Rough Justice: Three Ben Kincaid Stories (The Ben Kincaid Anthology Series)

by William Bernhardt

  “I’m so sorry.”

  "Harvey and I always celebrated the holidays in style, you know? We did it big, with all the trimmings. We had pies and eggnog and caramel apples. We decorated with holly and mistletoe and blinking lights. And we made peanut butter pine cones for the birds and strung cranberries and peanuts and popcorn.” Her face brightened faintly. "And we had goose. Always goose. Not a turkey, but a real, honest-to-God goose, like they did in the old days. Anymore you can hardly even find a goose, and if you do, it'll cost you an arm and a leg. But Harvey always found us a goose."

  The memory faded, and the faint smile with it. "Harvey liked to keep the holidays, just the two of us. I did too, for that matter. It was perfect, while there were two of us. But when there's not..."

  "No friends? Children?"

  "Oh, I have one son, George, but we had a big falling out twenty years ago. Harvey wanted him to be one thing, he wanted to be another. We didn’t approve of the girl he wanted to marry. It all seemed very important at the time, but...” Her hand lifted slightly, then dropped. "I hear I have three grandchildren, but I've never seen them. Not even a picture."

  "Cora, why don't you call George? Tonight. As soon as you get home."

  "We don’t talk. He didn’t even come for Harvey’s funeral. He doesn't want anything to do with me."

  "That isn't so."

  "How would you know?"

  A deep ridge creased his brow. "Believe me, Mrs. Anderson, this is something I know. No matter how bad things may have been in the past, no matter how much your son may act as if he doesn't care about you, he does. I guarantee it. Nothing would make your son happier than being reconciled with his mother. Especially at Christmastime.” He laid his hand gently over hers. "Call him."

  "Can't. Don't know his number. Don't know his address. I'm not even sure what state he lives in."

  He inhaled deeply. "Well, let's go to my car and get out of here."

  She pressed her hand against her wrinkled forehead. "I don't have the money any more. I paid off Armand."

  "I know. I followed you, remember?"

  "I suppose you'll want to tell the police about this. And Burris."

  "For now, let's just concentrate on getting you warm."

  "That would be nice. But it's going to take a lot more than your car heater to get the chill off these bones."

  The words hung in the air between them, suspended, frozen, like everything else in sight.

  "Mrs. Anderson, you shouldn't go home. Not if you're going to be alone."

  "I've got nowhere else to go."

  "That's what you think.” He cracked open the car door. "I hope you like wassail."

  Her head tilted to one side. "What kind of wassail?"

  He smiled. "Bad wassail."

  *****

  Ben knocked three times.

  Christina stepped through her apartment door and hugged him. "You came after all!"

  "Well, just for a minute. I wanted to--" His attention was diverted by the luminescent red and green glow permeating the room. Normally, Christina's apartment was a tribute to all things French, but tonight, the season of Christmas gave it a unique, festive glow. Holly branches hung from the papier-mâché Eiffel Tower. The Parisian travel posters were ornamented with twinkling lights and plastic icicles. Mistletoe dangled everywhere.

  Christina pulled him close and whispered in his ear. "Who is this unexpected guest? She showed up an hour and a half ago and said you dropped her off."

  "That's Cora Anderson. She works for Burris. She didn't have any place to go for Christmas, and since I knew you were having a party..."

  "Ben! You old softie. Maybe you don't hate Christmas so much after all.” She pulled him into the room. "Where have you been?"

  "I had to arrange a last-minute delivery. I hope this hasn't been an imposition."

  "Not at all. Cora kept us all entertained, once we got her cleaned up and thawed out. We've been playing games."

  They stepped into the living room. He saw Cora slapping her hands and thighs in rhythm with Jones and Loving. "The minister's cat is an...amorous cat," Cora said, barely shouting the word in time.

  Jones went next, speaking while his hands maintained the rhythm. "The minister's cat is an...ambidextrous cat."

  Loving stared at him. "You made that word up."

  "I did not and it's your turn."

  "But that's cheatin’."

