Justice Returns (Ben Kincaid series Book 19)

by William Bernhardt

  “Of course.” I willed my voice not to tremble.

  “Good. We do not have to be enemies. I sense we are not so far apart in our thinking as you imagine.”

  The thumb hurt, but damned if I was going to tell him that. “I have yet to be convinced.”

  “Then please allow me to try.” He removed his hand. “Perhaps some fresh air. It is a lovely day. Will you walk with me?”

  Ten minutes later, after we passed through some security checkpoints, we were outside. I wondered if he meant to be ironic when he said it was a lovely day. This time of year, the weather in OKC was rarely lovely, mostly hot and humid, and this part of downtown wasn’t even close. OKC had made great strides in recent years. Bricktown had been converted to a genuinely attractive pedestrian center for shopping and dining. But other parts of the city remained an eyesore.

  And then there was the matter of the wind. Chicago was known as the Windy City, but statistically speaking, OKC was windier. The downtown area had a system of underground tunnels so workers could avoid going outside indefinitely. If the wind wasn’t bad enough, the sun was. Summer in OKC typically varied from too hot to miserably too hot, till you got to August, when it was simply best to be somewhere else.

  “You have not asked about my background, Mr. Kincaid. Are you curious? Or has your crack research team already told you everything you need to know?”

  More satire? “I don’t know anything about you, actually. There’s nothing online.”

  “That is one of the great perks of working in intelligence. I cannot say the same for you, Mr. Kincaid. You are all over the Net. And some of it I am sorry to report is rather unkind.”

  “All my sins remembered.”

  “Yes, this information age has too often put the least accurate or flattering data in the hands of those least equipped to use it wisely. I would not like every insecure hatemonger with a web browser to be able to review every mistake I have ever made.”

  “Mistakes made here? Or in Iraq?”

  “Both, I am sorry to say.” He walked at a brisk and steady pace. I had to work to keep up with him.

  “What did you do in Iraq?”

  “I was a member of the Republican Guard. Do you know what that means?”

  “It means you were in the Iraqi army.”

  “Correct. I was in intelligence. An interrogator, there as here.”

  “Omar mentioned that he had some contact with you in Iraq.”

  An eyebrow rose. “Indeed? I do not recall that. But I was very busy, and I saw many Americans. I was very good at my job. Which is what brought me to the attention of the CIA.”

  I remembered what Oz told me. “You switched sides.”

  “There were no longer sides. The Hussein reign of terror was over, and the Guard was disbanded. The government was in chaos. I had to eat. The US government was aware of my . . . activities. And how effective my work had been.”

  “You tortured US soldiers?”

  “I interrogated them. On a few occasions. Most of my work pertained to Iraqi citizens, before the operation you know as Desert Storm.”

  “So the US recruited you.”

  “They needed help. Intelligence gathering was at an all-time low. It is now commonly accepted that the decision to invade Iraq was based on poor intelligence. And you may believe that if you wish. If their intelligence gathering were to improve, they needed men who knew how to persuade prisoners to talk. I was not the only man recruited from the Guard. After the US withdrew from Iraq, I was transferred stateside so I could use my talents on domestic prisoners.”

  “Like Omar. Did you learn anything of value from him?”

  He hesitated.

  “If I file a lawsuit,” I said, “you will be required to testify and to produce all records.”

  “Not if there is a national security issue.”

  “Then the records will be produced in camera—for the judge’s eyes only. But they will still be produced.”

  Still no response.

  “My client suggested you had some kind of grudge against him. Not relating to terrorism. Something personal.”

  Nazir didn’t blink. “I never allow personal matters to affect my work.”

  “Roger Thrillkill told me the interrogation was part of an investigation into some alleged terrorist plot,” I said. “Something about a new weapon.”

  “It is much more than alleged. The threat is real. It is imminent.”

  “So I’m supposed to believe that terrorists are swarming around Oklahoma City?”

  “It has happened before, has it not?”

  His words hit me like a sledgehammer. All at once, I realized why he’d brought me out here. We’d ascended the crest of a hill, and only a few blocks away I could see the Oklahoma City National Memorial, built on the site of the former Murrah building. The place where a terrorist bomb killed 168 people. The Memorial made sure no one ever forgot. The Gates of Time marked the moment just before and just after the devastation. The Reflecting Pool allowed people to peer in and see someone forever changed by what happened. The bronze chairs reminded everyone what was lost. One chair for each death. Nineteen tiny chairs for the children.

  “You are probably aware that terrorists love anniversaries,” Nazir said. “The Oklahoma City bombing was on the anniversary of Ruby Ridge. 9/11 was on the anniversary of the British mandate allowing immigration into Palestine. It would be extremely difficult for terrorists to strike again at the newly rebuilt World Trade Center. Oklahoma City is far more vulnerable.”

  My mouth went dry. I searched my brain for some rebuttal, but I couldn’t come up with one.

  “How many people do you know who work in this area, Mr. Kincaid? How many friends? How many loved ones?”

  I did not answer.

