Read Hate Crime for Free Online Page A
Authors: William Bernhardt
He stepped up to the rail separating the gallery from the front . . . and removed his gun from his holster.
“Bailiff? What are you doing?”
“Removing the offending person.” He swung his gun around to the defendants’ table. “This is for Tony.”
The gun fired. Blood splattered out of Brett Mathers’s neck.
Someone screamed. Half the gallery rose to its feet; the other half dropped to the floor. Only a few remained stunned and frozen in place.
“You two work so well together,” the man with the gun said to the remaining defendant. “Don’t want to break up the team.”
Johnny Christensen wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. The woman sitting behind him cried out, “No! Please!”
Kevin crawled under the table while the shooter’s attention was focused on Christensen. He knew he was supposed to zealously defend his client, but surely that didn’t include serving as a human shield. And yet something told him that he had to act. The influence wasn’t so much the law professors at Northwestern as it was the nuns at St. Gregory’s, but he knew he was the closest, the one best positioned to do something. And he knew that if he didn’t, this trial would turn into a bloodbath.
Without another thought, Kevin bolted toward the assailant. He tried to tackle the man, but was just a beat too late. The gun fired.
Kevin clutched his chest, feeling the blood spewing forth. It took a moment for the pain to register, but when it did, it was crippling. He cried out, embarrassed at himself but nonetheless helpless to stop it. Through teary eyes he saw the shooter hovering above him, the gun aimed at his head.
He heard a commotion at the rear, and a millisecond later, the voices of security officers on the move. They knocked the assailant to the ground and kicked away the gun. He struggled, but they soon had him under control. They cuffed his hands behind his back, then jerked him to his feet.
“Say no to hate!” the man screamed, as the officers jerked him toward the doors. “Say no to hate!”
Kevin heard someone talking into a cell phone. “Get an ambulance! Two men down in Courtroom Ten.”
Judge Lacayo, back in his seat, pounded his gavel without effect. The courtroom was in turmoil and was likely to remain so for some time.
A medic rushed forward, first examing Brett Mathers, then Kevin. “We need to get you to a hospital as soon as possible.”
The security guards fought the chaotic crowd, hauling their captive out of the courtroom. He did not resist. “For you, Tony,” he said quietly, as they dragged him away. “And Matthew. And Claudia. And all the others.”
2
Sapulpa, Oklahoma
Ten miles west of Tulsa
“You heard what happened?” “Oh yeah.”
“Doesn’t this change everything?”
“It does.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
Manny turned off his four-bit drill and lifted his safety visor. He wished his visitor wouldn’t come here. Spoiled the mood. He got enough of the dirty and seedy and ugly elsewhere. This was where he came to get away from it all. He didn’t like it when “it all” came here.
This had always been his favorite room of his tiny house. Technically, it wasn’t even a room of the house—it was the garage. But he’d decked it out like a first-class workshop. He had everything he needed to do his carpentry work and then some.
“What are you making?” his visitor asked.
“Oh, bookshelves.” Manny turned the drill back on and finished making two more round bolt holes on the side of a thick piece of oak. “I sell ’em at the flea market over at the fairgrounds. Don’t make that much, but it gives me somethin’ to do. Something that doesn’t involve pushin’ or stealin’ or snatchin’. And it gets me a little scratch. Just to tide me over till . . . you know.”
“You should complain. You’ve cleared more than anybody.”
“It ain’t enough.”
“It never is.”
The visitor approached Manny’s work-in-progress and ran a
“Bailiff? What are you doing?”
“Removing the offending person.” He swung his gun around to the defendants’ table. “This is for Tony.”
The gun fired. Blood splattered out of Brett Mathers’s neck.
Someone screamed. Half the gallery rose to its feet; the other half dropped to the floor. Only a few remained stunned and frozen in place.
“You two work so well together,” the man with the gun said to the remaining defendant. “Don’t want to break up the team.”
Johnny Christensen wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. The woman sitting behind him cried out, “No! Please!”
Kevin crawled under the table while the shooter’s attention was focused on Christensen. He knew he was supposed to zealously defend his client, but surely that didn’t include serving as a human shield. And yet something told him that he had to act. The influence wasn’t so much the law professors at Northwestern as it was the nuns at St. Gregory’s, but he knew he was the closest, the one best positioned to do something. And he knew that if he didn’t, this trial would turn into a bloodbath.
Without another thought, Kevin bolted toward the assailant. He tried to tackle the man, but was just a beat too late. The gun fired.
Kevin clutched his chest, feeling the blood spewing forth. It took a moment for the pain to register, but when it did, it was crippling. He cried out, embarrassed at himself but nonetheless helpless to stop it. Through teary eyes he saw the shooter hovering above him, the gun aimed at his head.
He heard a commotion at the rear, and a millisecond later, the voices of security officers on the move. They knocked the assailant to the ground and kicked away the gun. He struggled, but they soon had him under control. They cuffed his hands behind his back, then jerked him to his feet.
“Say no to hate!” the man screamed, as the officers jerked him toward the doors. “Say no to hate!”
Kevin heard someone talking into a cell phone. “Get an ambulance! Two men down in Courtroom Ten.”
Judge Lacayo, back in his seat, pounded his gavel without effect. The courtroom was in turmoil and was likely to remain so for some time.
A medic rushed forward, first examing Brett Mathers, then Kevin. “We need to get you to a hospital as soon as possible.”
The security guards fought the chaotic crowd, hauling their captive out of the courtroom. He did not resist. “For you, Tony,” he said quietly, as they dragged him away. “And Matthew. And Claudia. And all the others.”
2
Sapulpa, Oklahoma
Ten miles west of Tulsa
“You heard what happened?” “Oh yeah.”
“Doesn’t this change everything?”
“It does.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
Manny turned off his four-bit drill and lifted his safety visor. He wished his visitor wouldn’t come here. Spoiled the mood. He got enough of the dirty and seedy and ugly elsewhere. This was where he came to get away from it all. He didn’t like it when “it all” came here.
This had always been his favorite room of his tiny house. Technically, it wasn’t even a room of the house—it was the garage. But he’d decked it out like a first-class workshop. He had everything he needed to do his carpentry work and then some.
“What are you making?” his visitor asked.
“Oh, bookshelves.” Manny turned the drill back on and finished making two more round bolt holes on the side of a thick piece of oak. “I sell ’em at the flea market over at the fairgrounds. Don’t make that much, but it gives me somethin’ to do. Something that doesn’t involve pushin’ or stealin’ or snatchin’. And it gets me a little scratch. Just to tide me over till . . . you know.”
“You should complain. You’ve cleared more than anybody.”
“It ain’t enough.”
“It never is.”
The visitor approached Manny’s work-in-progress and ran a