He pointed his gavel at Bullock. “You will make the evidence available to opposing counsel as soon as possible, understand? No foot-dragging, no messing around.”
“Yes, sir.”
The gavel shifted to Ben. “After you’ve reviewed the evidence, we’ll hear your motion. I’ll set a hearing the day before trial, to be heard by the trial judge.”
Ben tried to protest. “But that won’t leave me any time—”
With a firm look, Hawkins dared Ben to say another word. “I’ve ruled.” He banged his gavel and rose to his feet. “Court is in recess.”
The reporters filed out of the courtroom and made their way to the outer hallway where they would receive Bullock’s usual press conference and Ben’s usual “no comment.” Before he left the room, however, Bullock stopped by Ben’s table.
“I’d like copies of those purported affadavits you were waving around.”
“I put your copies in the mail,” Ben said.
“I’d like them now.”
“Fine. I’ll trade you copies of the affadavits for all the evidence on your list that you haven’t shown me yet.”
“Well… I’m not prepared to hold an evidentiary summit.”
Ben slapped his briefcase closed. “And I forgot to make extra copies of the affadavits. Darn.” He tried to make his way past to his client, but Bullock blocked his way.
“Thought you were going to pull a fast one, didn’t you, Kincaid? Thought you were going to pull the rabbit out of your hat again. Well, the judge didn’t buy it.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Ben said. “The trial judge may feel differently.”
“Don’t count on it. She may find you cute when you’re defending teen prostitutes and petty thieves, but she’ll feel differently when it’s murder and the whole wide world is watching.”
So Bullock thought Judge Hart was going to get the case also. Guess that made it official.
“I can’t believe you would try to sweep away the evidence by pretrial ruling,” Bullock added. “Even as far as you’ve fallen, you’ve never tried anything that low before.”
Ben pushed away. “Jack, this is different.”
“Yes, you always wanted to make exceptions. Put a bleeding heart before a sick society. Won’t you ever learn?”
Ben would have liked to imagine he didn’t know what Bullock was talking about, but of course he did. It was always the same with Bullock; like some twisted rogue elephant, he never forgot.
During the time Ben worked with Bullock at the DA’s office, their work habits had almost instantly become routine, like two old bachelors who had lived together for years. When Ben didn’t have classes, which was most of the time, they both arrived at the office before seven. Ben made the coffee; Bullock opened the mail. They reviewed the cases in progress, pending court dates, imminent deadlines. They strategized and calculated how to bring their charges and make them stick. Ben was principally responsible for any briefing or paperwork that needed to be done, while Bullock handled the courtroom end. At the end of the day, they retired to Bullock’s office, Bullock with his beer, Ben with his chocolate milk, to review the day’s work and plan for tomorrow. Neither of them was ever home before nine.
Until March. After the first of the month, Bullock informed Ben that he had a new case breaking, a major prosecution with multi-state ramifications. The DA had asked him to handle it personally, but had insisted that Bullock tell no one, not even his intern. So Ben was shut out.
Ben still had plenty to do, but he couldn’t help but wonder what Bullock was working on. He was holed up in his office almost all day with the DA and police officers and OSBI agents. They even called a grand jury. None of the interns knew why, although the word in the hallway was that something big was in the offing.
Curiosity was killing Ben. But even when he managed to get Bullock’s ear for a moment or two, he couldn’t persuade Bullock to give him the inside scoop.
It was his friend Mike Morelli who finally told him. By that time, Mike’s marriage with Ben’s sister, Julia, had already broken up. Ben rarely saw either of them; Julia had run off to Montana with an English professor and Mike was playing cops and robbers in Tulsa. Ben was quite surprised, therefore, when Mike showed up one night at his apartment.
Mike got straight to the point. “It’s your dad.”
“I don’t believe it. You must be mistaken.”
“No mistake. Some of the boys at the station have been working directly with the DA. I know these guys, and they know what they’re talking about. Your dad is the target.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. But, Ben, how is he going to take it?”
Ben knew exactly what was troubling Mike. Throughout his life, Ben’s father had been plagued by a violent temper. It was more than personality—it was pathological, or to be more specific, neurological. Sometimes a sudden rage would overcome him to such a degree that he simply could not control himself. His whole body would tremble and shake, sometimes he would even pass out.
The deleterious effects of this rage on his health were profound. According to the specialists, these enormous bouts of anger triggered internal chain reactions releasing adrenaline and other stress-related compounds, as well as decreasing the number of immune cells and inducing abnormal electrical activity and aberrant heartbeats. Blood saturated with these damaging hormones destroyed his arterial walls, interfering with the flow of blood to his heart. He had already suffered three minor heart attacks, and was at considerable risk for a fourth.
“And you’re sure it was the DA’s office? Here?”
Mike nodded grimly. “Absolutely positive.”
Ben jumped into his Honda and drove downtown. Night had already fallen, but he knew that Bullock would still be at the office. He had to get some answers.
Ben stomped into Bullock’s office at full tilt. There were two OSBI agents there, but he didn’t let that stop him from asking what he wanted to know.
To his credit, Bullock didn’t even attempt to deny it.
“I’m sorry we had to keep you out of the loop on this one, Ben, but I’m sure you understand—”
“I do not understand!” Ben surprised himself with his anger, and his ability to express it. A month, even a week earlier, he could never have imagined himself talking to his boss—hell, his hero—in this manner. “We’re talking about my father!”
“Ben, I’m afraid we’re going to be asking the grand jury to consider some very serious charges against your father and some of his business associates. The evidence against him is overwhelming.”
“How long has this investigation been going on?”
Bullock glanced at his two companions. “Months. The OSBI contacted me in December—”
Ben found himself so enraged he could barely talk. “I can’t believe you would investigate my own father behind my back.”
“Ben, be realistic. We couldn’t tell you. The potential conflict of interest is obvious. Still, now that you know, there’s no reason why you can’t help.”
“Help? Help you prosecute my own father?”
“Well, you are a member of my staff.”
“You must be joking.”
“Ben, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the charges.”
That quieted Ben, however briefly. “What charges do you expect the grand jury to return?”
“At the very least, criminal fraud. Maybe murder.”
“Murder! There’s no way—”
“Yes, Ben, there is. Let me tell you about the case.”
“You’re going to have the grand jury indict my father for murder?”