Capitol Offense

by William Bernhardt

  Dennis rushed forward, grabbing the gurney. “Joslyn! Can you hear me? Can you hear me?”

  Her eyelashes fluttered briefly, barely signaling a trace of life still residing inside.

  “Joslyn, I’m sorry I took so long. I’m sorry! But we’re going to get you well. You’re going to be fine, honey. I promise. You’ll be just like new. Back to your patients in no time.”

  One of the medics stepped forward. “I’m sorry, sir, but we have to get her to the hospital.”

  “Of course. I understand. Just—”

  Joslyn’s right hand suddenly wrapped itself around Dennis’s arm.

  “I’m here, honey,” Dennis said, eyes bulging. “I’m here. I’ll stay with you.”

  Slowly her lips pressed together. He could see she was trying to say something, but she barely had the strength to make it happen.

  “What is it, Fizz? What?”

  He leaned forward until his head was barely an inch from her lips. Her voice was more breath than sound.

  “Out … wit …”

  “Outwit? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “… stars …”

  He felt the grip on his wrist loosen, then felt her hand fall away altogether.

  “What’s happening? What’s happening to her?”

  The chief EMT rushed forward. “Get me an oxygen mask, now. And the defibrillator.”

  “They’re in the ambulance. Up on the road.”

  “Then hurry!”

  The paramedic in charge gave her an injection. “Something’s wrong.”

  “What is it?” Dennis asked desperately. “What’s happening?”

  “How can I know? I haven’t had a chance to examine her properly. She’s been trapped in her car for seven days. Most people wouldn’t have lasted this long.”

  “There must be something you can do!”

  The attendant pounded on her chest. “I assure you … I’m doing … everything I know … how to do …”

  “Please!”

  Across the gurney, Dennis saw the paramedic in charge step away, shaking his head. “She’s gone.”

  “What?” Dennis’s eyes went wild. “She can’t be gone. She’s alive. I’m telling you, she’s alive!”

  Dennis felt a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, sir, you need to move away and—”

  “She can’t be dead. She can’t be!” He turned and saw Detective Sentz peering across at him.

  “It’s a tragedy.” Sentz cleared his throat. “We did everything we could.”

  “Everything? You didn’t do anything!”

  “I know this is hard, but—”

  “You killed her, you son of a bitch! You killed my wife!”

  A second later, Dennis’s fist clipped Sentz across the jaw. Sentz took a step backward, then recovered himself, rubbing the sore spot on his face. “Officers, restrain him.”

  Officer Torres and another grabbed Dennis by the arms, holding him in place. Dennis strained against his captors, trying to get free, trying to get to Sentz. “This is your fault! You killed her!”

  “It’s an unfortunate incident, but there’s only so much you can do when someone goes off a country road like this. I wonder if she’d been drinking …”

  “You killed her, you son of a bitch! You killed Joslyn! You’ll pay for this!”

  Sentz sighed. “Mr. Thomas, I’m afraid I’m going to have to press charges. You threatened and committed battery against a police officer. Those are felony charges.”

  “You’re going to lock me up? Someone should lock you up!”

  Sentz turned away. “Take him downtown and book him, officers. I’ll finish up here.”

  The two officers dragged Dennis away, but he fought them, struggling, screaming back at the departing detective. “This isn’t over. You’re not done with me. There will be a reckoning, do you hear me? Your time will come. There will be a reckoning!”

  1

  Ben Kincaid thumbed through the case file, wondering what he had gotten himself into this time. As if he were not busy enough already. Just back from Washington, a much-delayed honeymoon waiting in the wings, a senatorial campaign to plan. And yet here he was, tackling a small-time criminal case. Was this really how he wanted to spend the two months the Senate was in recess? But when Marty from Legal Services called, he found himself unable to say no. As usual. He knew there were people who couldn’t afford attorneys who seriously needed them, and he had often spoken of the importance of lawyers finding time in their busy schedules to help others. Time to put your money where your mouth is, right, Senator?

  He stared through the acrylic separator at his new client, one Anson Thorpe III. He was a lean man, mid-twenties, scruffy beard and moustache. He did not look great, but the orange coveralls of the Tulsa County Jail rarely improved anyone’s appearance.

  “So, um, if I understand this correctly,” Ben said, “the only things you stole were dolls?”

  “Not dolls. Action figures.”

  “Okay …”

  “Do you have any idea how much these action figures are worth?”

  “I understand some are collector’s items.”

  “And some are beyond collector’s items. This was the classic run of Mego Super-Friends figures. Still the standard-bearer for the entire field.”

  “So … they’re particularly attractive action figures?”

  “Actually, they make the entire Justice League look like trolls. But they were the first.”

  “And they’re valuable?”

  “If they’re in good condition.”

  Ben tapped his pencil against his lips. “So I’m going to assume the ones you, um, borrowed—”

  “Rescued.”

  “Rescued from the store …” He checked his file. “Starbase 21, right? They must’ve been in very good condition.”

  Anson’s eyes widened. “They were still in their original packaging. That makes them most desirable. So few understand.”

  Ben’s brow creased. “What’s the point of having a doll if you don’t take it out of the packaging?”