  "Stop stalling and take your turn."

  Loving kept clapping but glared at Jones. "The minister's cat is an angry cat."

  Cora laughed. "Perhaps this would be a good time to take a break.” She stepped out of the circle. "Thank you for bringing me here, Ben. We've been having a lovely time."

  "I’m glad.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It’s kind of you to let me have a little merriment before I pay the piper. I know you'll want me to turn myself in.”

  "What, and interrupt your fun? I wouldn't dream of it. By the way, I tracked down the money. The culprit escaped, but I returned Burris’s money, which is all he cares about. So the case is closed."

  "But--"

  "No buts. Get back in the game before Jones and Loving kill each other."

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  The doorbell rang. "Who on earth could that be?" Christina wondered. "I haven't invited anyone else."

  On the other side of the door stood a teenage boy wrapped from head to foot in coats and mittens and scarfs. Holding a gigantic bird.

  "Sorry I took so long," the kid said. "The weather out there is awful, even on a snow plow."

  "What on earth is that?" Christina asked.

  "A goose!" Cora cried. She scrambled to the door. "Where did this come from?"

  The boy checked his order. "We got a call from--"

  "All that matters is that it's here.” Ben took the huge bird from the kid, gave him a big tip, and closed the door.

  "What on earth am I going to do with a goose?" Christina asked. "I don't know how to cook a goose."

  "Leave that to me, dearie.” Cora took the huge bird and hauled it into the kitchen, her eyes wide and contented, humming "Jingle Bells" as she went.

  "What a transformation," Christina said. "When she arrived, I thought she was suicidal. Now look at her."

  "She was just having a spot of trouble,” he explained, “and she had nowhere to turn for help."

  "It doesn't take much to turn someone’s life around,” Christina said. “Especially at Christmastime.”

  He nodded. Cora had what she needed, for now, anyway. And tomorrow, or the next day, he couldn’t be sure when but soon, she’d get a call from George and see those three grandkids of hers. A skip-tracer pal of his had already found George’s phone number. She’d have what she needed.

  What we all need, he thought.

  “So where'd you get the goose?" Christina asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  "Joe Flickinger, of course. It helps to have a poultry farmer in your debt. He doesn't keep geese, but he knew someone who did. Had it sent right over."

  "And how on earth did you square things with Burris?” She gave him a sharp look, then reached under his coat and withdrew the white envelope. "Only one of the Ben Franklins." She replaced the envelope and patted his coat. "Some Scrooge you are."

  They walked back to the living room where Loving immediately accosted them. "Is there such a word as”--he took a deep breath--“beneficent?"

  "Well," Ben said, “there is such a word, but you don't often hear it applied to ministers’ cats."

  "See?" Loving said, poking a finger at Jones.

  "This is not a reality game," Jones insisted. "It's a word game."

  "Fine. Then maybe I'll make up words, too."

  "You couldn't make up a word even if you did know all the letters of the alphabet."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  He and Christina exchanged a look.

  "How about some wassail?" Christina said, interrupting wh
at was left of the game. She poured four glasses and passed them all around. She hesitated before handing one to Ben. "I suppose you'll be going now."

  "Oh, I don't know. I thought I might hang around a bit. I've never had goose."

  "Really?” Her face lit up like a tree ornament. "Wonderful! I mean--you know, that's...good."

  "I agree.” He took the glass from her.

  "It's likely to be a while before dinner is ready."

  "Yeah," Jones said. "You sure you won't miss your Trollope novel?"

  "I'm sure," he said. "After all, as a wise woman once said, Christmas is for family. And what is family except people you care about, people you want to be with, who make you feel warm and happy and not so alone? That’s what a family is.” He stepped into their midst and held his wassail high. "And you're mine. Cheers. And merry Christmas."

  WHAT WE’RE HERE FOR

  by William Bernhardt

  This story takes place between the events depicted in the novels Extreme Justice and Dark Justice in the Ben Kincaid series.

