“Well, actually … no.”
“The biggest cause célèbre to hit Tulsa in years, and you’re totally clueless. What were you doing last night?”
“Well, let me see. I had soup for dinner, then I read Goodnight Moon to Joey about eight thousand times. After he went to sleep, I finished my Trollope novel …”
She slapped her forehead. “I can’t believe it. Everyone in the state watched the chase last night. Except, of course, you.”
“Chase? What are you talking about?”
“Ben, the mayor has been charged with murder.”
“Murder!” The light slowly dawned. “And he wants me to get him off?”
Christina and Jones and Loving all exchanged a glance. “Well,” Christina said, “he wants you to represent him, anyway. Entre nous, I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high on the outcome.”
“What do you mean?”
Christina grabbed his arm. “I’ll brief you while we drive to the jailhouse.”
Because Mayor Barrett had specified that he wanted to see Ben alone, Christina (after considerable protest) agreed to cool her heels outside while Ben went into his cell to talk to him.
“Don’t worry about me, Christina,” he told her. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about us.”
“Come again?”
“I’m afraid you’ll do something idiotic like not agree to represent him.”
“In fact, I do have some reservations …”
“See! It’s starting already. You’re going to veer off on some wacky ethical tangent, and we’re going to go hungry.”
“Just let me talk to him. Then we’ll see.”
She grabbed him by the lapels. “Ben, promise me you’ll take this case.”
“We’ll see.”
“Ben!”
“We’ll see.”
Ben allowed the guard to lead him down the long metallic corridor. Mayor Barrett had the cell at the far end, a private suite, such as it was. A five-by-seven cell, with a bunk bed, a sink, and an open-faced toilet. Not exactly the mayor’s mansion.
He was lying on the bottom bunk, his hands covering his face. When he moved them, Ben saw black and red lacerations on his face, and a bandage wrapped around his jaw and the back of his head.
The guard let Ben into the cell, locked the door behind him, then disappeared.
“How do you feel?” Ben asked.
“Better than I have a right to feel.”
“My legal assistant told me you were in a traffic accident.”
Barrett tried to smile, although between the bruises and the bandages, his face didn’t have much give in it. “I crashed into a brick building with four cop cars, two television helicopters, and about half the world watching. Like I said, I’m better off than I have a right to be.”
“Jeez. What were you doing?”
“Trying to kill myself,” he said, with a matter-of-fact air that caught Ben by surprise. “As it was, I didn’t even break a bone. Goddamn air bags.”
Ben paced nervously around the tiny cell. There was nowhere to sit, so he stood awkwardly by the cell door and contemplated the dominant question.
This was a part of criminal defense work that Ben particularly hated. Most criminal defense lawyers never asked the question. Since defending a client you knew was guilty raised a million ethical difficulties, most lawyers preferred not to inquire.
Ben, however, wanted to know the truth. He wanted to know where he stood. If he was going to put his name and reputation on the line, particularly in what was certain to be a high-profile case, he wanted to know he was doing the right thing. As his old mentor Jack Bullock used to say, he wanted to be on the side of the angels. But with such a horrible, heinous crime, how could he possibly ask?
Barrett sat up suddenly, hands on his knees. “Ben, I want you to know something up front. I didn’t do it.”
Ben gazed at him, his face, his eyes.
“I did not kill my wife. I did not kill my two precious daughters. How could I?” His eyes began to water, but he fought it back. “I couldn’t do anything like that.” He stared down at his hands. “I couldn’t.”
“I’ve read the preliminary police report. Neighbors say you and your wife had a disagreement yesterday afternoon.”
Barrett nodded. “That’s right. We did. I’m not going to pretend we didn’t.” He spread his arms wide. “It was that kind of marriage. We fought sometimes, like cats and dogs. But we still loved each other.”
“What was the fight about?”
Barrett shrugged. “I hardly remember.”
“The prosecutor will want to know.”
“It was something about the kids. She thought I was spoiling them, giving them everything they wanted. Undermining her authority. And not paying enough attention to her. We’d had this argument before.”
“How many times?”
He shrugged again. “I don’t know. Many.”
“Were these fights … violent?”
He twisted his head around. “Violent? You mean, did I hit her? Absolutely not.
“Well, I had to ask.”
“Look, I don’t know what people are saying about me now, but I would never hurt my wife. Or my girls. They’re the most precious things in the world to me.” His voice choked. “Were. I couldn’t hurt them. Don’t you think that if the mayor of the city was a wife beater, it would’ve come out before now?”
“I suppose.” Ben pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket and began taking notes. “So you had an argument. Then what?”
“I can barely remember. It’s all such a blur. And smashing into a brick wall didn’t help.”
“Just tell me what you recall. We don’t have to get everything today.”
“Well, I got mad. That doesn’t happen often; most times I can just laugh it off. But this time she really got my goat, suggesting that I was hurting the girls and all. So I stomped out of the house.”
“You left?”
“Right. Got in my car and drove away.”
“How long were you gone?”
“I don’t know exactly. Not long. Maybe an hour. I got a Coke at a Sonic—you can check that if you want—and I started to feel bad. So what if we disagreed on a few minor points. I loved my wife, and I loved my family. I didn’t have any business running out like that. A strong man stands up straight and faces the music. So I headed back home.”
“What happened when you got there?”
“I was in such a hurry, I left my car on the street and ran into the house. And—”
“Yes?”
He hesitated. “And then … I found … them. What was left of them.”
“They were already dead?”
“Oh, yeah.” His eyes became wide and fixed. “My wife was spread out like … like some sick human sacrifice. And my little girls …” Tears rushed to his eyes. His hands covered his face.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said quietly. “I know this is hard for you.”
Barrett continued to cry. His whole upper body trembled.
Ben took a deep breath. He hated this. He felt like a vulture of the worst order, intruding on this man’s grief with these incessant questions. Guilty or not, he was clearly grief-stricken. “Can you tell me what you did after you found the bodies?”
“I freaked.” He wiped his nose and eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I just freaked. Ran out to my car and tore off. Without a word to anyone. Stupid, I know. But I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t thinking at all. I just knew I had to get away from all that awful, hideous—death. And that blood. I kept thinking, I gotta go, I gotta get away from all this. It was like a chant, an order, running through my brain. Like maybe, if they weren’t right there in front of me, it didn’t really happen.”
“I can understand wanting to leave. But I can’t understand what you were doing on the Indian Nation Turnpike.”