,” Payne said. “Exactly what I wanted to hear. Does this mean you’ll take the case?”

Christina interrupted. “You seem in an awful big hurry to enlist Ben’s services.”

“Well, like I said, the pretrial is only a few minutes away, and I don’t have the slightest notion what to do.”

“I don’t want to be rude,” Christina said, “but I have the feeling there’s something you haven’t told us.”

Ben had learned to trust Christina’s instincts. “Is that true? Are you withholding information?”

Payne glanced nervously at his watch. “Gosh, Ben, I’ll be happy to tell you whatever you want to know after the pretrial, but we just don’t have time—”

“We’ll make time,” Ben said firmly. “Tell me now, or you’ll be on your own at the pretrial.”

Payne sighed. “I suppose you might want to know … that Donald is a member of ASP.”

“ASP? What’s that?”

Another deep sigh. “It’s a white supremacy group. The Anglo-Saxon Patrol. They have a paramilitary training camp not too far from here.”

“You’re kidding.” Ben looked back at the innocent-looking youth eyeing them warily from his cot. “
Him?
”

“ ’Fraid so.”

“Is he a Silver Springs native?”

“Oh, no,” Payne explained. “None of them are. They came over from Alabama and set up this camp a few months ago. Apparently some Silver Springers didn’t appreciate having all those Vietnamese so nearby, especially when it looked like they were going to cut into the local chicken-farming profits. That’s a big-bucks concern around here, you know.”

“So they called for their friendly neighborhood racist terrorist group,” Christina said. “That’s revolting.”

“I don’t know who called for them,” Payne explained, “but the town hasn’t been the same since they arrived. They’ve been stirring up trouble—making threats, setting fires, bombing cars. No one can prove they’re the culprits, but no one has much doubt, either. Then we got a bunch of lawyers in from some Montgomery organization called Hatewatch. They go around trying to shut down outfits like ASP by compiling evidence and filing civil suits. That made matters even worse. Everybody in town’s tense, afraid of their own shadow. There’s more hate going around than a small town like this can bear.”

Ben nodded. The fog was finally clearing. “That’s why you were appointed to represent him. No lawyer would voluntarily take this case.”

“That’s true,” Payne grudgingly admitted.

“And you thought you could buffalo Ben into relieving you,” Christina said. “Sorry, no luck.” She gestured toward the door. “Come on, Ben. Let’s get out of here.”

“Just a minute.” Ben fixed his gaze on Payne. “What
else
haven’t you told us?”

“Only details,” Payne said. “Nothing else bad. Honest.”

Ben frowned. “And you’ve been unable to find anyone to represent him?”

“Honest Injun, Ben. I’ve called every lawyer in Reeves County.”

“Ben, what is this?” Christina tugged at his sleeve. “Let’s leave.”

“I don’t think I can,” Ben said. “Apparently no one else will represent this kid. And every man has a right to competent counsel.”

“Ben, what are you saying? You aren’t seriously considering representing this racist pig, are you?”

“Personally, I find his politics reprehensible. But the Rules of Professional Conduct give attorneys a particular obligation to represent unpopular persons who have had difficulty obtaining counsel.”

“You’re going to take the case?”

“Someone has to do it.”

“Ben, this man is
vile
!”

“All the more reason to take the case, under the Rules.”

“He came to town with his squad of thugs looking for trouble. And he found it. End of story.”

“Aren’t you the one who was pushing me to take this case a few minutes ago?”

“Before I knew he was a fascist hatemonger, yes. Now I’ve changed my mind.”

“According to you, I need high-profile cases to build a reputation.”

“That’s right, Ben. While we’re at it, why don’t we line up some child molesters and presidential assassins?” She grabbed his arm. “Ben, don’t do this!”

“Sorry, Christina. You know I respect your opinion, but I’ve already made up my mind.” He turned back toward Payne. “I’ll take the case.”

“Then you’ll do it without me!” Christina pivoted on her heel and bolted toward the door at the end of the corridor.

“
Christina!
”

She slammed the door behind her.

Ben offered Payne a lopsided smile. “She’s very temperamental,” he said. “Redheads—you know how they are. I’m sure she’ll come around.”

“I’m just glad to have you on board,” Payne said. “We should be getting to the pretrial now.”

“Just a minute.” Ben grabbed the bars of Vick’s cell. “I’m willing to represent you, Donald, if that’s what you want.”

Vick didn’t even look up. “Suit yourself.”

“I guess that’ll do. I’ll consider myself retained. The pretrial is no great shakes. We’ll just tell the judge he’s not guilty and that we—”

“What?” Vick’s head jerked up sharply. He pushed himself off the cot and approached the bars. “Who said anything about pleading not guilty?”

Ben felt a cold chill run down his spine. He didn’t like having this kid so close to him. “Well, I just assumed. …”

“Don’t assume anything, city boy.”

“You must’ve pleaded not guilty at your arraignment.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“As your attorney, it’s my duty to seek an acquittal if—”

“It’s your duty to do what I tell you to do. I’m guilty, understand?”

Ben’s jaw dropped. “You’re—”

“You heard me,” Vick said. “Guilty. And I want you to tell the judge I’m guilty. Guilty as charged.”