  “It is not a doll!”

  “It’s not anything if you can’t take it out of the box.”

  “These are not mere toys. These are popular-culture icons. Artifacts of our time.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I have over two hundred action figures.”

  “All still wrapped in plastic?”

  “Of course.”

  Ben’s eyes rolled skyward. “And they call me a nerd.”

  “If you take them out and play with them, their value diminishes dramatically. Practically worthless.”

  Ben glanced at his watch. Marty so owed him one. Possibly three. “You decided to take the action figures for yourself?”

  “Those barbarians were going to open the packaging!”

  “They deserved to die.”

  Anson leapt to his feet. “Yes!”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “I—” Anson deflated like a leaky balloon. “Oh.”

  Ben rifled through his papers. “You used a paint can to break the window.”

  “Had to get in somehow.”

  “Red paint splattered everywhere.”

  “But I got in.”

  “And you took the—action figures.”

  “Allegedly.”

  “And you went home.”

  “I definitely went home.”

  “Then the police showed up at your door …”

  Anson folded his arms across his chest. “Outrageous. Total invasion of privacy.”

  “… asking for the action figures …”

  “I had to go to the door in my pajamas!”

  “… because they followed a trail of red footprints to your front door.”

  Anson looked down at his hands. “Yeah … that wasn’t so good.”

  Ben stared at him. “Did you fall asleep during crime school or what?”

  “I had a lot on my mind.”

  “You’ve got a lot mor
e now. Burglary, theft, and criminal mischief, to be specific.”

  “My cellmate says you’re a really good lawyer.”

  “You don’t need a good lawyer. You need a change of profession. And some kind of twelve-step program for people addicted to action figures.”

  “He said you could get me off.”

  Ben closed the file. “I couldn’t get you off if your mother was the judge. The state is offering you six months if you return the figures. Take the offer.”

  Anson looked at the wall, sulking. “Any more brilliant advice?”

  Ben grabbed his coat and headed toward the door. “Yeah. You’re really too old to be playing with dolls.”

  Jones paced a circular path around Christina and Loving. “So, are we all together on this?”

  “Comme ci, comme ça,” Christina said. “We’re together in the sense that I’m perfectly willing to listen to you try to convince Ben.” It was not a court day, as evidenced by her attire: a sporty white sailor suit, complete with blue kerchief, short skirt, and blue-brimmed sailor cap.

  “Me too,” Loving said, with his usual easygoing grin.

  “But will you support me, Christina? You’re Ben’s wife. He listens to you.”

  “Yes,” Christina said wearily. “He listens. And then he goes right on doing whatever it is he wants to do. As far as influence goes—well, I can’t allow myself to believe that even for a moment. La grande illusion.”

  “Oh, come on now,” Jones said. “We all know wives have ways of persuading their spouses. Ways of … withholding favors.”

  “Do you know how long it took that man to propose?” Christina brushed her long strawberry-blond curls behind her shoulders. “I’m not withholding anything.”

  “Maybe you should!”

  “I dunno about that, Jones,” Loving said, “but I think this gives me a lotta insight into your relationship with Paula.”

  “Oh, ha ha.”

  “I wondered how she managed to score that big rock on her ring finger. Now I think I know.”

  “I gave that to her because I love her!”

  “Or hoped to.”

  Jones leaned right into Loving’s face. The office investigator was twice as wide and almost a foot taller than the office manager, but that didn’t intimidate him. “Now you listen to me, you big … galoot!”

  “Who’s a galoot?”

  “You’re a galoot!”

  “Do you even know what a galoot is?”

  “Well … not exactly. But I know you are one!”

  Christina eased herself between them. “Would you two stop acting like third graders? You work for an important attorney and U.S. senator, for Pete’s sake. Show a little je ne sais quoi.” She paused. “Besides, the client might hear.”

  “I don’t care if—” Jones stopped short when he heard the jangling bell that told him someone had opened the front door to the seventh-floor offices of Kincaid & McCall. Jones waited a good three seconds until their titular boss reached them.

  “No more pro bono cases!” Ben said, flinging his briefcase on Jones’s reception desk.

  “Ben!” Christina replied. “You’ve always said it was a lawyer’s duty to help those in need.”

  “I’ve had a change of heart,” Ben groused. “I draw the line at morons who leave the police a map to follow.” He did a double take. “What are you wearing?”

  She did a little pirouette. “Just a little something I picked up. Do you think I look sexy?”

  “I think you look like Donald Duck.”

  Loving cut in, presumably to prevent an incident requiring medical attention. “So, Skipper, are you sayin’ you’re too important for cases like that one?”

  “I think everyone’s too important for cases like that one. I’m going to call Marty and tell him to take me off the referral list.”

  Christina gently laid a finger on his cheek. “Now, Ben. Isn’t that a bit drastic?”

  “Do you have any idea how much stuff I have to do right now?”

  “Probably better than you, since I look at your calendar occasionally. But you have an obligation to others, don’t you?”

  “Well, of course, but—”

  “Haven’t you talked about the importance of reaching out a helping hand?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  She ran her fingers through his hair and talked in baby talk. “You don’t want to become an old sourpuss, do you?”

