“I appreciate that, son, I do. Gets harder and harder to get good people, if you know what I mean. Quality folk. Not like it was in the old days. Back during the oil boom, even before. Then I had a list of people as long as your arm wanting to get in here. I couldn’t rent space fast enough. People wanted to be near downtown, where the action was. Wasn’t considered a bad neighborhood back then. Nowadays, all the yuppies and high-flyers run south and everyone else follows them and pretty soon I don’t have anyone I can rent to except crack heads and pimps and people who disappear in the dead of night and don’t pay their rent.”
Kirk batted his eyelashes, trying not to fall asleep halfway up the stairs. You’re bo-ring! old man, he wanted to shout at the top of his lungs. But he decided to restrain himself. At least until he signed the lease.
“Here we go,” the landlord said, as he crossed the threshold at the top of the stairs: “Only one room up here, and that’s yours.” He opened the door and flung out his arm, like he was presenting some breathtaking view. What he was actually displaying was a dump. Possibly the worst, most horrible-looking dive Kirk had ever seen in his life.
Kirk stepped inside and took a quick inventory, trying to keep his face from revealing the disgust and revulsion he felt. Exposed wooden planks that passed for a floor, many of them broken or even missing. Bare white walls, with off-color blotches that showed where filthy words had been whitewashed out. There was an exposed sink with a cracked mirror overhead, a toilet in a tiny dark closet. That was what passed for the bathroom.
He saw a chair but no table. Where was a man supposed to eat? There was a bed; he supposed he should be grateful for small mercies. But if there had ever been springs in that mattress, he couldn’t tell it now, and the tattered bedspread had a smell that made him gag. This was far worse than the place where he’d stayed with his sister, and he’d thought that was a real rat’s nest at the time. He’d seen better places than this in the worst parts of Stroud—and that was after the tornado hit.
“I’ll take it,” Kirk said.
“Well, wonderful,” the old man said. “I’m pleased. Truly pleased. I have a good feeling about this.”
You wouldn’t, you stupid old man, Kirk thought, if you had any idea what I’ve been up to lately. Or what I’m likely to be doing in the future. But of course, you don’t know anything about that. You just see a chance to get your bony little fingers on a quick hundred bucks. That’s what you have a good feeling about.
“What’s this place like when it gets chilly out?” Kirk asked. This was more than just an academic question. A serious cold snap was expected any day now.
“Well, it’s cold, naturally. What would you expect?”
“Does the central heating—”
The landlord started shuffling toward the door. “My recommendation would be that you get one of those space heaters. Maybe a bottle of cheap wine. Snuggle up to them when night falls. Keep you good and warm.” The man turned slightly and actually winked. “And it’ll be a hell of a lot cheaper than a woman, right? Although, on this street, not by much.”
Sleazy old goat, Kirk thought bitterly. What did he mean by that? What was he suggesting? Why would he want that kind of woman? Or was he implying that he wouldn’t want any kind of woman? Was that it?
All of a sudden, Kirk hated the man. He flashed on that book they’d made him read in high school—Crime and Punishment, right? Took damn near forever for Kirk to finish that one. Boring book, but the guy in it had the right idea. If this landlord didn’t disappear soon, he was going to end up dead, too.
“If I need anything, who should I call?” Kirk asked.
The old man shrugged his spindly shoulders. “God?” He flashed a withered smile, then closed the door behind him.
Wiseass, Kirk thought, as the old man thankfully disappeared from his sight. First the comment about women, then the smart remark about God. Did the decrepit creep have any idea what had happened? Did he know that God had stopped answering Kirk’s prayers?
He threw his backpack onto the floor, causing a crash that threatened to break through the floorboards. He collapsed on the stone-hard bed, suddenly exhausted. He didn’t know when, it had happened, exactly. He’d been praying all his life, ever since he first learned how back in that one-room white-boarded Baptist church in Stroud. And God had always answered in prayers. Not in words, like some weird Oral Roberts-like message from beyond. But Kirk had always had the sense that someone was listening, that even if he didn’t always get everything he wanted, his voice was still being heard.
But not any longer. God had closed the door on him. He was certain of it.
