Deadly Justice bk-3

by William Bernhardt

  “Why not? This is fun.” Chuck entered the fray. “Remember the departmental golf tournament, and how he kept shaving strokes off Crichton’s score? Man, what a suck-up. If there was anyone in this department you had to be careful about, it was him.”

  “Remember the Alumco acquisition?” Doug said. “How he accidentally lost everyone’s proposal but his own?”

  “What is this?” a voice boomed from the doorway. “I thought we were having a meeting.”

  It was Crichton. Evidently, the fact that he was fifteen minutes late was of no importance. He expected everyone to be in their seats, lined up like obedient Boy Scouts.

  As one body, they all scurried to the nearest available seat at the table. Once more, Herb outmaneuvered Chuck and took the catbird seat next to Crichton. Once they were all in position, Crichton strode to his tall chair. He grimaced a bit as he sat down; evidently his back was still giving him some trouble.

  Before he began, he reached out for his coffee mug. “Goddamn it, someone call Janice and—” He stopped in mid-sentence, as he saw the steam rise from the mug. “Someone already—but—” He sputtered another moment, made a growling noise, then grudgingly sipped his coffee.

  Ben tried to hide his smile. What a bad boy he was, to spoil Bobby’s fun.

  “Chuck, have you got an agenda?”

  Chuck slid the agenda down to Crichton. “First, I want to remind you all that we’ve got a softball game against the Memorex Telex legal department tomorrow, and I expect everyone to be there. Rain or shine, healthy or sick, and no matter how busy you are.” Crichton scanned the agenda for a few moments. “Kincaid?”

  Ben looked up, startled. “What?”

  “Where’s the Nelson case? It’s not on the agenda.”

  “Well, that’s because—”

  “Didn’t I tell you it was each lawyer’s responsibility to submit each major project they’re working on to staff notes?”

  “Yes—”

  “Did you think that case wasn’t important? That case that could potentially cost this corporation millions of dollars?”

  “It wasn’t that. Chuck—”

  “Damn it, when I give an order, I expect it to be carried out.”

  “I understand—”

  “No exceptions.”

  “Really, the only reason—”

  “Kincaid, I want you to submit a revised, all-inclusive agenda. And I want it on my desk by the end of the day. There’s no excuse for letting a case of that magnitude slip through your fingers. I don’t want this to ever happen again. Understand?”

  Ben shot a fierce look at Chuck, who was conveniently looking the other way. The grins on the faces of me other lawyers were barely masked. They had known Chuck was setting him up from the start. Sabotage, corporate style. “I understand, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.” Crichton downed some more coffee, then, suddenly, his anger seemed to drain away. His flushed face resumed its normal color. “Good grief, Kincaid. I don’t know what came over me. Imagine talking to a litigator of your caliber the way I did. And over a trivial matter like this. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. Could you possibly accept my apology?”

  If the other lawyers in the room were delighted before, they were horrified now. It seemed that Ben Kincaid was impervious even to sabotage. The Teflon trial lawyer. “Let’s just forget the whole thing, sir,” Ben said softly.

  “Done. So tell me what’s going on in the case.”

  Ben reviewed the document production, the depositions he had taken of the plaintiffs, the hearing on the motion to compel, and the deposition of Andrew Consetti. “I’m planning to drive to Oklahoma City to talk to Al Austin and Bernie King.”

  Crichton’s head rose. “Oh? Why do you need to do that?”

  “Consetti identified both of them m his deposition.”

  “Al Austin is no longer with the company.”

  “Nonetheless, Consetti identified him as someone involved in the design of the XKL-1.”

  “Have the plaintiffs requested his deposition?.”

  “No. Not yet anyway.”

  “What about Bernie King?”

  “Again, no.”

  “Then what’s the point of talking to them?”

  Ben shifted in his chair. “Mr. Crichton…I’m an officer of the court. I have an obligation to fully and fairly understand what took place. Plus, I have to know the whole story, to shore up any loose ends, to understand our weak points as well as our strong points, and to identify any exposure the Apollo Consortium may have.”

