Extreme Justice

by William Bernhardt

  He jumped up, grabbed the top of the fence, and swung his legs over. He had flopped onto the other side and was just about to scramble down when he heard the staccato static of the police radio.

  “Suspect is male, thin, about five foot five with brown hair, balding slightly in the back …”

  Ben released his grip on the fence and dropped to the ground.

  “Freeze! Hands in the air!”

  Ben threw up his hands. He whirled around and saw three police cars, red sirens swirling. Officers flanked each car, their guns extended over the open car doors, ready to fire given the slightest provocation.

  “I can explain,” Ben said meekly.

  “Of course you can,” the officer in front growled as he reached for his cuffs.

  Ben suspected he was not going to make it home in time for the John Prine concert.

  It was almost midnight before he managed to convince the Tulsa Police Department, Central Division, that he was neither a cat burglar nor Ray, the ex-husband from hell. Mike had dropped by during the interrogation, mostly just to make fun, but he had at least put in a good word.

  “Has your landlady made calls like this before?” they asked.

  “No. Well, not that I know of.”

  “This kind of behavior could be dangerous,” one of his interrogators said earnestly. “People could get hurt, including her. She needs someone watching her.”

  “I know.”

  They finally let him go with a stern warning about the dangers of breaking into apartments, even your friends’, and after extracting a promise that Ben would try to keep Mrs. Marmelstein out of trouble.

  He staggered home. What was this, the third night in a week, home after midnight? It was getting old.

  He stopped outside Mrs. Marmelstein’s door. Normally he wouldn’t knock at this hour, but he saw the light was on under the door. He tapped gently.

  “Come in,” she said.

  Ben pushed the door open and entered. She was sitting in her rocker recliner, an array of sepia-toned photographs in her lap.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she said, sniffing.

  “You’re up late.”

  “What are you talking about? I just got up.”

  He didn’t bother to correct her. “Can we talk about that phone call you made this evening?”

  “What phone call?” She picked up another photo. She seemed to be arranging them into separate piles, although what the distinctions were Ben couldn’t tell.

  “The one you made to me. At the club. About Christina and her ex-husband.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She continued her sorting.

  “Mrs. Marmelstein, you did call me.”

  “Have I ever shown you this photo?” She looked up for the first time, her face bright and sunny, but still a pale reflection of the Mrs. Marmelstein that Ben had known so well. “Daniel and I were at the beach on Long Island. That was before we moved to Tulsa. Before Daniel invested in the oil industry.”

  Ben took the photograph from her. It was at least fifty years old. It showed the two of them, so much younger they were like different people, wearing old-fashioned bathing suits and sitting under a huge beach umbrella. Two people from another world.

  “I should probably go to bed,” Ben said.

  “Now? But we just got up.”

  Ben sighed. “Mrs. Marmelstein, how would you feel if … well, if you went to live somewhere else?”

  “Somewhere else? What do you mean?”

  “You could live where people would help you, take care of things.”

  Mrs. Marmelstein gave him a sharp, unhappy look.

  “Well, we’ll talk about it in the—later.” He kissed her on the forehead, then left the room and closed the door behind him.

  A gloom had settled over him that he couldn’t seem to shake. He thought about playing the piano a bit, or listening to a Christine Lavin CD, but somehow he wasn’t in the mood. He fed Giselle, guzzled half a quart of chocolate milk straight out of the carton, and climbed into bed.

  He tried to clear his head of the events of the day, the unresolved issues. He tried to forget it all so he could relax and sleep. Tomorrow was another day, he reminded himself. I’ll solve everyone’s problems then.

  Eventually his eyelids drooped shut.

  And then flew open. Who’s balding slightly in the back?