  He frowned. “All right. I won’t call Marty.”

  “Thank you, snookums.”

  “And thank you,” Jones muttered, “for demonstrating how he never listens and you have no influence over him.”

  Ben’s brow creased. “Why are you three standing around? Don’t you have work to do?”

  Jones stood at attention. “I have something I want to discuss with you, Ben. We all do, that is.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this already.”

  “I’ll cut straight to the chase. We want you to go back on the billable hour.”

  “No.”

  “Ben, everyone does it.”

  “My mother used to say, if everyone jumped off a cliff—”

  “Oh, spare me the homilies and look at it from the standpoint of your office manager. You’re a U.S. senator. You’ve defended cases that received national attention. And we still barely make ends meet!”

  “The billable hour is the worst thing that ever happened to the legal profession. All it does is stir up a lot of dissatisfaction and suspicion. And it destroys lawyers’ lives. Leaves them no time for pro bono work or mentoring. Drives women out of the profession. Justice Breyer wrote, and I quote, ‘The profession’s obsession with billable hours is like drinking water from a fire hose. The result is that many lawyers are starting to drown.’”

  “Excuse me, did I ask for a Ben rant? I’m just trying to put a little change in the Christmas fund.”

  “Lawyers got along fine without the billable hour until the nineteen-fifties. They will again. Many corporations are refusing to pay them, demanding flat fees. Consequently, the smart up-and-coming firms are giving them what they want and stealing business from the old guard. Pretty soon—”

  “We’ll all live in Cloud-Cuckoo-Land and eat bonbons all day! Honestly, Ben, when are you going to get a clue?”

  Ben assaulted Jones with his deadliest weapon, the raised eyebrow. “I think the firm is doing just fine. We charge a fair fee without milking clients with billable hour charts. We make ourselves affordable to those who need help.”

  “Oh, I give up!” Jones said, throwing his arms into the air. He marched back to his desk, the usual exasperated expression on his face.

  Ben stared at his wake. “He seems upset.”

  “Yeah,” Loving agreed, “but he’s happier that way.”

  “Think I’ve heard the last of this?”

  “Sure. Till tomorrow.”

  “Ben,” Christina said, tapping him on the shoulder, “Harvey wants to talk to you about the campaign.”

  “Ugh. Can’t I just be a lawyer for a little while?”

  “For a very little while, yes. But he has to start making plans.”

  “Have him do that. And send me a memo.”

  “Also, there’s a client waiting for you in your office.”

  “More Legal Services referrals?”

  “No. This guy has a little money.”

  “How refreshing. Know what he wants?”

  “Nary a clue.”

  “Well, life is either a great adventure or it is nothing at all. Want to sit in?”

  “No, I think the distinguished senator from Oklahoma should meet clients on his own. Besides, I have an appointment to see my personal shopper.”

  Ben blinked. “You have a personal shopper?”

  Christina took his arm and rubbed her nose against his cheek. “Just since I married you, my little sugar daddy.”

  Loving bristled. “I’m so outta here …”

  “Why do you need a personal shoppe
r?” Ben asked.

  “Because I’m a busy important lawyer woman. Besides …” She grinned. “You think I could pick out clothes like these on my own?”

  Ben peered through the window in his office door, stealing a look at the client before the client saw him. His first impression was favorable; the man was not wearing orange coveralls. In fact, he was well dressed and groomed neatly and seemed like a perfectly normal urban professional, the sort you saw hustling about downtown all around Bartlett Square, even now that they had removed the fountain and allowed traffic to drive through it. Ben got the impression that he was smart and educated, which would be a refreshing change of pace.

  Too bad Christina hadn’t come in—she was always so good at sizing people up. Then again, he had been practicing law for—how many years now? He was not without intuition. Perhaps he had become too dependent on her. Perhaps it was time he flexed his own muscles …

  The man sitting in his office had an air of confidence about him, which suggested that he was not here on a criminal matter. Some sort of business affair. Judging from his dress, his briefcase, and especially his shoes, Ben surmised that he owned his own business. He was wearing glasses and had two pens in his shirt pocket. No pocket protector, but still, he screamed computer industry. A software company, probably. That was the avenue many young go-getters had traveled to recent success. So what was his problem?

  If he wasn’t in trouble, it must be an employee. Contract dispute? Sexual harassment? No, Ben had it—immigration law. Not long ago, Oklahoma’s extremely conservative legislature had passed the strictest immigration laws in the country, much to the dismay of most local businesses. Thanks to 1804, as the law was called familiarly, it was a felony to transport or shelter illegal immigrants. Employers could have their business licenses revoked for hiring illegal immigrants, even if they subsequently became legal to work. They were forced to fire employees, even when they weren’t sure if they were legal. Since the law passed, more than twenty-five thousand immigrants had left Tulsa County alone, many of them legal citizens with illegal family members. With a smaller pool of workers, higher prices and wages soon resulted. Some predicted this would spur the greatest economic disaster for the state since the Dust Bowl.

  Yes, that had to be it. And that was fine. Ben would be happy to deal with anything as calm and rational as an immigration problem. It would be a welcome change of pace, in fact.