  “Bernie King is a very busy man. He’s top dog in the OKC office. He runs a seven-hundred-man shop. He doesn’t have time to play around with lawyers.”

  “I won’t take any more time than neces—”

  “Look, Kincaid, it’s your case, but I don’t think you should waste your time, much less the time of other important Apollo personnel. Find out whatever you can from the other side, then file your motion for summary judgment. I see no need for you to be investigating your own client.”

  He lowered his mug to the table, watching Ben very carefully. “After all, you already know what position you have to take.”

  28

  BEN MUTTERED MOST OF the way to Oklahoma City, his hands tightly clenching the steering wheel.

  “I got to hand it to you,” Rob said. He was seated in the passenger seat of Ben’s Honda Accord. “Most people would’ve backed off. Crichton made it clear he didn’t think you should go to Oklahoma City, and here you are, doing it anyway.”

  “I have a long history of not being smart enough to take a hint,” Ben said.

  “Don’t softsoap me, Ben. You’re the kind of guy who believes that if a job is going to be done, it should be done right. You’re going to handle this case properly, regardless of who or what gets in the way. I suppose that’s why Crichton thinks you’re such a super litigator.”

  “We’ll see what he thinks after today.”

  Ben exited off Northwest Expressway. “What’s the name of the place where we’re meeting King?”

  “It’s called Knockers.”

  “Knockers? What kind of name is that for a restaurant?”

  “Beats me. I’ve never been there. Crichton recommends it to everyone going to Oklahoma City.”

  A few minutes later, Ben pulled into the Knockers parking lot. The place had to be popular; almost every spot was taken.

  “The food must be sensational to attract a crowd like this,” Ben said. “I wonder if I can get some Buffalo chicken wings. That sounds great.”

  “Hope springs eternal.” They climbed out of the car and walked to the restaurant.

  Knockers probably did have some sort of decor, but whatever it was, Ben didn’t notice. His eyes, like Rob’s and everyone else’s, were immediately drawn to the staff. The entirely and without exception female staff. The entirely and without exception young blond female staff. Bimbo paradise.

  The “hostesses” all wore the same uniform: tight white T-shirts and pink spandex short shorts. The T-shirts were tied, quite snugly, around the midriff. The short shorts started low on the hips and ended high on the thigh. And as was immediately apparent, they weren’t wearing anything else.

  “Can we help you?” A nubile young hostess looped her arm around Ben’s, giggling. “Can I show you to a table? A booth? Anything you want, I’ll be happy to provide.”

  Ben noticed Rob had acquired a similar escort. “A booth will be fine. We’re meeting a man named Bernie King. He may already be here.”

  “Oh, Bernie!” Rob’s escort squealed. “We love Bernie. He’s in the back.”

  Ben followed her swaying spandex to a boom in the rear. He marveled at how crowded me restaurant was; every office building in Oklahoma City must be feeding the place. He also noticed that every patron, without exception, was male.

  Bernie’s booth was in front of the big screen television. Another T-shirted waitress was standing on his table, a hula h
oop revolving around her hips.

  “All right, Jenny!” Ben’s escort screamed. “Shake ’em!”

  Jenny smiled giddily and accelerated her rhythmic revolutions.

  Ben ducked under the hula hoop and tried to introduce himself. “Mr. King? I’m Ben Kincaid. This is Rob Fielder.”

  King shifted his glazed gaze slightly. “Happy to meet you.” He returned his attention to the waitress on the table, then sighed. “All right, Jenny. That will be enough. I’m afraid we have some business to discuss.”

  “Aww!” the women wailed in unison. Jenny grabbed the hoop and stepped off the table. She grabbed Ben by the shoulders. “Can I show you my knockers?”

  “What?”