  WHAT WE’RE HERE FOR

  Ben Kincaid squared himself behind the podium. Every direct examination had its challenges, but this one was proving more complicated than most. He had to treat his client gently and lead her through her story without pushing her over the brink. He also had to pay close attention and make sure no important detail was omitted from her testimony.

  And he had to look at his client’s face without flinching.

  “About what time did you leave the fundraiser, Tess?”

  The woman in the witness box cast her eyes downward as she spoke, looking more toward the hardwood floor than toward her lawyer’s eyes. “It was early in the morning,” she said. Her voice was barely audible. The jurors leaned forward to catch her words. “Just after one a.m., I think.”

  “Please tell the jury what you did after you left.”

  “I got in my car–it’s a Honda Civic, about five years old–and started driving home.” Ben detected a tiny but discernible trembling as she spoke.

  “What route did you take?”

  “I took 71st crosstown. I live in the Richmond Court development, and that seemed like the best route home, even with all the construction.”

  “And what if anything happened during your drive home?”

  Tess Corrigan hesitated. “I was on 71st heading east.” She stopped, swallowed, inhaled. “I had to turn left onto Harvard. The light turned green, and...and I didn’t see any oncoming traffic—”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I–I—” Even with her face partly masked, Ben–and the jury–could see her hesitation, her unwillingness to proceed. She dreaded the retelling, almost as she might dread revisiting the actual event. “I began making my left turn...and out the corner of my eye, I spotted a car coming toward me—”

  ”Would you describe the car, please?”

  “It was a dark color. Green, I think. A big car–one of those Ford Expeditions.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I saw the car heading straight toward mine—” Her voice broke off.

  “Yes?”

  “I tried to get out of the way, but I was already halfway through my turn, and there was nowhere I could go. The car careened toward me—” Her wide eyes reflected the horror she must have experienced during the original event. For a moment, Ben felt as if he was with her, trapped in that tiny car, watching disaster speed inexorably closer.

  “And…what happened next, Tess?”

  “That’s all I remember.” She exhaled, and as she did, all fourteen faces in the jury box seemed to release their breath with her. “When I woke up, I was in the hospital. And I was…like this.”

  Her hand went to her face, barely touching the bandage, still there six months after the incident. Her face was a scarred and bloody nightmare. Her nose had been flattened. Her eyes were so swollen they were barely visible–tiny pinpricks of blue peering out from the bruised flesh. A deep laceration subdivided her face, stretching from her left ear to the middle of the opposite cheek. It had been sutured and the distinctive patchwork scarring was readily visible. The bandage covered the center of her face, concealing part of her forehead and the place where her nose used to be.

  Ben cleared his throat, fighting to suppress the catch in his own voice. He tried to keep his emotions at bay, but it was all but impossible. He’d known Tess for years. They’d worked together on countless charitable and civic projects–at the animal shelter, the library, the women’s shelter, the Innocence Project. She’d given so much of herself to others that it tore him up to see what had happened to her. “Has the accident...affected your work?”

  Tess laughed abruptly, and it wasn’t a happy laugh. “I was a model–a fashion model. I was paid to look good.”

  “How often did you work?”

  “I had a regular weekly gig modeling at Tulsa restaurants and private functions for Renberg’s, Aberson’s, and some of the other top clothing stores. It’s how I supported myself–how I’ve supported myself since I was eighteen.”

  “Have you been able to continue your work?”

  “With this?” Once more, her hand touched her bandage. “With a face that makes me look like–like–a character from a horror movie? Not hardly. I haven’t worked since the accident.” Her voice dropped. “I’ll never work again.”

  “Have you investigated the possibility of reconstructive surgery?”

  “I talked to some doctors about it, back at the hospital. But the damage to my face is so extensive...it would be incredibly expensive. Literally millions of dollars. My health insurance carrier won’t cover what they call cosmetic surgery. And I can’t begin to afford it.”

  “What are your plans for the future, Tess?”

  “I don’t have any plans.” Her head turned, and for the first time, Ben detected tears forming in the wells of those barely visible eyes. She blinked rapidly. “I don’t have any plans. I don’t have any...future.”

