God knows what you’ve done.
That was more than a mere pronouncement. That was a curse. That meant no matter what Kirk did, what pain he caused himself, what torture he endured, it would never make any difference. God would always know.
And so would he.
29
DAY TWO—THE SIEGE Continues, Ben thought, as he left the parking garage and headed toward the county courthouse. As usual, a throng of reporters were lying in wait; as soon as he approached they surrounded him, blocking his way, forcing him to push past them just to get inside. The minicam lights were on him every step of the way as the reporters tossed out questions one after another.
“How do you think the case is going for you?” one of the reporters shouted above the fray.
“The Rules of Professional Conduct discourage lawyers from giving public statements regarding pending criminal actions.”
“District Attorney LaBelle gave a press conference this morning.”
Ben’s lips pinched together. “No comment.”
Another reporter inched forward. She was female and, if he wasn’t mistaken, one of Christina’s buddies, not that that was doing him any good this morning.
“Do you think your client will be able to overcome her past life?”
Ben looked at her levelly. “I think she already has.”
“Don’t you think it will be hard to get people to listen to Keri Dalcanton’s story when there’s so much public antipathy toward strippers?”
Ben shrugged. “People don’t like reporters, either. But they still listen to you every night at six and ten.”
The reporter placed one hand firmly on her hip. “I think there’s a little difference between a reporter and a stripper.”
“True. Strippers provide a public service.”
Ben blazed a trail to the elevators. Probably not a smart move, he thought, as he glanced back and saw the reporter’s gaping expression. But it certainly was fun.
Christina and Keri were waiting at the defendant’s table when he arrived. Ben waved Christina aside.
“How is she this morning?” he asked.
Christina shook her head. “Two words: basket case.”
Ben approached Keri and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. A second thereafter he caught Christina’s stony stare and removed it. “How are you doing?”
Keri’s eyes were red and puffy; she had obviously been crying. “I … didn’t sleep well.”
“That’s understandable.” And it was, but why today? Most defendants got their worst case of jitters on the first day. Keri had seemed fine yesterday. What had happened? “Did you see something or … read something?”
“No. Nothing like that.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, pressing so hard she left a mark. “It just sunk in, that’s all.”
“What did?”
“LaBelle. What he was saying all day yesterday. He … he didn’t use these exact words, but basically, he was trying to get the jury to kill me. That’s what it amounted to. He wants me dead.”
Ben tried to be comforting, but he knew that if he were in her shoes he’d be just as traumatized. “Well, he’s the prosecutor. Since you wouldn’t plea bargain, and this case has gotten so much publicity, he probably feels he has to push for the maximum sentence.”
“Maximum sentence? We’re not talking about some fine, here, Ben. We’re talking about a man who wants me killed!” She brushed away a fresh batch of tears. “And he’s standing right in front of me, trying to get other people to do it!”
“I’m sorry, Keri. I know this must be rough. But I have to warn you—it’s going to get a lot worse.”
Keri’s head fell. “Do I have to be here?”
“I’m afraid you do.”
“Everyday?”
“Absolutely. It’s required. And we wouldn’t want the jurors to get the impression you didn’t think it was important.”
Keri sighed, long and mournfully. “I suppose you’re right. But, God, it hurts. It hurts being so afraid.” She turned her face away, hiding the tears. “And it hurts not … not knowing.”
Ben mentally finished the sentence for her: Not knowing whether you’re going to live or die. Everything depended on the outcome of this trial, this preposterously creaky, unscientific way of determining whether a human being should be executed.
“We’re not going to give LaBelle what he wants,” he said, whispering softly into her ear. “He has to get a verdict before he can get a penalty. And we’re going to do everything possible to stop that from happening.”
“But—but—what if that’s not enough?”
Ben didn’t bother responding. To some questions, there was simply no good answer.
After the preliminaries, Judge Cable invited LaBelle to deliver his opening statement. LaBelle took center stage, his aims locked behind his back. If his expression had been serious the day before, it was positively grim today.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I won’t insult you by shilly-shallying around the truth or trying to cushion the blows. You know there is a horror lurking at the heart of this case. Let’s confront that horror now, so we can get past the inevitable initial shock and decide what needs to be done about it.
“The horror took place on the evening of March the fourteenth, right here in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The defendant, Keri Dalcanton, had left her job at a south side club where, as you already know, she took off her clothes for a living. It was very late, but when she returned to her apartment, no one else was there—not her brother, who lived with her, and not her married lover, Joe McNaughton, who often met her at her place after she got off work.
“All was not well between the two lovers. As the evidence will show, Keri Dalcanton had been visited earlier by Joe McNaughton’s wife, Andrea. Harsh words were exchanged. Ms. Dalcanton actually attacked Andrea, hitting her repeatedly, pummeling her with blows that left Andrea bruised and battered. Andrea had asked Ms. Dalcanton to break off the affair with her husband of twelve years—and she refused.
“But now the tables were turned. Ms. Dalcanton was the one who was listening—and she didn’t like what she heard. Joe McNaughton arrived and informed her that he was breaking it off. That he was returning to the loving arms of his wife. That it was over.”
LaBelle paused, making them wait a bit before he delivered the clincher. “That was when—and why—she killed him.”
LaBelle stepped away from the rail. “Some of you, I suspect, may well feel sympathetic toward Keri Dalcanton and her plight. Perhaps some of you have been jettisoned by a lover after the relationship became old or inconvenient. But none of you took the step Keri Dalcanton did. She is not on trial today because she was dumped. She’s on trial because she killed the man who dumped her.
“Is there any doubt—any at all—that Keri Dalcanton committed this crime? Not in my mind, and by the end of this trial, I predict, not in yours. You will hear from the police officers who investigated the crime, who found the evidence that clearly proved she was the murderer. You’ll hear incontrovertible evidence that Joe McNaughton went to her apartment that night—a fact she later denied. You’ll hear from the coroner, whose findings are totally consistent with the police evidence. And you’ll hear from the victim’s poor wife—the truly wronged woman in this case. After you’ve heard her testimony, any lingering doubts you may have harbored will be gone. You will know with certainty what I know with certainty—that Keri Dalcanton murdered Joe McNaughton in a fit of jealousy and rage.
“Who else could’ve done it? Who else would’ve done it, especially in such a gruesome and barbaric fashion? When Joe McNaughton’s body was found, crucified and pilloried in the center of Bartlett Square, he had been stripped naked and bound with chains—chains previously used by Keri Dalcanton during her fetishistic and perverted sex play. He had been stabbed over twenty times, bloodied with a large sharp knife, obvious proof that this was a murder of rage and vengeance. Worse, he had been mutilated, his male member severed and stuffed into his mouth, obviously suggesting that the murder had a sexual motivation. And finally, after he was dead, the word ‘faithless’ was written across his chest in his own blood. When Keri Dalcanton did that, she might as well have signed her own name.”