  Jenny handed Ben and the others small hand-sized wooden blocks. “These are my knockers. When you decide you’re ready to order, just knock.” She giggled. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  She took the drink orders—Cokes for Ben and Rob, two martinis for Bernie King—and scampered away with her friends.

  King appeared utterly relaxed and at peace with the universe. “I try to make it out here at least once a week. Robert Crichton first told me about this place. I consider it one of the few favors he’s ever done for me. What do you think, Kincaid?”

  Ben looked down at his silverware. “I don’t think you want to know.”

  “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “Well…” Ben inhaled deeply. “Since you asked, I think this place is degrading to women, infantile, sexist, and all-around revolting.”

  King smiled. “That’s what I would’ve said, when I was your age. The words would’ve been different, but the sentiment would’ve been the same.” He stretched out, raised his feet onto the booth. “But I’ve mellowed with age. I don’t get upset about the minutiae of political correctness anymore. If someone wants to make me happy, well, who am I to stop them?”

  “Joints like this could set women back a hundred years.”

  “Perhaps so. And I wonder, would that be so horrible?”

  “It would. Especially in the workplace. I’ve already seen behavior at Apollo—”

  “Enough, enough. I’m not the CEO.”

  “That’s the problem, as far as I can tell. No one wants to take responsibility. We have vice presidents for every conceivable aspect of Apollo’s business policies, but no one is responsible for setting moral policies.”

  King smiled again. “Moral policy is not generally a principal concern of the stockholders at the annual meeting.”

  “Maybe it should be.”

  “Well, enough of this errant philosophizing. I understand you want to talk about the XKL-1 design project.”

  “That’s correct.” Ben brought him up-to-date on the litigation, including the discovery that had been conducted thus far. “Andrew Consetti mentioned that you were one of the principal designers on the project.”

  “That’s true. Me and Al Austin.”

  “Right. That’s one aspect of this affair that seems strange to me. After the completion of that project, you became a corporate VP with your own office in OKC, and Al Austin disappeared from the face of the earth.”

  “I like to think my promotion was based upon more than just one project. I’ve been working for Apollo for almost twenty years.”

  Ben tried to concentrate on what King was saying, but it was almost impossible with the big screen television flashing in front of his eyes. An exercise program was on, featuring four beautifully formed women in skintight exercise leotards bouncing around under the pretense of physical fitness. Ben liked lovely women as well as the next guy, but this big screen show of sweat and tights was beginning to have a Clockwork Orange effect.

  “Can you describe the testing that was performed on the XKL-1?” Ben asked, forcing himself to look away from the screen.

  “You name it, we did it. Stress testing, collision testing, front impact, rear impact—every test that could be performed, we performed.”

  “Well…I’ve searched the corporate records, as has my legal assistant, and we haven’t found any test reports.”

  “Really?” King thought for a moment. “Well, it’s a five-year-old project. They must’ve been thrown out.”

  “Hmm.” Ben scrutinized King carefully. “And, you’re certain the design was thoroughly tested?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “And the results were positive?”

  He spread his hands across the table. “We put the product on the market, didn’t we?”

  “That doesn’t quite answer my question.”

  “The quality control department would never intentionally release a product it didn’t believe to be safe.”

  “That…still doesn’t answer my question.”

  For the first time, King’s dander appeared to be rising. “I’ve answered it several times.”

  “No, you haven’t. My question is: did the testing prove the design was safe?”

  “Yes, it was safe. It was incredibly, wonderfully safe. God spare me from the persistence of a lawyer.” He leaned back into the corner of the booth. “I thought you were on our side.”

  “I am. I just want to know what happened.”

  King glanced absently at a group of hostesses building a pyramid with their bodies. “Well, that’s what happened.”

  Rob seized the opportunity to jump in and smooth the troubled waters. “Do you have any explanation for what happened to Jason Nelson, Mr. King?”

  “How could I know what happened? I wasn’t there.”

  “But you are familiar with the case.”

