Kevin wasn’t normally claustrophobic, but as he marched down the increasingly narrower gauntlet of protesters, it did seem to him as if the human walls were closing in. Did they know who he was? Who he was defending? He could only hope not. On the north side, the gay alliances and task forces stood in solidarity, passing out pamphlets and waving signs in the air. Kevin had read that they’d applied to the city council for the right to build a bonfire; denied, they had settled for a midnight candlelight vigil.
Kevin surveyed the array of signs, which ranged from the poignant to the pathetic. Perhaps the most moving placards were the simplest. EVANSTON -WORSE THAN LARAMIE, read a placard up front, where the evening news cameras would be sure to find it. Kevin had frequently seen the posters bearing the name and photograph of Matthew Shepard-1976-1998, underscored with one word: PEACE. Now he saw many similar displays, except that Matthew Shepard shared his space with a picture of Tony Barovick.
On the south side of the piazza, the opposition forces were chanting in the singsong cadence usually associated with boot camp. “I don’t know but I been told… Jesus loves you young or old…” The lyrics were probably clever, but the hubbub was so intense Kevin couldn’t hear most of it. Instead, he focused on the signs swirling in the air: GOD STANDS AGAINST THE SODOMITES and WAGE WAR AGAINST THE HOMOSEXUAL AGENDA and YOU CAN BE CURED! Perhaps the most memorable came from a crew cut clutching a red, white, and blue poster with a simple, three-word message: AIDS CURES FAGS.
Kevin’s Chicago-Irish, very Catholic instincts told him that he should avoid any possibility of conflict, but if he didn’t get to the courtroom in the next five minutes, Judge Lacayo would be threatening to sanction him, which would be a lousy way to start the day. So he plunged into the thick of the gauntlet. The first few seconds were fine-no one noticed him-but that didn’t last. He quickened his pace. Just as the front doors appeared in sight, one of the young men on the east side lurched forward. Kevin wasn’t sure if it was an attack or if the man had tripped, but he darted out of the way, just the same. The man fell into the crew cut, and the inadvertent touching rapidly escalated into a brawl.
“Back off, fascist!”
“God hates faggots and so do I!” came the reply, and a second later the combatants were on the concrete trying to gouge each other’s eyes out. More protesters jumped into the fray. As if from nowhere, a dozen police officers rushed in and pulled the factions apart, though not before several noses were bloodied.
Kevin doubled his pace, entered the courthouse, and passed through the metal detectors. The attendants were being particularly careful today, he noted. He entered the main lobby of the courthouse.
Lacayo’s courtroom was full and then some, no great surprise. The gray-haired bailiff standing at the door, looking very official in his uniform and holster, nodded. “Biggest turnout I’ve seen in years.” His name, as Kevin knew from countless prior court visits, was Boxer Johnson. He was in his late fifties and was definitely from the old school. By the book, firm, but salt of the earth.
“I assume security precautions are at a peak.”
Boxer grunted. “These days, they always are. But yeah. This trial, we’re taking no chances. Do you know how many people have called in threats against your clients?”
“I can imagine.”
Kevin took his seat at the defense table, and the two defendants were led into the room shackled at the feet: Brett Mathers, eighteen, dark complexioned, and Johnny Christensen, seventeen, fair. The restraints were removed and the marshals stationed themselves outside the courtroom. The jury was led in-voir dire had finally ended the day before-and Judge Lacayo entered the room.
Kevin knew Lacayo had been on the bench about ten years. He tended to be conservative, at least by Chicago standards. Normally, he was one of the more relaxed judges in the building, but you couldn’t tell it today. Whether it was due to the media attention or the huge crowd he must’ve passed through to get here, he presented a stony, all-business facade.
“I will only mention this once,” Lacayo said, pointing his gavel toward the rear of the courtroom. “I will tolerate no disturbances. Anyone attempting to disrupt these proceedings will be immediately escorted out of the building. Now, if there are no further preliminary matters, let’s get started.”
“You don’t normally go in for this couch potato stuff at work,” Christina said, flopping herself down on the couch in Ben’s office. Jones leaned against the armrest. “What’s your interest?”
Ben shrugged. “It’s a big case. It’s on Court TV.”
“There’s always a big case on Court TV, at least according to Court TV. So what?”
Ben turned up the volume a notch. “I happen to have a light workday.”
“Which, for you, would normally suggest the New York Times crossword and a Trollope novel. What gives?”
“I just thought it might be of interest to see how the Chicago big shots handle it. Might learn something.” He pointed toward the screen. “There’s Richard Drabble, the newly elected DA for Cook County. He was a law-and-order candidate. I bet he’s salivating at the prospect of getting a piece of this trial.”
“No doubt.”
“The judge is Manuel Lacayo. Very conservative by all accounts.”
“Who’s the woman sitting just behind the defendant’s table? A legal assistant?”
“No. Mother of one of the defendants.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“I… must’ve seen her somewhere. So, Jones, Christina-don’t you have some work you should be doing?”
“No,” they both said.
“Then go update the files. Write a brief.”
“Nah,” Jones said. “I want to see this.”
Ben folded his arms. “I thought I ran this office.”
Jones patted him on the shoulder. “You believe whatever makes you happy.”
Kevin took his seat beside his clients-careful to seem congenial and not give away how much he despised them-and listened attentively as DA Drabble began his opening statement. Drabble made all the expected points, generating neither surprise nor excitement. Kevin wondered if the extensive media coverage hadn’t stolen some of his thunder. However hideous the details, there was nothing the man could say about this case that hadn’t already been endlessly regurgitated on the evening news.
“Of all the motivations known to man,” Drabble said, “hate is the one that is least tolerable, especially in a society as diverse as ours. What could be more vile than two young men who torture and kill, not out of necessity, not for profit, not for revenge, not because of anything the victim did, but because of what the victim was? The evidence will show that the defendants stalked Tony Barovick, forced him back to their fraternity house, attacked him without provocation, beat him mercilessly, then killed him. What kind of people could commit such a crime? What do you call two men so consumed with hate that they would commit such an atrocity, such an offense to decency and human compassion? I will tell you. You call them monsters. Monsters who need to be punished. Permanently.”
Succinct-but eminently effective, Kevin thought. No doubt about where he was going. Or what Kevin needed to do in reply.
When it was his turn, Kevin took his position before the jury. He was a man of modest build but in possession of a voice three times his size. As soon as he opened his mouth, he had the jury’s attention securely in his grasp.
“First of all, let me tell you what this case is not about. It is absolutely not a referendum on gay rights. During voir dire, I didn’t ask any of you where you stood on the issue and, frankly, I don’t care. It’s not relevant. Whether you support gay people, tolerate them, or despise them, it doesn’t change one essential fact-my clients did not commit this crime.”