And who could blame Him? He had done a horrible, nasty thing. But surely God could see what he was up against, how he was being pulled one way and the other. Surely God could see some cause for forgiveness. Surely—
He closed his eyes. Sweat oozed from his pores. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples. He had sinned. Horribly so. Unforgivably so. God would never smile down on him again. He was an outcast. He was Cain in the land of Nod. Worse, really. Even Cain had never—
But couldn’t God see how he had been tempted? How could any human being resist? At first, he thought God had forgiven him. He allowed Kirk’s sister to be acquitted, right? Surely that was a sign of God’s grace. Except now it was starting up all over again. If what he’d heard on the radio was true, she might not be safe after all. And neither was he. God was sending His demons to torment him. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat.
And he couldn’t pray. He could try, but no one was listening. And what was the point of praying to a god who wouldn’t hear?
Kirk flung himself out of the bed, collapsing on the floor. He pounded his fist on the floorboards, sending a trembling throughout the small apartment. He had to get out of here, had to do something. He didn’t know what, but he had to try something to wrench himself free of this pervasive guilt. He couldn’t live with this, not much longer. He would rather die than live with this.
He pushed himself to his feet, scrounging for his coat. Surely there were answers somewhere, out on the street. Surely he could find some form of redemption. Some kind of relief, some peace of mind. He couldn’t go on living like this, he just couldn’t.
But if God wouldn’t forgive him, who would?
6
BEN HEARD HER FOOTSTEPS long before she arrived; there were no secrets on a metal cage floor. He almost smiled with recognition of the quick, light sensible heels, tapping like Morse Code as she scurried down the passage. He’d been hearing that for years now. He thought he should sit up, push himself off the cot, greet her appropriately. But somehow that seemed like more work than he could manage at the moment.
“Ben?” He heard Christina’s voice the instant the guard admitted her through the cell door. “Ben! What happened to you?”
He could tell she was beside him now. He tried to open his eyes—but only one of them worked.
A moment later, he felt her soft cool hand behind his neck. “Ben! Talk to me. Are you all right?”
His lips felt dry and cracked, probably because they were. His voice crackled when he tried to speak. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are. You’ve got a shiner the size of Kilimanjaro. Who did this to you?”
“I don’t exactly know.”
“By God, this is police brutality. I’ll haul their butts up on charges. I can’t believe this crap still goes on in this day and age. In a big city.”
Ben shook his head, although the stiffness of his neck made it difficult. “It wasn’t the police. Not the eye, anyway.”
“Then who was it?”
“Another inmate. Temporarily lodged in my cell. I didn’t get his name.”
“What a coincidence. I bet they put him up to it.”
“Likely.” Braced by Christina’s hand, Ben managed to pull himself upright. He was immediately embarrassed, remembering that he was wearing the formless bright orange coveralls. “But you’ll neve
r prove it.”
“What about the cops? Have they been after you?”
“Well …”
“Ben! You have to file a complaint.”
“C’mon, Christina. You’ve been around long enough to know how stupid that would be. Sad truth is, inmates get punched up in jail all the time. And if they make a fuss, they get an additional charge of assaulting an officer. ‘I hated to hurt him, your honor, but it was self-defense.’ ” He glanced over his shoulder. “By the way, the inmates on either side of us are probably informants, so be careful what you say. The attorney-client privilege won’t extend to them.”
“Ben, I want the name of everyone who hit you.”
He shook his head. “We’ve got more important things to investigate at the moment. By the way, how did you get in here? Shouldn’t we be meeting in a visitor room? “
“That would take too long. I wanted to see you immediately. And I know one of the guards on duty …”
“Of course you do. You know everyone. So—do you have any idea what the hell is going on?”
“I know a little. I called the D.A.”
That was his Christina. Straight to the top. “You mean the actual D.A.? Not an assistant?”
“Right. Woke LaBelle up in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, he didn’t know much more than I did.”
“What was the basis for the search warrant?”
“Anonymous tip.”
“How convenient. Tape recording?”
“No. It didn’t come over the phone. But Sergeant Matthews got it from a reliable source.”
“Of course.”
“Whom he refuses to name. Informant privilege.”
“Naturally. He planned it out perfectly.”
“Yeah. Except I still have two questions. How did the knife get in your file cabinet? And if it really is the murder weapon—where did it come from?” She touched her fingers lightly to the swollen blue-black bulge beneath Ben’s left eye. “Is it tender?”
