In his final nanosecond of life, he was thinking about home.
Part Two. Crimes of Passion
31
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is a crime that-”
DA Drabble hesitated. It was a slight pause, but Ben noticed, just the same. The DA could be forgiven this bobble. The last time this court had heard opening statements in this case, they had been interrupted by a fanatic with a gun. At some level, Drabble’s subconscious mind had to be searching the room, looking for any indication of danger.
“This is a crime,” Drabble continued, “of the worst sort-cold-blooded murder. And as the evidence will show, it was committed for the worst possible reason. Not for love, money, jealousy, revenge, or any of the baser emotions that normal people can understand, if not condone. This was a crime of hate-pure, blind, unreasoning hate. Johnny Christensen did not take this life because of anything Tony Barovick did. He committed murder because of who Tony Barovick was.”
Drabble was good. As before, when Ben had seen him on television, Drabble impressed him with his unforced yet deliberate manner. He didn’t come off as rigid and self-righteous, as so many DAs did. He didn’t insult opposing counsel. He didn’t resort to melodrama-well, not much-and he skipped most of the cheap theatrics, waving bloody photographs in the air and such. It was probably not a sign of any innate superiority; truth was, Drabble didn’t need to resort to any of that. He knew how to communicate, how to make the jury listen and, hardest of all, how to make them believe.
“On that chilly spring morning just a short time ago, Tony Barovick left his place of business and headed for home. He was probably thinking about the usual things-getting some groceries for dinner, what he might watch on television that night. What he didn’t know-what he couldn’t possibly know-was that he was being stalked-yes, stalked-by two students, two fraternity boys he had served back at his club. What had he done to offend them? you might wonder. Had he insulted them? Stolen from them? Hurt them? No, Tony hadn’t done any of those things. Tony hadn’t so much as mixed up their drink order. They were out to get him simply because he was a homosexual. And they didn’t like homosexuals. Indeed-they hated homosexuals.”
Ben scanned the courtroom. It was packed, as he’d expected. A few of the spectators were the usual thrill seekers, but most of the gallery was taken up by the press. CNN and Fox News and some of the other national outfits had set up camp in the hallway outside, so it was no surprise that they were allocated many of the choice seats. Several on-air personalities and celebs had been spotted in the courtroom. Rumor was that Dominick Dunne had a contract to write a book about the case, and John Cusack was negotiating for the movie rights. Everyone wanted a piece of the action.
Boxer Johnson, the bailiff who’d been clubbed over the head by the killer of Brett Mathers, was back on the job. Ben knew he’d taken a lot of grief after the execution; the shooter had knocked him out in the men’s room and stolen his uniform and gun. He seemed none the worse for it today; he stood at attention at the rear of the gallery, calm, watchful. An assured, strong presence.
In addition to the media reps, Ben also spotted a few people he’d read about last night, after he and Christina recovered from the shooting incident and finished with the police and the medics and he began cramming every bit of relevant information about this case into his head. Many of the people Tony Barovick had worked with and the potential witnesses were here, including the owner of the club, Mario Roma, and Tony’s barmaid and friend, Shelly Chimka. Scott Banner, the president of Johnny’s fraternity, was sitting behind her. Roger Hartnell was in a wheelchair, thanks to the bullet wound, but he was here, against doctor’s orders. He said it was important that he make an appearance, both as the local director of ANGER and as Tony’s former partner. They all sat together, behind the DA’s table, presumably to show their support for Tony.
Only one person sat behind the defendant’s table by choice. And Ben had spent the entire morning studiously trying to avoid eye contact with her.
“They were driven by one motive and one motive alone,” Drabble continued. “Blind, unreasoning hate. Hate born of fear, of ignorance. The same kind of hate that sent six million Jews to the gas chamber. The same kind of hate that killed 168 people at the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City. The same kind of hate that killed thousands at the World Trade Center. The kind of hate that cannot be tolerated in any civilized society.”
Vicki, the new intern, whispered into Ben’s ear. “This seems unduly inflammatory. Are we going to let him get away with this?”
Ben eyed Christina carefully. They were both tempted to object-this was pretty over-the-top. But Kevin Mahoney had told them that Judge Lacayo was usually lenient about what he’d allow in openings and closings. And they couldn’t deny that this was a hate crime-a critical part of their strategy was to acknowledge up front what Johnny had done, and what he had not done. They both decided to let it pass.
“This is what they did,” Drabble continued, his voice darkening. “First, they beat him mercilessly, giving him no chance to defend himself or escape. Then they used a Taser to torture him. Then they cut him. With a knife. And finally, when Tony must have felt that he couldn’t possibly feel any more pain, when he was crying out for mercy, they put wooden blocks under his knees and ankles, took a five-pound iron maul hammer and shattered his legs-first his left, and then, after the initial shock wave of pain had subsided, the right.”
Ben checked Johnny’s expression. He was holding up pretty well, all things considered. He’d been a wreck when the marshals brought him into the courtroom this morning. Crying like a baby, shaking visibly, begging for help. Christina had taken him to a rest room to scrub him up and get him back in control before the jury arrived. She’d been largely successful, though he had no idea how she’d managed it. No one was going to leave this trial with a good impression of the kid, but at least now he didn’t look like guilt incarnate.
Ben wondered what was going through Johnny’s mind as he heard the DA recount the list of horribles in which he had participated. Was he remorseful? Ashamed? Or was he secretly proud of himself, of what he had done in the name of his holy cause?
“Do you know what it feels like to have a thousand volts of electricity run through your body?” Drabble asked. “It isn’t pleasant. Your legs turn to rubber. You lose all control of your bodily functions. You can’t stop twitching. You can’t control your bladder. You lie on the ground and flop back and forth like a jellyfish.” Drabble leaned in closer. “But as bad as it is, it probably doesn’t compare with seeing someone take a knife to your flesh and cut it while you watch helplessly. And it certainly doesn’t compare to having your knees braced by two wooden blocks and seeing your legs destroyed with a five-pound hammer. Is it even possible for those of us who didn’t experience it to know what that would feel like? To measure the intensity of the anguish that poor boy suffered? To conceive of the magnitude of hate that would be necessary to commit such acts on another human being?”
Okay, Ben thought, so now he was being a little melodramatic. But it was an extraordinary crime-a brutal, hideous, inhuman one. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for any DA to discuss it without sounding intense.
“When Tony Barovick was found, just a short time after his destruction at these hands, in the fraternity house of which the defendant is a member, he was dead. Now the defense attorneys may try to suggest that Tony was killed somewhere else-but the evidence will show otherwise. The defense may suggest that the defendant beat Tony Barovick but didn’t quite kill him-but the evidence will show otherwise. What the defense will not deny is that Johnny Christensen attacked Tony Barovick, cruelly and mercilessly-because he did. Did Christensen want Barovick to die? Was that his intent?” Drabble paused. “I think his actions speak for themselves.