  “I believe you and your wife share an office downtown, correct?”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  “If you had been in court the day of the Murrah bombing, you would feel differently. I have seen my homeland ravaged by terrorists. And war. By evil allowed to flourish undeterred.”

  He turned toward me, once again placing that firm hand on my shoulder. “You are a smart and caring man, Mr. Kincaid. Compassionate. I am sure you feel strongly about your country. And your friends and loved ones. Instead of being enemies, let us work together to stop this looming threat in our midst.”

  I cleared my throat. I had a difficult time forming words. “No one wants to see another bombing.”

  “Agreed. And if I can do anything to stop it, I will. Anything.”

  11

  Thursday night is date night for Christina and me, so we already had a sitter lined up to watch the girls. As usual, we spent the night playing Scrabble.

  If other people enjoy date night at a Bricktown dance club, or catching the latest Marvel movie, more power to them. I don’t. I’d much rather spend a quiet evening at home with my wife. We had dinner at the Roundhouse, then came home after baby bedtime.

  Other people play card games for relaxation. Some people find that chess helps them concentrate. We like Scrabble. What can I say; we’re word people. And I’ve been playing this game so long my brain anagrams letters on autopilot. Even when I’m driving, my brain compulsively rearranges the letters on billboards or bumper stickers. I don’t know if everyone realizes that “Pontiac” is an anagram of “caption,” but I do. I never looked at the back of one without doing the mental rearrangement.

  Christina says this is a sign of deep-seated psychosis. I prefer to think of it as quirky.

  “So cutting to the chase,” she said, as she laid a Z on a triple-letter square, “you’re going to take this impossible case, aren’t you?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind.” I was distracted by her play. Her Z adjoined not one but two perpendicular As, thus making the word “za” twice, scoring over sixty points. “And that is just not right. I don’t accept ‘za’ as a real word.”

  “Take is up with the editors of the Scrabble Players Dic
tionary.”

  “No thanks. I think they jumped the shark with the fourth edition.”

  “Like you’ve never played za.”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “Then I must’ve missed the point.” She totaled her score and recorded it. “I don’t know the real reason the CIA interrogated Oz so long, but I suspect they thought they were acting in the best interests of the nation.”

  I extended her “za” into “zaftig,” making a modest twenty points. “But the end does not always justify the means. Some means are acceptable under the law and some are not.”

  “Yes, I went to law school, too. But don’t you think there are times when national security becomes more important than abstract rights?”

  “I think any time we face serious trouble, there will be someone who thinks it’s permissible to rewrite the Constitution.”

  “Lincoln did it. FDR, too. And they were not bad guys.” She referred to Lincoln’s suspension of habeas corpus and Roosevelt’s restrictions on freedom of speech, both done during wartime by executive order—meaning they didn’t go through Congress.

  “True. But one of the primary injustices the founding fathers hoped to eliminate was the crown seizing people without informing them of the charge. And I can’t believe anyone thinks torture is acceptable, even if it works. Most of the studies conducted by Amnesty International indicate that the information obtained by torture is rarely reliable. Subtler approaches produce more beneficial results.”

  She drew more tiles out of the bag. “But bottom line—is this a case you want to be associated with?”

  “I’m planning to keep a low profile.”

  “The press will be all over this the instant you file. The feds will have to make some public comment. And then the twenty-four-hour news crowd will weigh in. You may have the heart of Clarence Darrow, but they’ll make you out to be Satan incarnate. Particularly here in the heartland, where televised debates mean two speakers compete to see who can be the most right-wing.”

  “You’re exaggerating. I can handle a little negative publicity. It’s not like it’s never happened before.”

  “Yeah. But when you’re all sulky and moody because you think everyone hates you, I’m the one who has to live with it.”

  “I am never sulky.”

  “Ri-i-ight.” She laid down “goofy,” using the G in my “zaftig.” I hoped she was just playing the game, not making commentary.

  “Or moody.”

  “You were moody last night.”

  “That was different. That was—” I stopped. This was date night. I wouldn’t drag my concerns about Emily into it. “I can’t shy away from tough cases. That would defeat the whole point of getting into this business.”

  She sighed. “Would you at least make sure this Oz character can pay his legal bills? And that he isn’t a paranoid freak?”

  “I think he genuinely believes he’s been wronged, and he wants me to believe it, too.”

  “You said before he’s got a girlfriend.”

  “Abdullah’s sister.” Maybe. I remembered what Thrillkill said.

  “So those two are into each other in an even bigger way. And you know what that means.”

  “Not yet. You gonna tell me?”

  “If Abdullah is involved with terrorists, like all those feds say, then his sister must know about it. Odds are she’s involved, too. Terrorism tends to run along family lines.”

  “Let’s not make any stereotypical assumptions. That’s not necessarily true.”

  “It’s not necessarily true that drug addicts are unproductive or that OU football fans are obsessive or that poets are insane. But when have you ever known one who wasn’t?”