  He bit down on his lower lip. He needed a break almost as badly as she did. “Thank you, Tess. No more questions, your honor.”

  Judge Hawkins leaned across the bench. “Thank you, counsel. Why don’t we take a break before we begin cross-examination?”

  “Your honor.” Opposing counsel, Charlton Colby, rose to his feet, adjusting the jacket of his immaculately tailored suit. “I have a motion I’d like to present. Perhaps while the court is in recess...?”

  “That’ll be fine. In chambers.” Hawkins called for a recess, excused the jury and the witness, then waved the two lawyers back.

  The private chambers of Judge Harold H. Hawkins–Hang ‘Em High Hawkins, as he was known in town–was a hodgepodge of western art and sports memorabilia. OU football paraphernalia draped a reproduction of Remington’s famous broncobuster sculpture. Ben wondered if Hawkins actually decorated this room or just dropped things off and forgot about them.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Colby?” Hawkins settled back into his overstuffed chair. “I hope this won’t delay the trial. I want to get this thing over with.”

  “No, your honor,” Colby answered. “I’m hoping it will have just the opposite effect.” Colby was a senior partner at Raven, Tucker and Tubb, Tulsa’s largest law firm. He represented Peggy Bennett, the doctor’s wife who drove the Ford Expedition that hit Tess Corrigan. “I’m making a motion to dismiss.”

  “What?” Ben’s eyes widened. “You must be joking.”

  “Not in the least,” Colby said, in a voice that was one part world-weary and two parts dead. “I’m entirely serious. Kincaid hasn’t proved his case.”

  “I haven’t finished calling witnesses.”

  “But you said yourself, at the pretrial, that the plaintiff was your key fact witness. I’ve heard what she has to say, and the fact is, she didn’t prove anything.”

  Ben felt his face reddening. “It proved your client rammed into my client, causing the accident that destroyed her face.”

  “It did
nothing of the sort. True, there was an accident, but as to fault–“

  “Your client barreled into her—”

  “Your client blocked the intersection. She had a green light–not a left turn arrow. Which means she was supposed to make sure there was no oncoming traffic before executing a turn. She failed to do so. She has no one to blame for her injuries but herself.”

  “Tess checked for oncoming traffic. She didn’t see anything. Your client was speeding. She came up on Tess too quickly. First there was nothing, then there was an SUV moving so fast there was nothing Tess could do about it.”

  Colby cocked his head to one side. “Yeah? Prove it.”

  Ben’s teeth clenched. “Are you willing to sink to anything to win a case? Didn’t your mother teach you about right and wrong?”

  “All right, boys, calm down.” Hawkins spread his arms expansively. “Let’s try to be civil. Mr. Colby has made a motion to dismiss. I gather Mr. Kincaid opposes the motion.”

  “Damn straight,” he muttered.

  “Well,” Hawkins continued, “I will say this, Mr. Kincaid. I don’t think this is a frivolous motion. You haven’t proved the defendant is at fault.”

  “The trial isn’t over yet.”

  “Thank you, counsel, I was aware of that. Which is why I’m going to deny the motion. At this time. But consider yourself warned, Mr. Kincaid—if you don’t come up with some evidence to support liability before you close, I will entertain Mr. Colby’s inevitable motion for a directed verdict.”

  Ben felt a chill race down his spine. It was a plaintiff’s lawyer’s worst nightmare–to have the verdict directed against his client before the other side even calls a witness.

  “Mr. Colby,” Judge Hawkins asked, “are you planning to cross-examine this witness?”

  Colby shrugged. “I see no need.”

  “Good. I think we’ve all had enough tragedy for one day.” Hawkins checked his watch. “Let’s call it quits and resume tomorrow morning.”

  No one objected to that proposition. Ben returned to the courtroom, where he found Tess waiting for him at the plaintiff’s table, eyes wide with anticipation. He knew she was counting on him, hoping against hope that he might find a miracle somewhere in the midst of all the misery. But the truth was, her case was only a short step from dismissal.