“Ouch!” He pulled away from her. “What do you think?”
“Sorry. I could get an ice pack …”
“Don’t. I’d rather it was nice and dramatic when we appear before Judge Collier for the arraignment.”
“But the police will deny—”
“Collier isn’t an idiot.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Christina asked. “I mean—really. You seem … subdued.” She paused a moment. “Did they work you over?”
Ben nodded. “Like you wouldn’t believe. They didn’t miss a trick.”
“Oh, Ben. I’m so sorry.” She wrapped her arms around him. “It must’ve been awful.”
“Not a Hallmark moment, for sure.” She felt good against him. Soft but firm. Warm. “But I’m okay. Or would be if I got some sleep.”
“You poor thing.”
“Yeah, yeah. So did you find Mike? I’m sure he can sort this out.”
“Mike is gone.”
“Where the hell is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“We have to find out.”
“That’s a no go. Penelope says he’s undercover. No one will tell me any more.”
“Damn.” Ben clenched his teeth. “He said he was leaving town for some new case. What lousy timing.”
“ I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
He jerked his head up. “What do you mean?”
“The cops show up to railroad you the second your close friend on the force goes under? That can’t be just bad luck. They waited till he was gone.”
Ben didn’t like the idea at all, but he had to admit she was probably right. This was planned. And planned very well.
“So what’s their goal here? What’s the charge?”
“So far they’ve only charged you with concealing evidence. Aiding and abetting. Obstructing justice.”
Ben pondered a moment. “That tells me they still think Keri is guilty. They’re just using me to get to her.”
“Probably.”
“They’ll never be able to make the concealment rap stick.”
“I agree. I think the judge will kick it as soon as he learns you were the defendant’s—and chief suspect’s—attorney. I’ve done a little research.” She popped open her brand-spanking-new briefcase and revealed a stack of photocopied cases so thick it barely fit inside.
Nothing like having a new grad on the team, Ben mused. Bundles of energy. “What’s the aiding and abetting about?”
“Presumably they’ll argue you helped Keri commit the crime. Or helped her cover it up.”
“I suppose you could argue that, in a way, every defense attorney representing a guilty defendant helps them cover it up. But I don’t think they can make that a crime. Not without doing some serious damage to the Constitution.”
“Ben … what you said. About Keri. Are you telling me she was …”
“Guilty? No. She convinced me she was innocent a long time ago. Not that it matters. Even guilty people are entitled to lawyers.”
“But still …”
“Yeah.” He stretched, straining his aching muscles. “Keri always said she’d been framed. That someone was out to get her. Which at the time I thought a trifle paranoid. Now I’m not so sure.” He pondered a moment. “These charges against me are just preliminary. A device. They’ll use this to reopen the case against Keri.”
“What about double jeopardy?”
“There are ways around double jeopardy protection. And one of the best is to allege fraud on the part of the defendant. Or the defendant’s lawyer.”
“Like hiding key evidence in his file cabinet?”
“Exactly.” The more he said it aloud, the more he realized it must be true. “That’s what they’re after. It’s Keri they want.”
“Maybe so,” Christina said. “But I wouldn’t discount anything. I hate to be the one to tell you, Ben, but every cop I talked to, everyone I tried to interview—they were all hostile. They loved Joe McNaughton, and they couldn’t handle the verdict. I think some of these people are willing to do just about anything to get Keri convicted.” She paused, then added, “And to teach you a lesson.”
Ben’s lip turned up at the edge. “I’ve already learned a lesson. But I’m not going to let them railroad my client.”
“Which leads to my next important question.” She pushed herself to her feet and began to pace. Ben marveled at how professional, how—lawyerly she looked. Snappy two-piece suit, briefcase, pinned-up hair, serious expression. She’d been out of school for less than twenty-four hours, but she already had the part down cold. “Whom do you want to represent you?”
Ben looked surprised. “What do you mean? I already have a lawyer. You.”
“I’m serious, Ben.”
“So am I.”
“Ben, I just got my diploma. I haven’t even passed the bar.”
“You’ve already taken the multistate, haven’t you? We’ll get you a Rule 9 temporary permit.”
“Ben, I’m not ready for this.”
“You said you wanted to be tested. Tested by 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. H
e’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
THE 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.
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