“Nonetheless,” Ben said, “Mr. Barrett is one of the leading citizens in our community—”
“Was,” Bullock interjected.
“Mr. Barrett is one of the best-known individuals in this city. In this state, for that matter. He could hardly just disappear.”
“Your honor,” Bullock said, in his usual calm but insistent voice, “the defendant has already tried to flee once. Surely we are not going to give him another opportunity.”
“That’s not fair or accurate—”
Hawkins waved Ben quiet. “The court agrees with the prosecutor, counsel. These charges are so serious, so”—he paused, apparently searching for a word that would convey his meaning without suggesting that he had lost his neutrality—“so profoundly disturbing that bail could be denied on those grounds alone. Moreover, the defendant has demonstrated a clear disposition for flight. I believe I have no choice but to deny bail. The defendant is remanded to the custody of the county sheriff until further notice.”
He pounded his gavel for emphasis. “If there is nothing more, I’ll see you gentlemen on Thursday. By the way, I’ve granted approval to Court TV to televise the hearing and, pending approval of the judge assigned to the case, the trial. Other networks will have equal access to the footage, as will you.”
“Your honor,” Ben said, “I object—”
Barrett tugged on Ben’s arm. “No, it’s all right.”
Ben lowered his voice. “Wallace, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“It’s okay.” He nodded, evidently trying to avoid any embarrassment to Ben, but still determined to have his way.
Ben turned back to the court, frowning. “I withdraw my objection.”
“That’s what I like to hear. We’re dismissed.” Hawkins pounded his gavel and left the courtroom.
Ben took his client to a private corner for an impromptu discussion of trial strategy. “What were you doing back there? I was making an important objection.”
Barrett shrugged. “I don’t mind the cameras.”
“You should. Televising trials is a bad idea. The media presence will distort the process.”
“I can handle it. The cameras like me. Besides, I might want to have a career again after this mess is over.”
Ben leaned into his client’s face. “Stop worrying about your approval rating and start worrying about this trial. Don’t you know what we’re up against? Didn’t you hear the reaction when you came into the courtroom? Can’t you read the expression on everyone’s face? The whole world thinks you’re guilty!”
“That’s just it,” Barrett said quietly.
That caught Ben off guard. “I don’t follow you.”
“You said it. Everyone thinks I’m guilty. Basically, they believe what the media tell them, and the media are telling them I’m guilty. They want a good story, the more dramatic, the better. Right now, the best story in town is the one about the ex-jock mayor who goes nuts and kills his wife and kids. That’s a ratings winner. ‘Family slaughtered by unknown assailant who will probably never be caught’ isn’t half as compelling. That’s why they’re focusing on me. Ten years from now, when I’m doing time for a crime I didn’t commit, the press might get interested in a ‘has-justice-been-denied?’ story. But for now, making me look guilty is the juiciest game in town.”
“So what’s your point?”
“Just this: everyone in town is going to be bombarded with media coverage suggesting that I’m guilty. I want them to hear someone arguing that I’m innocent. And the only place they’re going to hear that argument is inside this courtroom—from you. So I want it televised.”
Ben pressed his lips together. He still thought it was unwise, but he could see the man’s point. “I hope you’re not making a big mistake here.”
Barrett chuckled. “Well, if I am, you’ll fix it, right? That’s what lawyers are for.”
The sheriff’s men escorted Barrett back to his cell. Ben stayed behind to pack his briefcase. He noticed Bullock was still at his table, lingering for no apparent reason.
“Well, Ben, you must be very proud of yourself.” His tone suggested more than a little irony.
“For what?”
“For getting this case!” Bullock spread his arms wide. “What a plum! So much publicity. It’s a defense lawyer’s dream. Soon you’ll have every baby murderer in town coming to you.”
Ben slung his papers into his briefcase. “Jack, I’m not in the mood.”
“What, are we sensitive today? I thought you gloried in representing maimers and slaughterers.”
“That remark doesn’t even deserve an answer.”
Bullock grew quiet. He stood, then walked beside Ben. He lifted his hand briefly, then lowered it, as if he had fleetingly considered placing his hand on Ben’s shoulder.
“I can’t believe that the same smart, fresh-faced kid I used to work shoulder to shoulder with, putting away the bad guys and throwing away the keys, is going to defend the man who has committed what is quite possibly the most hideous, most horrifying crime I have ever encountered.”
“Jack, he hasn’t been found guilty yet.”
“Don’t give me that kindergarten crap. I don’t care what bullshit story you’re cooking up for the jurors. It’s perfectly obvious what happened.”
“If I’ve learned anything in the time I’ve been practicing law,” Ben said, “it’s that things are not always what they appear.”
“You’re deluding yourself.” Bullock shook his head sadly. “You know, Ben, I don’t mean to hassle you every time I see you. Afterward, I go home and kick myself. I just can’t help it. I’m so … sad about this. I feel a loss, deep in my gut.”
Ben felt a distinct itching at his eyes.
“You used to know the difference between right and wrong.”
They stared into each other’s eyes, sinking deeply into pools of recollection. They both knew what he was referring to now.
“You were willing to make personal sacrifices for your beliefs. You knew what was important.”
“Did I?”
“Oh, yeah.” Bullock’s half-smile returned. “I still remember the day you came into my office for the first time.”
So did Ben.
Ben had been more than a little nervous when Marge Cunningham, the secretary for all the law students clerking at the Oklahoma City DA’s office that year, had informed him that Jack Bullock wished to see him. Most days Ben stayed in the library and did his work with as little social contact as possible. He tried to stay out of trouble, stuck to his research assignments, and scrupulously avoided anything that might land him in a courtroom.
So he was startled, first, that Marge would even speak to him, and second, that he had been summoned by Jack Bullock himself. Bullock had quite the reputation in the DA’s office; he’d been there longer than the DA. District attorneys, after all, were elected; they came and went depending upon which way the political wind blew. Bullock had outlasted them all because he was smart and because even the district attorneys who didn’t like him didn’t want to find him sitting at the table on the other side of the courtroom. He was good.
It was late in the evening. Only a few staff members were still there; all the other interns had long since left. Ben tended to work late, in part because he revised his written work endlessly and in part because he didn’t particularly want to go home.
Ben lifted his hand to knock on the closed door to Bullock’s office. He was embarrassed to see that his hand was trembling. Good grief, he told himself, you’re about to be a lawyer. Get a grip on yourself.
“Come in,” a voice from inside the office bellowed.
The office was mostly dark; a single banker’s lamp on the desk illuminated the room. Jack Bullock sat in the chair, pushed all the way back, feet propped up on the desk, legal pad on his lap.