  Chapter 20

  FIRST THING NEXT morning, Ben drove south and parked beside the tree-lined sidewalks of Warren Place. He couldn’t help but marvel as he stepped into the glass-enclosed elevator in the ritzy main office building. This was a first-rate office facility, far nicer than the dump he had operated out of downtown. Ben knew that Jones and Loving had taken office space, but he had no idea they might be able to get—or be able to afford—anything half as nice as this.

  He stepped inside the elevator and pressed 7. How is it, he wondered, that he had practiced law in a dump for years, most of the time barely making enough to pay the rent, and now these two nonprofessionals were set up in ritzy digs on the South Side of town?

  The bell rang, he stepped off the elevator …

  … and into the arms of a huge barrel-chested, muscle-bound man.

  “Skipper! It’s you!” Loving said. He wrapped Ben into his arms and squeezed like a boa constrictor. “I can’t believe it’s really you!”

  “It’s good seeing you too, Loving,” Ben said, shaking off the viselike display of affection. Ben could remember when Loving was too uptight to put his arm around another man, much less embrace one in public. Actually, he had preferred that.

  “Back home again. Back to the fold. I can’t get over it!” He pulled away, still clinging to Ben’s arm. “So, it’s gonna be like old times!”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “I can’t get over it!” he repeated. “Even though Christina told us you’d be back.”

  Ben arched an eyebrow. “Did she now?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He escorted Ben down the corridor toward the outer door of their office. “She said you’ve run away before and you’d run away again. But you always come back.”

  “How insightful of her.” Ben opened the door and took a step inside.

  The office was magnificent. Maybe not the White House, but to Ben, it was like a professional dream come true. Plush wall-to-wall carpet. Beautiful mahogany desks. Tasteful adobe walls. And all the best office gizmos—copying machines, fax machines, computers. Even telephones with lots of little buttons.

  “How did you afford all this?”

  “The office space didn’t cost as much as you prob’ly think. You know, since the oil biz went bust, there’s been tons of empty office space around town. They’re practically giving it away. Truth is, we’re not paying much more than you used to pay for that dive downtown.”

  “You mean all the time I was sweating in that hellhole, I could’ve been here?”

  Loving cleared his throat. “That’s about the size of it, yeah.”

  “From now on, you’re in charge of real estate. Where’s Jones?”

  “Over here.” They rounded a corner and, to Ben’s surprise, found another equally large and tastefully decorated office area. Jones was hunched over his computer, typing away.

  “What’s up?” Ben asked. “Hacking into the Department of Defense?”

  Jones hurriedly typed another line into the computer, then shut it off, long before Ben had a chance to walk around and peer over his shoulder.

  How odd, Ben thought. What’s the big secret?

  Jones brushed imaginary dust off his lap and rose. “It’s great to see you again.”

  “Same here. I see you’ve been keeping busy in my absence.”

  “Oh, nothing important. Just a little typing I needed to catch up on. It’s really good to see you again.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “And surprising. I mean, I know Christina said—”

  “I k
now what Christina said.” Ben tried not to be irritated. “Where is she, anyway?”

  Jones checked the clock on the wall. “Class.”

  “What?”

  Jones looked flustered. “I mean, you know … Christina has class. Lots of class. She’s … one classy lady.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you could hardly expect a classy lady like her to be hanging around with bums like us.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ben peered intently at his former secretary. Something weird was going on. “I talked to her earlier and told her about Earl’s legal problems and that I was thinking about helping. Now that I’ve decided to get involved and he’s formally retained me, I’d like her to get started on—”

  There was a pounding on the outer office door, followed by several loud banging noises. Finally, the door opened a crack. “Could one of you bums help me?”

  It was Christina. Ben ran to the door. She was carrying three heavy boxes stacked so high she couldn’t see over the top. “Let me take one.”

  Christina didn’t argue. With a grunt, she passed two of the boxes to Ben, then pushed the door open with her foot.

  “Thanks,” she said breathlessly, after they dumped the boxes on Jones’s desk. “Like my new outfit?” She was wearing a bright lime green shirt that stopped just above her navel, a short neon orange skirt, and knee-high Day-Glo boots. “Very retro-chic, don’t you think?”

