It caught Ben just below the shoulder. He closed his eyes and brushed it off with his hand. It was a childish gesture, exactly the sort of thing you would expect from a kid.
But it hurt just the same.
There was a commotion at the other end of the hallway. The attention of the spectators turned from the mini-spectacle at the doorway to something altogether more compelling. Ben’s father was being escorted to the courtroom by two guards from the sheriff’s office. He paused as he approached them.
“Hello, Lillian,” he said to Ben’s mother cordially, if rather formally. Ben almost expected him to shake her hand.
His eyes turned for the barest of moments to Ben, then moved quickly onward. He didn’t say a word to Ben, didn’t even acknowledge his presence.
He had meant what he had said.
The first day of trial was a disaster for the defense. Everything went against them. It was obvious that the prosecutors had not simply been boasting in their press conferences. They had a well-researched, well-evidenced, well-organized case. No surprise there—Bullock always did professional work. By all indications, the trial was going to be a slam dunk.
It was just a matter of time.
Of course, if Ben had bothered to poll the countless representatives of the press in this courtroom gallery, almost all of them would have said they expected the Barrett trial to be a slam dunk as well. Ben was determined to prove them wrong.
He popped open his briefcase. The instant the lid raised, a booming noise exploded from the briefcase. Ben jumped quite literally out of his seat, clutching his chest.
A small puff of smoke arose from the briefcase. Ben waved it away, still trying to catch his breath. When the smoke cleared, he saw the tiny sign dangling from the top of the briefcase: BOOM!
And in smaller letters beneath that: YOU’RE NEXT.
Slowly Ben eased back into his chair. Given the general commotion in the courtroom, almost no one had noticed the small but potent explosion, and the few that did quickly turned their attention to more interesting matters.
His heart was racing. Who was doing this to him?
Whoever he was, he had made his point. He could get to Ben anytime, anywhere. Any way he wanted to.
The bailiff stepped through the chambers door and brought the court into session. A heartbeat later, Judge Sarah L. Hart entered the room.
Finally seeing her was almost anticlimactic. Ben wondered if she had known she would be assigned to this case as long as everyone else in town seemed to have known. If she had, it didn’t seem to have fazed her.
Judge Hart took her seat and scanned the gallery. “Well,” she said, stacking her papers, “I’m glad to see so much interest and enthusiasm for the judicial process. We’ve got more people here for this minor evidentiary hearing than attended my daughter’s wedding.” She turned her attention to the lawyers. “Are there any matters we can take up now before the trial begins, counsel?”
Bullock rose to his feet first. “Yes, your honor. We issued a subpoena to the defendant seeking the production of certain documents we believe could be critical to the prosecution case. They have not complied.”
Judge Hart turned toward Ben. “Is this true?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Was the subpoena properly served?”
“Yes, your honor. I have it right here.”
“And he hasn’t honored it,” Bullock added.
“Right, I got that part. What’s up, Mr. Kincaid?”
Ben squared his shoulders. “Your honor, this subpoena is nothing but a shameless fishing expedition. They’re seeking all medical records, nothing specific. They’re just hoping that if they swim around in my client’s medical history long enough, they’ll find something they can use to embarrass him.”
“That’s not correct,” Bullock said. “We believe there is ample indication that the defendant has possible medical and … psychological history that could be of relevance.”
“What’s your basis for that belief?”
“Well, the crime itself … the grisly manner in which it was perpetrated. … There may be some prior history.”
Ben approached the bench. Bullock followed, and they continued the argument out of the earshot of the reporters. “You see what they’re doing, your honor. They’re assuming guilt to fabricate probable cause.”
“It does seem that way,” Judge Hart agreed.
“What they’re really hoping for,” Ben continued, “is to find some history of psychological treatment, not because it’s in any way probative, but because they can use it to smear my client at trial and in the press.”
“What the press does is not my concern.”
“I think it is,” Ben continued. “Regardless of how you rule today, the press will report that the prosecution was seeking records of Barrett’s psychological treatment. Most people will assume from that that Barrett has received psychological treatment. Just by making the request, the prosecution has successfully tarnished the defendant in the eyes of the world. And twelve of the people exposed to this intentional smear will be selected for the jury.”
“Your honor,” Bullock said, “I can only assume that the pressures of handling a major case have caused defense counsel to become paranoid and irrational. He’s seeing plots that don’t exist.”
“Nonetheless,” the judge said, “I’m not going to let you prowl around in this man’s medical history unless you can give me a good reason.”
“Your honor.” Bullock stepped away from the bench. The volume level of his voice sharply increased. “Surely you’re not going to prevent the prosecution from learning the truth about the man who committed possibly the most heinous crime this city has ever seen!”
Judge Hart pointed her gavel at him. “Talk to me, counsel. I’m the one that matters in this courtroom.”
“Of course.”
“If I ever think you’re talking to anyone other than me in this courtroom, you won’t be talking in this courtroom any more.”
“Understood, your honor.” Bullock bowed his head, seemingly chastised.
“As for your subpoena, it seems to me rather obvious what you’re hoping to find, and even if you were lucky enough to find it, I wouldn’t let it in, because it doesn’t tell us anything about what happened the afternoon of the murder. Call it character evidence or habit or psychological disposition or what have you, it still feels like a smear to me. And I’m not going to have that in my courtroom.”
“Very well, your honor.”
Ben smiled. Hallelujah, he actually won one. And the one his client was most concerned about, at that. Maybe his luck was turning. Maybe this would be a good time to address the other big issue.
“Your honor, there’s also the matter of my motion in limine.”
“Right. I’ve read your briefs, Mr. Kincaid, but I’m afraid I’m not inclined to exclude the DNA evidence.”
“Your honor, this evidence was bought and paid for.”
The judge nodded. “A fact you can and no doubt will bring out at some length during cross-examination. If the jury feels the payment of money biases the evidence, they will disregard it accordingly.”
“But, your honor.” Ben knew it was bad form to continue arguing with the judge after she had made a ruling, but this was an issue of such importance he couldn’t restrain himself. “The principal problem isn’t the payment of money. The principal problem is that DNA evidence doesn’t speak for itself. It must be interpreted. That requires experts.”
“So hire experts. I don’t believe your client is a hardship case.”
“No, but there is nothing I can do that matches the impact of prosecution evidence presented by some Ph.D. spouting scientific technobabble and statistics that the jury can’t possibly understand, drawing conclusions about the ultimate question of guilt or innocence.”