Free Hate Crime by William Bernhardt

didn’t end up like him, doing the things he did. He couldn’t even blame drugs or booze, like most of those in his line. He’d never been attached to either of them. Not an addictive personality. So what explanation did that leave? Just plain stupid?
    His life was one big screwup, and he knew it. And it was about to be damned short, if he didn’t do something to straighten himself out. So what was it going to be?
    One day at a time, as the AA crowd liked to say. First work. Then money. Then food. Then flight. And keep the fear under lock and key.
    Except the fear was already with him. Always with him. Time had not dulled its edge. And, quite possibly, nothing could.
    Because a person capable of doing what had happened to Manny was capable of anything. Absolutely anything. At any time. To anyone.
    Even Charlie the Chicken.

 
    7
    Cook County Detention Center
County Jail
26th and California Avenue
    Christina hated this part of her job. She didn’t know why, exactly. Objectively speaking, it wasn’t that difficult. Didn’t require much preparation. Didn’t depend on quick reflexes, listening skills, or a mnemonic aptitude for arcane case law. Bottom line, all she had to do was show up and take notes.
    So why did she hate it so much?
    She stared at her reflection in the acrylic panel. Well, for starters, jails smelled. Always. Apparently it was a universal constant; even with its big-city budget, this Chicago joint was no better than the one she was accustomed to back in Tulsa. Possibly worse. The man at the front desk assured her that they scrubbed the place down regularly, but it didn’t kill the stench. And she didn’t like the paint, or the furnishings or, for that matter, most of the inhabitants.
    But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was seeing all these men restrained, locked up, trapped behind bars. The older she got, the more she thought she might be claustrophobic. Or maybe it wasn’t a phobia. Maybe it was memory. She’d been locked up once, and it just about killed her. She never wanted to go through that again.
    And she thought Ben understood that, even though they had never directly discussed it, which was why he always handled these lockup interviews and brought her along only if it was absolutely necessary. Except now, since he inexplicably refused to have anything to do with this case. What was up with that, anyway? It was so unlike Ben. She’d worked with him all these years; she’d never once seen him back away from someone who needed help, much less someone particularly asking for his help.
    Jones thought maybe Ben wanted no part of it because the accused was obviously homophobic, violent, and thoroughly twisted. The press had crucified him; they would likely do the same to his lawyer. But that didn’t ring true. Ben had agreed to represent an avowed member of a white racist militia group, for God’s sake, not to mention a host of other undesirables. After all that, he’s going to turn his back on some college kid? It just didn’t make sense. There had to be something more.
    The door on the other side of the acrylic barrier opened, and a moment later, her new client, Johnny Christensen, was escorted into the room. He was wearing the standard orange coveralls and leg restraints.
    She picked up the phone. “Hello. I’m Christina McCall.”
    He looked strong, like he’d been working out while he was in lockup, which she supposed was possible, since he had little else to do. He had sandy hair and stubble, a strong, chiseled chin. All in all, a very appealing package. If it weren’t for the murder thing.
    “Yo,” he replied, a small smile on his face. He was a flirt; Christina saw that immediately. A kid who was accustomed to using charm and good looks to win people over and get whatever he wanted.
    “Your mother has hired me to take your case.”
    The smile increased. “Great.”
    “You’re the client, though. You make the final decision. If you want someone else, just say