  “I think you look like Julie on The Mod Squad,” Ben answered. He peered into the top box. It was filled to the brim with dusty files, photocopies, documents. “What is all this stuff?”

  “Everything I could dig up in a few hours on the Professor Hoodoo murder.”

  “You started already?”

  She shrugged. “No time like the present.”

  “But I didn’t tell you I was taking the case. I wasn’t sure myself.”

  She winked. “I was.” She reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a stack of files. “I’ve been to the courthouse and the newspaper morgue. I made copies of everything they had on the first Earl Bonner murder case.”

  “Don’t call it the Earl Bonner murder case. He didn’t do it.”

  “Maybe not, but he sure as shootin’ pled guilty to it. And that made it the Earl Bonner murder case. Now and forever.”

  “Unless we do something about that.” He opened the top file and found the same grisly photograph Prescott had been waving around. Same blackened body. Same hideous graven smile.

  “Think there’s a connection between the two murders?” Christina asked.

  “I’m sure someone wants us to think so. Someone wants to convince the world that both murders were committed by the same man. Earl.”

  “But why?”

  “I can’t say for sure. But if you want to throw the police off your track, this is a darn good way to do it. The police have a tendency to go after the obvious answer, and to investigate only long enough to collect evidence in support of that one, first-blush theory. Real life is often a good deal more complicated.”

  Christina nodded. “I didn’t know how much work you would want to do now. Since they haven’t actually filed charges against him yet.”

  “I want to do as much work as we can possibly do now. Barring a miracle, they’ll bring charges against Earl. And once they do, it’ll just be a matter of days before the preliminary hearing. Best to dig up as much information as we can beforehand.”

  “You told me they backed off after Tyrone came forward.”

  “They didn’t change their minds about who’s guilty. They just knew they had more work to do. They’re tap-dancing around the speedy trial requirement.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “The right to a speedy trial was supposed to be a civil rights protection for defendants. It turned out to mostly help prosecutors. Prosecutors know that, as soon as they file charges, the speedy trial clock starts running, and they’ll have only a limited amount of time to put together their case and get it to trial. Consequently, more often than not, they wait until they have everything they need, then file charges. They’re ready, but the poor defendant, who may not have had a hint it was coming, has to slap everything together as quickly as possible. It gives prosecutors a big advantage.”

  “So you don’t think Earl has heard the last of the police.”

  “I know he hasn’t. But Mike’s smart. Now that he knows about Tyrone Jackson, he won’t let the D.A. file charges until they’ve figured out a way to break Tyrone’s story. Or work around it. For once, though, thanks to Lieutenant Prescott’s enormous incompetence, we have an advantage—we know Earl is a suspect and that charges will likely be forthcoming. So let’s make the most of that advantage. That means starting work now.”

  “All right, you’ve got it. Do you have any theories?”

  “Not yet. Maybe after I’ve sifted through all this material.” He smiled in admiration. “I can’t believe how quickly you put this together. I’d almost forgotten—” He looked up abruptly. “Thanks, Christina.”

  She did a little curtsy. “I live to please.”

  Ben grinned. “Next, I’d like you to see what you can find out about Tyrone.

  “Okay. Anything in particular?”

  Ben shrugged. “He’s a former Crip. Small-time con artist. Earl tells me there are a couple of warrants out for him. He’s afraid that if he testifies, the cops’ll come down on him hard.” Ben paused. “I’m afraid the prosecutor will wave the warrants in his face and offer him a deal if he doesn’t testify.”

  “Wouldn’t that be suppressing evidence? Violating the Brady rule?”

  Ben blinked. Her command of legal jargon and procedure had certainly improved. “I believe the prosecutor’s office would refer to it as impeaching controvertible evidence.”

  “Ah.”