B
EN FELT HIS HEART
drop into the pit of his stomach. When would he learn to trust Christina’s instincts? “Are you saying you killed this man … Vuong?”

Vick looked away. “I’m saying I want you to plead me guilty. Got it?”

“That isn’t what I asked. And look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Vick obeyed, grudgingly.

“Did you kill him?” Ben asked.

“What do you care? I said I want you to plead me guilty. And that’s all I’m saying.”

“If you really killed Vuong and you want to plead guilty, that’s your business. But if you’re just saying this to be noble or because you’re having a bad day, that’s different.”

Vick turned and faced the back wall of his cell.

“Wait a minute.” Ben pressed his nose through the cell bars. “I have more questions to ask.”

The only response was a faint rippling of Vick’s shoulder blades.

“How can I represent you if you won’t talk to me?”

No change. Ben glared at Payne. “I don’t believe this. I want to know—”

“We can chat later.” Payne pointed to his watch. “We’re already five minutes late for the pretrial. Judge Tyler will be madder’n a wet hen.” Payne hustled Ben down the corridor.

“But—” Ben blinked uncomprehendingly as a closed door separated him from the cold shoulders of his new client. What had he gotten himself into?

Payne whisked Ben to the county courthouse on Main Street in less than five minutes. The courthouse looked like a sepia-toned image from a history book—an oversized white-and-red brick town center. It was easily the largest building in Silver Springs, and by far the most interesting architecturally. A cornerstone near the front door told Ben it had been constructed in 1892. Ben wondered how a town this size ever became the county seat. Must be a small county.

Two men were already in the judge’s chambers when Ben and Payne arrived. Ben assumed the man sitting behind the desk was the judge. He had a distinguished, rugged face and a closely cropped head of gray hair. The other man was considerably younger, close to Ben’s age. Ben would normally have assumed he was the district attorney. The only detail preventing that conclusion in this instance was that he was bouncing a baby on his knee.

“Watch this, Judge,” said the man. He smiled at the child, who appeared to be perhaps a year and a half old. “Sweetheart, what do doggies say?”

“Foof-foof,” came the reply.

“Exactly right,” the man said, applauding. The little girl beamed. “Okay, honey, what do ducks say?”

“Wack-wack.”

“Very good!” The man looked up. “She’s two for two.” He turned the girl around to face the judge. “Okay, here’s the tough one. Tell Judge Tyler what judges say.”

“Ovewooled.” She giggled happily.

“Well, I’ll be,” Judge Tyler replied. He reached across his desk and patted her on the head. “Amber, I believe you must be the smartest little girl in all of Reeves County.” The judge clapped enthusiastically. Amber turned red and hid her face in her hands.

Ben watched in amazement. What the heck kind of pretrial conference was this?

Payne stepped through the doorway and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Judge. Are you ready for us now?”

“Of course we are, Mr. Payne. Come on in.” Judge Tyler gave Payne a big friendly smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

Ben and Payne took the two available chairs. The judge’s chambers were, to put it kindly, intimate; to put it bluntly, minuscule—basically a closet tucked away behind the courtroom. There was enough room for a desk and four chairs and very little else. Ben and the man he assumed was the DA were shoulder to shoulder. The little girl began playing with the sleeve of Ben’s shirt.

“Who’s your friend, Mr. Payne?” the judge asked.

“This is Ben Kincaid, your honor. He practices law over in Tulsa County. I’m going to ask that he be admitted pro hac vice”—Ben winced at the pronunciation—“so he can assist me with this case.”

“I see.” Ben felt the judge give him the once-over. “Does Mr. Kincaid have experience with cases of this nature?”

“Oh, yes,” Payne replied. “He’s a murder-trial expert.”

Ben pressed his fingers against his temples. He was really going to have to sit down with Christina and explain the principle of false advertising.

“A murder-trial expert. My word.” The judge continued his silent appraisal. “Wouldn’t find no one like that around here. ’Course, we haven’t had a murder in twelve years. Why don’t you tell us about yourself, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Well … I’ve been practicing law for several years now in Tulsa—”

“Several years? You look to be—what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

“I’m … thirty-one, your honor.”

“Huh. Guess you look young for your age.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You practice with some big firm?”

“I did, sir. A few years back. We had a parting of the ways.”

The judge arched an eyebrow. “Where are you now, some corporation?”

“Well, I’ve done that, too … but it didn’t work out.”

“For such a young fella, you seem to have trouble keeping a job.”

“I’ve been maintaining a solo practice for some time now, your honor. I think I’ve found my niche.”

Judge Tyler placed a finger across his lips. “I don’t normally cotton to big-city lawyers strolling in to try our cases. They always seem to think they know more about how I should perform my job than I do. But given the gravity of the charges, and Mr. Payne’s lack of experience with criminal matters, I’ll allow it. You are hereby admitted to act as counsel for the defendant in the present case.”

“Thank you, your honor.” Ben made a mental note to avoid acting like a big-city lawyer, whatever that meant.

“Why don’t we welcome Mr. Kincaid with a drink?” the judge said exuberantly.

“A drink?”

Judge Tyler opened his bottom desk drawer and removed a bottle of Scotch. “I’m afraid Mabel took all my glasses, gentlemen. We’ll have to drink from the same bottle.”