Free Murder One by William Bernhardt Page A

fire, in the courtroom. Right? Well, I think this qualifies.”
    “Ben—this is serious. These are major charges.”
    “I think they’ll go away at the arraignment.”
    “But what if you’re wrong?”
    “If I’m wrong, we’ll revisit the question. But as you know, I’m never wrong.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. Only every other time.”
    “The truth is”—he reached out tentatively—“I don’t want another attorney. I trust you. ”
    Christina looked away. “This is crazy.”
    Ben laid back down on the cot. “I don’t think so.”
    “Ben—I have to tell you the truth. I’m worried about you.”
    “Well, don’t be. I’m not.” Which was a major lie. The police were trying to frame him, he’d been mistreated and abused, and the one friend who might be able to help was not to be found. He knew all too well what the police could do. He’d seen it happen to his clients; had heard too many horror stories related by Mike. The truth—and the main reason Ben hadn’t been able to sleep—was that he was scared to death.
    But there was no point in letting Christina know that. “So go prep for the arraignment, slugger. My body’s aching and I need a nap.”
    “Sure I can’t bring you an ice pack? “
    He closed his eyes. “I’m sure.”
    Christina crouched beside him. “I have something for you.”
    “What would that be?”
    She leaned across and touched her lips lightly to his swollen eye. “All better?”
    “All better,” he whispered.
    Her voice softened a bit. “Did I mention that you look very sexy in orange?”
    For the first time in their conversation, he actually smiled. “Get out of here.”

7
    T HE VERY FACT THAT Ben was being taken to court for his arraignment told him that this was not being handled like a run-of-the-mill case. These days, in Tulsa County, most defendants appeared for their arraignments by closed-circuit television from the jailhouse—what the cons called TV Court. It was simpler in many respects; it saved the sheriffs office the trouble and risk involved in hauling defendants out of the jail and across the plaza to the courtroom just so they could make a two-minute appearance that didn’t amount to anything anyway. Arraignments were a vestigial holdover from the Constitution; they prevented arrestees from languishing in jail indefinitely, but didn’t accomplish much else.
    The second clue Ben received that this was not your garden-variety arraignment was that it was being handled for the prosecution by Nick Dexter—the same man who had tried Keri Dalcanton. Arraignments were typically handled by D.A. interns—law students, basically—which was another sign of how important everyone thought they were.
    Except today. Today everything was different.
    “The next case on the docket is State versus Kincaid .” Judge Collier ripped through his docket like a speed reader; his only goal was to conclude before lunch. “Is this the defendant?”
    “Yes, sir,” Ben said, approaching the bench. He knew the judge recognized him. Ben had appeared before this judge on many previous occasions, although never as the defendant, and never in vivid orange coveralls.
    “Are you represented by counsel?” Collier was young for a judge, only a few years older than Ben. He had dark hair and preppie eyeglasses; his skin was white to the point of being nearly translucent
    “Yes, sir, I am.”
    Christina stepped forward. “Christina McCall for the defense, your honor.”
    Collier peered through his glasses. “I don’t believe I know you, Ms. McCall. Have you appeared before this court before?”
    “No, sir. This is my first time.” As a lawyer, anyway. She left out the part about having just graduated from law school yesterday.
    The judge scrutinized her carefully, creating an atypical pause in the otherwise rushed proceeding. Ben knew what he was thinking. These were serious charges, and he was probably contemplating whether to advise the defendant that he might