  “So find out what you can so we can buttress Tyrone’s testimony as much as possible. And stay close to the police station. If you get any hint that they’re ready to move against Earl, let me know immediately.”

  “Got it.”

  “What about me?” Jones asked. He was leaning forward like a terrier hankering for a bone. “I could be using my sharply honed investigative skills—”

  “Actually, I need some typing done lickety-split.”

  “But I could do some of the detective work—”

  “I want to be ready with motions the second they decide to press charges. Motion to dismiss, motion to set bail …” Ben waved his hand in the air. “You know the drill.”

  Jones’s face was set and sullen. “I certainly do.”

  “What about me?” Loving said. “I wanna be in on this.”

  Ben had to grin. There was a certain excitement in the room, almost like an electric charge. He had to admit there was something … invigorating about it. Something that felt very right. And he’d never seen his staff so eager to go to work. During his hiatus from the law, they’d obviously become very motivated—or very bored.

  “I’ve got a tough one for you, Loving. I’d like you to track down the man who brought the rug to the club shortly before I, er, discovered the body.”

  “Got a description?”

  “I didn’t get a good look at him. Plus, according to Tyrone, all I saw was a disguise.”

  “Think he’s associated with a real rug company?”

  “I very much doubt it.”

  Loving’s broad chest rose and fell. “You’re not givin’ me much to go on here, Skipper.”

  “I know it won’t be easy. That’s why I need you.”

  “You old sweet-talker you. How’d he get to the club?”

  Ben snapped his fingers. “He had a van. I saw it through the window.”

  “What color was it?”

  Ben’s eyes went upward. “Well …”

  “Do you know the make? Model?”

  “You know I don’t know anything about cars.”

  “True. I was just bein’ hopeful. Could you draw me a picture?”

  Ben nodded. �
�I can try.”

  “Well, that’s somethin’. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Anything for you, Skipper.”

  “Ditto,” Jones said. “It’s good to have you back, Boss.”

  Ben held up a finger. “Now you understand, this is just for the one case. After that, I’m outta here.”

  He saw Jones give Christina a wink. “Sure, Boss. Whatever you say.”

  “I’m serious. I’m not letting myself get dragged back into practicing law. I’m just helping a friend.”

  Loving nodded, already on his way to his desk. “Gotcha.”

  “I’m serious!”

  Christina patted him on the shoulder. “We know, Ben. You’re always serious.” She grinned. “But that doesn’t mean we have to take you seriously.”

  Chapter 21

  ALTHOUGH BEN HAD nothing but admiration for Jones and Loving’s South Side digs, he was reminded of the advantages of his former low-rent downtown office as soon as he got into his van. The old place may have been seedy and cheap and surrounded by pawnshops and bail bondsmen, but it was close to the courthouses, close to the city offices, and close to the central police headquarters. Even valet parking couldn’t make him overlook the twenty minutes along Riverside Drive it took to get downtown.

  After he parked in the underground garage, he hopped up the stairs to the plaza level. On his way to police headquarters, he passed by the county courthouse. Once he’d been there on an almost daily basis, but this was the first he’d seen the building in six months. Walking by, he was flooded with a host of memories, some cherished, some not. This was the scene of so many professional triumphs. And disasters.

  He recalled his first visit ever, pleading a hopeless adoption suit. What a wreck he’d been that day. He’d never become any kind of courtroom master, but he had at least learned when to stand up, when to sit down, when to speak, and when to shut up.

  One memory sparked another. He remembered urging summary judgment for the now-defunct Apollo Consortium, remembered pleading for the life of a mentally challenged defendant. And perhaps his greatest professional triumph, defending Christina when she was charged with murder. The day he got those charges dismissed was a day he was proud to be a lawyer. Even in his darkest moments, when trials degenerated, his personal life crashed, or he was forced to endure an idiotic lawyer joke for the five millionth time, he could flash back to that case and immediately know why he was doing what he was doing.