  “I read the case summary Crichton sent over.”

  “Can you speculate as to what happened?”

  “Well, anyone can speculate. Perhaps the kid was drinking. Perhaps he was necking with his girlfriend and lost his balance. Perhaps he just wasn’t paying attention.”

  “The Nelsons strongly believe that what happened to their son was Apollo’s fault.”

  “Because that’s what their attorney has told them to think. You think they dreamed up this defective leaf spring theory on their own? Of course not. That’s the lawyer’s work. He’s looking for a deep pocket. After all, if the accident was the kid’s own fault, the parents are not going to get any money from anyone. And that lawyer is probably working on a contingency fee.”

  “The Nelsons don’t strike me as particularly greedy—”

  “It’s not just greed. It’s expiation. How horrible they must feel—they were with their son when it happened. They permitted him to ride on that flatbed—probably encouraged him to do it. Can you imagine the guilt they must feel? How much better if they can blame a third party, and transfer all their guilt to them.”

  Ben had to admit there could be some truth in what King said. He had seen attempts at absolution through litigation before. “Last question, sir. Do you know where Al Austin is today?”

  “No,” he said hastily.

  “Any idea at all?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  Was it just that Ben didn’t like the man, or was there something more? For whatever reason, Ben had a distinct mental image of the man’s nose getting longer with each denial. “Can you explain why he left Apollo?”

  “I doubt that even Al could explain why he left. I liked Al, I really did, but he was the kind of guy who was never happy with whatever he was doing. Always looking for something better. For all I know, he left to discover America, or write the great American novel, or climb the mountains of Nepal.”

  “I hope not,” Ben said. “I doubt if I can get a subpoena served in Nepal.”

  “Leave Al alone,” King said wearily. “He’s of no use to you.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I keep hearing.”

  Jenny bounced back to their table. “What’s wrong? You haven’t knocked.” She giggled and jiggled. “Don’t you have an appetite?”

  Innuendoes for an appetizer. Neat. “I do,” Ben said. “I’d like some Buffalo wings.”


  “We don’t have that,” she replied. “But if you like, Megan will do the funky chicken on your table.”

  “That’s quite all right. What do you have?”

  “Hamburgers.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing else.” She winked. “Except knockers, of course.”

  Ben sighed. “Hamburgers it is, then. By the way, is there any chance you could change the channel on that television?”

  29

  BACK AT HIS OFFICE, Ben finished dictating his notes on his meeting with Bernie King. There was something there, but he wasn’t sure what. One thing he was sure of, though—he was tired of all these calm, placid faces telling him not to worry, not to investigate, not to stir things up. Millions of dollars were potentially at stake, and everyone in the company was going out of the way to appear blasé about learning what really happened. That just didn’t ring true.

  After a few more moments’ thought, Ben picked up the phone and dialed his old office on the North Side. Loving answered the phone.

  “Loving? This is Ben. How’s business?”

  He heard a noise on the other end of the line that he took for sullen grunting. “Aww, I’m making ends meet, Skipper. Been tailing naughty husbands, mostly. It ain’t the same since you left, though. You brought in such weird clients. There was always someone I could extract information from.”

  Usually by terrorizing them and threatening to make their lives a misery, Ben reflected. Ben had first met Loving after he’d represented Loving’s wife in their divorce. Loving had burst into Ben’s office one day, enraged, ready to do some damage. He was so grateful afterward when Ben didn’t press charges that he offered to help Ben out with his fledgling practice. Eventually, he began working full time as Ben’s private investigator. He was generally effective, although his methods were as a rule less than subtle.

  “Did you ever figure out where the ex-husband in the Crawford case hid all his money?” Ben asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Days ago. Piece of cake.”

  “What’d you do? Trace his bank transfers through computer networks?”

  “Nah. I held him upside down over a swimming pool till he volunteered the information. You know, dip his head under for a minute, pull it out for a second. You’d be amazed how willing he was to talk after a while.”