Naked Justice by William Bernhardt Page B

house.”
    “You left?”
    “Right. Got in my car and drove away.”
    “How long were you gone?”
    “I don’t know exactly. Not long. Maybe an hour. I got a Coke at a Sonic—you can check that if you want—and I started to feel bad. So what if we disagreed on a few minor points. I loved my wife, and I loved my family. I didn’t have any business running out like that. A strong man stands up straight and faces the music. So I headed back home.”
    “What happened when you got there?”
    “I was in such a hurry, I left my car on the street and ran into the house. And—”
    “Yes?”
    He hesitated. “And then … I found … them. What was left of them.”
    “They were already dead?”
    “Oh, yeah.” His eyes became wide and fixed. “My wife was spread out like … like some sick human sacrifice. And my little girls …” Tears rushed to his eyes. His hands covered his face.
    “I’m sorry,” Ben said quietly. “I know this is hard for you.”
    Barrett continued to cry. His whole upper body trembled.
    Ben took a deep breath. He hated this. He felt like a vulture of the worst order, intruding on this man’s grief with these incessant questions. Guilty or not, he was clearly grief-stricken. “Can you tell me what you did after you found the bodies?”
    “I freaked.” He wiped his nose and eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I just freaked. Ran out to my car and tore off. Without a word to anyone. Stupid, I know. But I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t thinking at all. I just knew I had to get away from all that awful, hideous—death. And that blood. I kept thinking, I gotta go, I gotta get away from all this. It was like a chant, an order, running through my brain. Like maybe, if they weren’t right there in front of me, it didn’t really happen.”
    “I can understand wanting to leave. But I can’t understand what you were doing on the Indian Nation Turnpike.”
    “I don’t know, man. I was just running scared. Trying to escape reality.”
    “Some people have suggested that you were running to Mexico to hide out from the police.”
    “Well, they’re wrong. I just had to get my head clear. Had to admit to myself that they were really”—he stopped short of the word, then spoke its euphemism—“gone.”
    Ben cleared his throat. “My office assistant told me you were seeking representation.”
    “Let’s put our cards on the table, okay, Ben? I don’t want representation. I want you.”
    “So my secretary said. I have to tell you—I’m a little surprised.”
    “Why?”
    “We don’t know each other that well.”
    “I know your reputation. That comes with being mayor.”
    “There are dozens of good attorneys in town. With more experience than I have. You could hire anyone you want. Forgive me, but … this just doesn’t make sense.”
    There was a small change in Barrett’s expression, not a smile, but a tiny tugging at the corner of his lips. “Can I be blunt?”
    “Of course.”
    “My case is going to be assigned to Judge Hart.”
    “How can you know that? The assignment won’t be made until after the preliminary hearing.”
    “Ben, I’m the mayor, okay? I know.” He stretched out his arms. “Now my sources at the courthouse tell me there are a lot of good attorneys, and a lot of attorneys that Judge Hart likes. But, they say, you’re a particular favorite.”
    “I don’t know about that.”
    “I do. It’s a fact.”
    “Even if that were true, it wouldn’t matter. Judge Hart is a smart, professional judge. She’s not going to give you any breaks just because she likes me.”
    “I’m sure she would never intentionally show any favoritism. But when all is said and done, all other things being equal, wouldn’t you rather be represented by the guy the judge likes than the guy she doesn’t?”
    Ben couldn’t argue with that logic.
    “Look, I’ll give you whatever you want. How about a ten-thousand-buck retainer up front? You can charge me a hundred