“Right. Never mind.” Ben opened the door and the three of them stepped out into the main hallway. Before he could move, the elevator bell dinged and the doors parted. Cynthia Taylor emerged. Her face was red and blotchy and she was clutching a tissue, trying to blot the steady stream of tears running down her face.
“What’s she doing here?” Ben asked.
“Witness for the prosecution,” Bullock murmured.
“At a hearing?”
Bullock shrugged. In other words, he wasn’t telling.
Almost as soon as Cynthia emerged, the print and television journalists swarmed around her. A barrage of questions came at once.
“Ms. Taylor, who do you think killed your sister?”
“Was your sister a battered woman?”
“Is the report in the Enquirer that Wallace Barrett threatened your sister’s life true?”
“Please,” she whispered. She held up her hands, trying futilely to push them away. “I don’t want to answer any questions.”
The questions continued to fly, so quickly Ben couldn’t even understand what was being asked. Instead of backing off, they were pressing forward, taking advantage of her inability to fend them off. Cynthia was dissolving, overcome by grief and tears.
“Please,” Cynthia sobbed. “I just want to be left alone.”
One of the telejournalists from Channel Eight jumped forward, tugging her cameraman close behind her. “Ms. Taylor,” the reporter said, “according to the coroner’s report, your sister was stabbed twenty-seven times. How does that make you feel?”
Ben felt his teeth grinding together so hard he could practically taste his fillings. His whole body began to tremble with anger. Enough.
He marched into the center of the commotion, grabbed the minicam perched on the operator’s shoulder, and threw it across the hallway. It slammed against the opposite wall, fell and shattered into pieces.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the female reporter shrieked.
“Ending the interview,” Ben replied.
“Do you have any idea how much those cameras cost?”
“Bill me.” Ben took Cynthia by the arm and escorted her to the courtroom. He seated her on the front row behind the prosecution.
“Thank you,” Cynthia whispered, dabbing her eyes.
“No problem.” Ben headed toward the front of the courtroom.
“Thanks for the assist,” Bullock said as Ben passed. “Although, you know, they’ll crucify you now on the evening news.”
Ben threw his briefcase down on his own table. “Life is full of little trade-offs.”
Bullock tilted his head to one side. “Since when did you start doing favors for prosecution witnesses?”
“She isn’t just a witness,” Ben said. “She’s a human being.” Ben dropped into his chair and tried to get a grip on himself. His body was still trembling. What had come over him? It was as if he had suddenly been seized by an unstoppable rage; he had totally lost control. What he had done might seem heroic to Cynthia Taylor, but he knew it was just nuts. Utterly uncalled for. What had come over him?
The reporters flowed into the courtroom, setting up at their various stations. Ben scanned the panorama in amazement. It really was a three-ring circus. How could anyone imagine that any serious work could be done in the midst of all this showbiz fol-de-rol? How could anyone pretend that their presence wouldn’t affect the proceedings, that lawyers and judges and witnesses wouldn’t want to—wouldn’t be forced to play to the cameras? They were taking a system imperfect at best and making it a joke.
He’d never seen anything like it, he thought, but almost immediately he realized that he had. He had been involved in one other case that received inordinate media attention—far more than it deserved, in fact. Or perhaps it just seemed so, because everything about it was so personal.
When Ben arrived at the Oklahoma City courthouse on the first day of his father’s trial, he was instantly plunged into a sea of chaos. The hallway was jam-packed with people; there was barely enough space to breathe, much less move. Bailiffs tried to maintain order, but it was mostly futile. Anything could happen in here, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
Ben went to the courthouse with his mother, trying to be the strong shoulder he knew she needed. She was in worse shape than he had ever seen her; she seemed to have aged ten years in two months. That steely facade, that impenetrable fortress had been breached. Social contacts had thinned; invitations had almost dried up altogether. He wondered if she would ever recover herself.
It wasn’t that she had been ostracized; she was just in purgatory. They were waiting to see what happened. “After all,” she had explained to him earlier, “almost every successful man faces something like this in the course of his career. The small-and-lowly love to bring down the high-and-mighty.”
The prosecution had been merciless, and the press had lapped up everything they said. Everything Ben read left little doubt but that his father knew the EKCV was not ready for implementation, but nonetheless proceeded with the sale of stock using falsified data to fill out the prospectuses, and then, in order to appease the shareholders hungry for results, began human experimentation even though it had not been nearly well enough researched, resulting in two deaths. The charge was manslaughter in the second degree.
Ben escorted his mother down the hallway toward the courtroom. “Oh, no,” he whispered.
Outside the courtroom, he saw the surviving families of both of the men who had died with the EKCV faltering in their chests. He recognized their pictures from the newspapers; they had been interviewed repeatedly. One man, Herbert Richardson, left behind two grown daughters and a tiny grandchild. The other man, Tony Ackerman, was much younger; he left behind a widow in her early forties and a boy only thirteen years old.
Who the hell had allowed these people to flank the only entrance to the courtroom? Stage-managed by the press, no doubt. Some photojournalist looking for a tense moment to fill out the evening newscast or the front page, never giving a thought to what effect this manipulation might have on the principals. Including Ben’s mother.
He continued walking at a steady pace, gripping his mother’s arm. They couldn’t avoid them; they could only hope to get it over with as soon as possible.
They passed closest to the Ackermans, the woman and the boy. She was holding up well; she did not react overtly, but her face showed the strain and her eyes told Ben she knew who they were. The boy was in much worse shape. Tears streamed down his face; he was choking and gritting his teeth.
“Just keep walking,” his mother whispered, but Ben found that he couldn’t. He had to reach out; he had to make some attempt to let them know how he felt.
He looked down until he caught the boy’s eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly.
The boy’s mouth trembled. “I hate you,” he said, in a cracked but strong voice.
Ben froze, unable to respond. Hate me? Me? But I didn’t have anything to do with—But of course, the boy didn’t know that. As far as the boy was concerned, this was one gigantic, cynical money-making scheme, and Ben was one of the primary beneficiaries.
Mrs. Ackerman laid her arm across the boy’s chest, trying to push him back. He didn’t budge. Instead of retreating, he repeated himself. “I hate you.”
Ben made one more attempt. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you …”
Before Ben could complete the offer, the boy’s face curled up in an angry, twisted snarl. He pursed his lips and spit.