“Well,” Bullock hedged, “we don’t know that we’ll get it.”
Ben knew better than to believe that line. He’d been around long enough to know that the grand jury room was the prosecutor’s playground. The defendant wasn’t even entitled to have a lawyer present.
And Bullock was very skillful.
“I can’t believe this,” Ben said, pressing the side of his head. “I can’t believe it.”
“Really, Ben, I didn’t expect you to react in this emotional manner. Frankly, I didn’t think you even liked him.”
“Like him or not, he’s still my father.” Something about the way Bullock had said it, though, triggered a memory in Ben’s brain. “You felt me out about my father the very first night we met.” A growing realization dawned with disturbing clarity. “You knew even then. You knew you were going after him even then!”
“Now, Ben—”
“Admit it! You’ve known all along!”
Bullock stared back at Ben, then sighed. “All right. I knew he was under investigation. Even then. Of course, I didn’t know whether charges would be brought.”
“And you never once mentioned it to me?”
“I couldn’t. It might have imperiled the investigation.”
“But I know my father. He couldn’t possibly—”
Bullock looked away. “If that’s true, then he won’t be indicted. But I can’t stop the investigation.”
“But he’s my father!” Ben turned away. He was getting too emotional; any minute now he would be crying, and that was the last thing he wanted Bullock to see. “I thought I could trust you.”
“Ben, the public trust is what matters. We have an obligation to the people we serve.”
“That doesn’t justify—”
“That justifies everything. What we’re doing is for the common good. People have been hurt. People have died.”
His words hung heavily in the air between them.
“I’m out of here,” Ben murmured. He headed for the door.
“Wait.” As always Bullock expected his one-word imperatives to be instantly obeyed. “I need a commitment from you.”
“A commitment?”
“You’re a member of my staff. I need to know where you stand. Are you with us or against us?”
“If you’re asking if I’m going to help you lock up my father, no.”
Bullock was silent for a moment. “I’m disappointed to hear that, Ben. I thought we understood each other. I thought we believed in the same things.”
“We’re talking about my father!”
“We can’t make exceptions. Once you start that, you tumble down a slippery slope that doesn’t end until the foundations of our society have been totally eroded. Either you’re the defender of the law or you’re not.” He lifted his head slightly. “I guess you’re not.”
Ben stared back at his mentor, his lips slightly parted, frozen.
Bullock turned away. “As of this moment, Kincaid, consider yourself on the other side of a Chinese wall. You are to have no contact with this case or with anyone who is working on this case.”
“But—”
“That’s all there is to say. Now if you don’t mind, we have a lot of work to do before the grand jury hearing tomorrow.”
And that was how it ended. Like a translucent soap bubble, beautiful but fragile, the Bullock-Kincaid crusade for justice disappeared. That was the last time Bullock had ever spoken a civil word to Ben. Their friendship, their partnership, was over.
But, as Ben learned the very next day, the nightmare was just beginning.
Chapter 22
WHEN BEN RETURNED TO his office after the Barrett preliminary hearing, Loving was waiting for him, his eyes eager with anticipation. “How’d it go, Skipper?”
It occurred to Ben that if he could win murder trials, play all twenty-five Chopin preludes by heart, and recite “Annabel Lee” without error, he ought to be able to persuade Loving to stop calling him Skipper. But so far, not.
“Well, as I anticipated, Barrett was bound over for trial. We got a start date in about three weeks. And the judge denied my motion to suppress.”
“Damn!” Loving slammed one huge fist into the palm of his hand. “Did you show him the affidavits? You didn’t forget to show him the affidavits, did you?
“I assure you, I remembered.”
“Jeez, I worked my butt off gettin’ those guys to sign up.”
“I know, Loving, and I appreciate it.”
“They didn’t wanna do it, you know. ’Specially the cops.”
“Really. How did you persuade them?”
Loving shrugged. “I gotta lot of friends with the boys in blue. So do you, believe it or not. Even if you are a lawyer. They ain’t forgotten how you put yourself on the line to help catch the Kindergarten Killer. And none of them are too crazy ’bout Prescott. I can’t believe the judge turned down your motion.” He snapped his fingers. “It must be ’cause of all them reporters. You know how the media distort everything. They’re the ones who really pull the strings in this country.”
“Are they? I thought it was the military-industrial complex.”
“Jeez, you’re behind the times. The media bosses control everything now. They can make people believe anything they want. Look how they framed Tonya Harding.”
“What?”
Christina whirled around in her chair and pushed away from her desk. “I’ve gone through the prosecution exhibit list with a fine-tooth comb, Ben.”
“Good,” he said, happy to change the subject.
“I’ve identified all the evidence that hasn’t been produced. There’s definitely a pattern. Almost all of it came from the crime scene. They must be hiding something, but I don’t know what it is.”
“I do.” Ben threw his briefcase on top of her desk. “I knew as soon as I announced in court that the crime scene hadn’t been properly preserved. I knew from Bullock’s reaction.”
“He was surprised?”
“No. I’ve seen Bullock surprised before, and that wasn’t it. Oh, it was a good fake, but it didn’t fool me. He might’ve been surprised that I already found out, but he wasn’t surprised to hear that the crime scene was corrupted.”
“So why the big stall?”
“The less time we have to examine the evidence, the less time we’ll have to determine the extent of the corruption. He doesn’t want to fight any more evidentiary motions than necessary.” He turned back toward Loving. “How’s your snooping on the city council going?”
Loving frowned. “Slow. I made a list, talked to some of them. These are high-profile respectable citizen types, natch. No one volunteered that they’d hired a hit man.”
“Well, that’s no surprise.”
“I made some notes. Jones said he’d type them up.”
“Where is Jones, anyway?” Ben turned around. Jones was standing over his desk beside the phone. He seemed stricken. The blood had drained out of his face.
“Jones?” Ben walked beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
It took Jones more than a moment before he could respond. “I … just …” He shook his head, licked his lips. “I just got back from lunch.” His eyes drifted down toward the answering machine. “Thought I’d listen to the phone messages.”
Ben’s brow creased with concern. “And?”
His voice trembled a bit as he spoke. He was obviously shaken. “Listen.”
Jones turned the volume up to the highest setting. He pushed the Messages button. After a loud beep, they all heard the same two words repeated in a hushed, guttural monotone.
“Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart.”
The message was repeated again and again until the caller finally hung up. A harsh beep signaled the end.