Naked Justice by William Bernhardt Page A

metallic corridor. Mayor Barrett had the cell at the far end, a private suite, such as it was. A five-by-seven cell, with a bunk bed, a sink, and an open-faced toilet. Not exactly the mayor’s mansion.
    He was lying on the bottom bunk, his hands covering his face. When he moved them, Ben saw black and red lacerations on his face, and a bandage wrapped around his jaw and the back of his head.
    The guard let Ben into the cell, locked the door behind him, then disappeared.
    “How do you feel?” Ben asked.
    “Better than I have a right to feel.”
    “My legal assistant told me you were in a traffic accident.”
    Barrett tried to smile, although between the bruises and the bandages, his face didn’t have much give in it. “I crashed into a brick building with four cop cars, two television helicopters, and about half the world watching. Like I said, I’m better off than I have a right to be.”
    “Jeez. What were you doing?”
    “Trying to kill myself,” he said, with a matter-of-fact air that caught Ben by surprise. “As it was, I didn’t even break a bone. Goddamn air bags.”
    Ben paced nervously around the tiny cell. There was nowhere to sit, so he stood awkwardly by the cell door and contemplated the dominant question.
    This was a part of criminal defense work that Ben particularly hated. Most criminal defense lawyers never asked the question. Since defending a client you knew was guilty raised a million ethical difficulties, most lawyers preferred not to inquire.
    Ben, however, wanted to know the truth. He wanted to know where he stood. If he was going to put his name and reputation on the line, particularly in what was certain to be a high-profile case, he wanted to know he was doing the right thing. As his old mentor Jack Bullock used to say, he wanted to be on the side of the angels. But with such a horrible, heinous crime, how could he possibly ask?
    Barrett sat up suddenly, hands on his knees. “Ben, I want you to know something up front. I didn’t do it.”
    Ben gazed at him, his face, his eyes.
    “I did not kill my wife. I did not kill my two precious daughters. How could I?” His eyes began to water, but he fought it back. “I couldn’t do anything like that.” He stared down at his hands. “I couldn’t.”
    “I’ve read the preliminary police report. Neighbors say you and your wife had a disagreement yesterday afternoon.”
    Barrett nodded. “That’s right. We did. I’m not going to pretend we didn’t.” He spread his arms wide. “It was that kind of marriage. We fought sometimes, like cats and dogs. But we still loved each other.”
    “What was the fight about?”
    Barrett shrugged. “I hardly remember.”
    “The prosecutor will want to know.”
    “It was something about the kids. She thought I was spoiling them, giving them everything they wanted. Undermining her authority. And not paying enough attention to her. We’d had this argument before.”
    “How many times?”
    He shrugged again. “I don’t know. Many.”
    “Were these fights … violent?”
    He twisted his head around. “Violent? You mean, did I hit her? Absolutely not.
    “Well, I had to ask.”
    “Look, I don’t know what people are saying about me now, but I would never hurt my wife. Or my girls. They’re the most precious things in the world to me.” His voice choked. “Were. I couldn’t hurt them. Don’t you think that if the mayor of the city was a wife beater, it would’ve come out before now?”
    “I suppose.” Ben pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket and began taking notes. “So you had an argument. Then what?”
    “I can barely remember. It’s all such a blur. And smashing into a brick wall didn’t help.”
    “Just tell me what you recall. We don’t have to get everything today.”
    “Well, I got mad. That doesn’t happen often; most times I can just laugh it off. But this time she really got my goat, suggesting that I was hurting the girls and all. So I stomped out of the