Ben went to the defendant’s table and began preparing his notes. To his surprise, Swain walked over to talk to him.
“Got a deal for you, Kincaid.”
“Bit late, isn’t it?” Ben gazed out at the audience. “I think the good citizens of Silver Springs have come to see a trial.”
“It’s not a trial they want, Kincaid. It’s a hanging. That’s my whole point. I saw what happened on the street today and it scared me to death. If I can, I want to keep this town from coming unglued.” He poked a finger beneath his tie and unfastened the top button. “Also, I’m having a hell of a time finding a baby-sitter.”
“What is it you had in mind?”
“You plead guilty; the judge gives you life imprisonment.”
“Life! You call that a deal?”
“It’s a hell of an improvement over death, that’s for damn sure. With good behavior and all that rot, your man could be out in nine years.”
“And all he has to do is plead guilty to a crime he didn’t commit.”
Swain plopped his briefcase on Ben’s table. “Kincaid, I know you haven’t had time to get up to speed on this case, much less prepare a defense. Let me tell you—we’ve got more than enough to put your boy away. I’m not trying to buffalo you. I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. My only concern is that while we’re in here playing lawyer games, Silver Springs is going up in smoke.”
“Sorry, Swain. My client says he wants a trial.” Thank goodness that was finally true.
“Once the trial begins, my offer is off the table. Once this circus is under way, it can’t be stopped until your man has a death sentence hanging over his head.”
“Thanks for the early warning, Mr. Swain. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for trial.”
Swain left, shaking his head as if Ben had single-handedly ushered in the end of civilization. Ben only hoped he hadn’t made a tragic mistake for Donald Vick, either. He hated to see a man plead guilty to a crime he didn’t commit. But twentieth-century plea bargaining turned criminal justice into a high-stakes dice game. And if Ben crapped out at trial, the penalty for Donald Vick would be stiff indeed.
Payne was already seated at defendant’s table. He wasn’t planning to contribute, but he had to be there to maintain the facade of being co-counsel. And, Ben figured, it couldn’t hurt to have a trusted townie sitting at his table. There would certainly be plenty of locals sitting with Swain.
Two deputies escorted Donald Vick into the courtroom. They handcuffed him to the defendant’s table. In Tulsa, Ben always had the opportunity to clean up his defendants—get them a haircut, put them in a respectable suit of clothes. Not here. Vick was wearing jailhouse-gray coveralls. He was going to appear to the jury to be exactly what he was: an accused man who had spent the last several weeks behind bars.
“How do you feel?” Ben asked him. It was an inane question, but it was all he could contrive at the moment.
“I’ve felt better,” Vick replied. His nervousness was etched all over his face.
“The DA has offered us a plea bargain. You plead guilty, he’ll give you life. A long tour of duty, but preferable to death.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I told him you wanted your day in court. But it’s not too late to accept his offer.”
Vick’s brain appeared to be working double time. “Well,” he said, after a long pause, “when’s this show get on the road?”
A few minutes later Judge Tyler entered the courtroom in his long black robe. The courtroom hushed instantly; he didn’t have to touch his gavel. The bailiff called the case and Tyler noted that all parties were present and represented by counsel.
“State versus Donald Vick will now commence,” the bailiff solemnly intoned. “All those who have business before this honorable court will come forward.
“Gentlemen,” Judge Tyler said, peering down at Ben and his client, “this trial begins now.”
43.
“MR. KINCAID,” JUDGE TYLER continued. “I read your statement in the morning paper.”
“Statement? I never—”
“Let me tell you right up front—I don’t appreciate disrespectful comments about this Court being published in the press. If you have a problem with me, you can say it to my face. And by the way, I’ve never let my cases be decided on the basis of legal trickery, and I don’t intend to start now.”
“Your honor, I assure you—”
“That’s enough. A word to the wise is sufficient. Now then, we need to select a jury. Bailiff, call the veniremen.”
The bailiff began drawing names out of a metal cage that looked like an old-time bingo hopper. The selected people walked, some hesitantly, all nervously, to the jury box. Once the required number of bodies was seated, Judge Tyler instructed Swain to begin voir dire.
“Thank you, your honor.” Swain stood directly in front of the jury box, his arms spread wide, a warm and friendly smile on his face. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have assembled today in the midst of a great conflict. A festering cauldron of hate has spawned the most sinful of crimes—the wrongful taking of a man’s life. I don’t need to tell you the importance of the task that lies before us. I will just ask you this. Is there anyone here today that for any reason believes he cannot do his duty to God and this court of law?”
Not surprisingly no hands were raised.
“If we prove the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and we will—is there anyone here who would be unable to apply the maximum sentence mandated by law for this heinous crime?”
No hands. But just in case there was some doubt about the sentence to which the DA was referring …
“Is there anyone here who feels he or she might be unable to issue a sentence of death, if the law and the circumstances commanded it?”
After a long pause one young man on the far end of the first row raised his hand.
“Mr. Clemons,” Swain said.
How did Swain know his name? Ben wondered. He couldn’t have memorized them all when the names were called. No—small town, Ben reminded himself. Small town.
“Mr. Clemons, would you be able to issue a sentence of death?”
“Well … I just don’t know,” Clemons said awkwardly. He was aware that half the town was watching him. “I mean … death—that’s an awful harsh sentence. I just—I just don’t know if I could do that or not.”
“I see,” Swain intoned. His disapproval was evident. “I appreciate your honesty.” He glanced at the judge. Swain wouldn’t ask for Clemons to be removed now, with everyone listening in, but as soon as they were in chambers, Clemons was a goner. “Anyone else?”
Apparently the possibility of becoming executioners didn’t trouble anyone else enough to speak up.
“Very well,” Swain said. “ ’Preciate your cooperation.” He returned to his table.
What is this? Ben wondered. He’s done? Jury selection in capital cases often went on for days. Sometimes selecting the jury took longer than the trial. Swain had barely been up there for five minutes.
Definitely not a good sign. Either Swain knew the jurors personally and believed they were already predisposed in his favor, or he considered his case so strong he didn’t care who sat on the jury. Or both.
“Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Tyler said, “you may inquire.”
“Thank you.” Ben scrambled to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are probably familiar with the words District Attorney Swain just used—beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s the standard he has to meet. If you don’t think he’s proved his case beyond a reasonable doubt, you must find my client, Donald Vick, not guilty.”