  “We have to take a strong line against stereotyping, especially when it runs along racial lines. Maybe Abdullah has been subjected to so much scrutiny because he’s Middle Eastern and rich. I’ve wondered if the feds didn’t originally go after Omar because his name made them think he was Middle Eastern. Must’ve been a shock when he turned out to be whiter than me.”

  “No one is whiter than you, Ben.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Are you going to play?”

  I laid my tiles down. I played “yacht” extending from the Y in her “goofy.” Which put me exactly two points ahead. Now was the time to make my full-court press. I could win this game yet. After all, I was the king of anagrams. And I had the J on my rack. “Take that.”

  “Oh my. I’m trembling.”

  “I think I’ve made up my mind. I hope you won’t be upset.”

  “I knew you were going to take this case a long time ago, husband.”

  “He says Abdullah will pay his legal fees.”

  “And I predict that will fall through.”

  “How can you possibly know?”

  “Call it a hunch. Based on experience. And you’ll continue representing him anyway.”

  “What are you, the oracle of Delphi?”

  “Those who do not study history are doomed to repeat it.”

  “I’m not as predictable as you think.”

  “You are to me.”

  “Am not.”

  “You played “yacht” because your rack was consonant heavy. You played into the bottom line, thinking next time you’re going to build horizontally into the triple-word square. You’re saving your best tile, the J, so you can triple it and win the game.”

  The worst part was now I couldn’t play “junket” without proving her right, and I was really looking forward to that. “I’m pleading the fifth.”

  “Thought so.”

  “But I am taking the case.”

  “I know. But ask yourself one question. How much of your decision is based on the cause being just—and how much is based on guilt?”

  “Guilt? Guilt about what?”

  “I don’t know. You haven’t told me yet. But I know that look in my boy’s eyes.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  The doorbell rang. Christina looked just as puzzled as I was. We didn’t socialize that much, and unexpected visitors were a rarity at any time, much less this late at night.

  “I’ll go,” I said throwing on a robe.

  Christina held me back. “Ben . . . maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Word is already out that you’ve been talking to a . . . person of interest. Maybe even that you’re planning to represent him. Given your history of taking on lost causes, it wouldn’t be a big leap.”

  “You think they’ve already put out a fatwa on me?”

  “I think I love my husband, and I don’t want to lose him.”

  “You’re being silly.”

  “Ben—”

  “I promise to look through the peephole before I open the door.”

  And I did. But nothing on earth could’ve prepared me for what I saw. A terrorist with a rocket launcher would have been less surprising.

  12

  “Julia!”

  My little sister didn’t say a word. She just walked into my arms and stayed there. I hadn’t seen her in years. I hadn’t had a hug from her in that much longer.

  Once upon a time, growing up in Oklahoma City, we were the best of friends. We’re only two years apart. Many siblings squabble and compete. We never did. I tell people this, and they say, “Sure you did. You just don’t remember.” But they’re wrong. We were not only siblings but best friends. Until all that ended .

  I suppose it’s inevitable that relationships change. But perhaps not as dramatically as they did for us. Part of it was high school. She acquired a new set of friends and engaged in activities I didn’t like. Including dating Omar—not that it was any of my business. But my disapproval of her spoiled-rich-kid-jock boyfriend was a big part of why the relationship didn’t last. By college we were in completely different orbits. She disappeared, lost a lot of weight, gained a lot of weight, married my college pal Mike, divorced Mike, married a much wealthier doctor, had
a son, left the doctor . . . etc. Real life stuff.

  The nadir was probably when, in desperation, she dumped her infant son, Joey, on me. I did my best, but parenting did not come naturally or easily, and with a trial practice exploding all around me, I just didn’t have time. That era was full of surprises. One was the shocking discovery that Joey was autistic. The other was the perhaps even more shocking discovery that Joey was actually Mike’s son—something even Mike didn’t know.

  Julia finally got her life in order (temporarily) and returned for Joey, abruptly, unexpectedly, just as the kid and I were learning how to live with one another. I haven’t seen her since. Have tried to track her down repeatedly. Without success.

  “You came home,” she said, her long blonde hair cascading off her shoulders. I was relatively certain the color wasn’t natural, but what adult blonde’s hair color is? She appeared trim—the best shape I’d seen her in since we were kids. “I never would’ve believed it.”

  “It doesn’t seem like home. I mean, you know. Like it used to be.”

  “Thank God for that.” She took a few steps into the cavernous living room. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Which would appear to be . . . absolutely nothing.”

  “Mother already had it furnished far better than I could have done.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “She has better things to do than blow money at Mathis Brothers.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Christina emerged, wrapping a robe around herself. “I don’t recall you inviting me to blow money at Mathis Brothers.”

  An ear-to-ear grin spread across Julia’s face. “You must be Christina.”

  The two women sized each other up. “And you must be Julia. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “About me? From whom?”

  “Well, I still talk to Mike from time to time.”

  “You do?” I was surprised. I stayed in touch with Mike, too, and he’d never mentioned it.

  “Plus, there’s a lot of stuff about you two on the Internet.”

  Christina blinked. “Good or bad?”