Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Lester stopped in front of the last cell on the left and opened the door. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “I know the drill,” Ben replied.

  “Hey, I’m not supposed to do this, but if you want, I could slip your card to those two drunks.”

  “Thanks just the same. I’m kind of busy right now.” Ben stepped into the cell. The iron door clanged shut behind him.

  She was lying on the bottom level of the metal bunk bed in the tiny six-by-eight-foot cell, beside the exposed sink and lidless toilet, the only decorative fixtures. Her eyes were shut; Ben couldn’t tell if she was asleep.

  Gradually, her eyes opened. “Ben?” She sat upright and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “That you?”

  “It’s me,” he said softly.

  “Thank heaven.” She stood slowly, hobbled unevenly to the sink and splashed water onto her face.

  She looked awful. She was still wearing the clothes she had been picked up in. Her yellow leotards had a huge run. Her long red hair was sticking out in every direction at once. Mascara was smeared all over the side of her face.

  Ben sat on the edge of the lower bunk. “So, what have you been up to?”

  Christina sat down on the opposite end of the bed. “Well, I haven’t killed anybody, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “I assumed that much. How did you get into this mess?”

  “It’s hard to explain. I told you I was going to meet Tony Lombardi. He was delayed by a business meeting.”

  “And his business was running drugs.”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “Did you ever see anything suspicious?”

  “No. Never. Tony told me he was in the import-export business.”

  “At least he wasn’t a liar. Did you ever see any of his imported goods?”

  “Yeah. Parrots.”

  “Parrots?”

  “Rare South American parrots. Supposed to be very valuable.”

  “South America, huh? That figures.” Ben batted his lips with his pencil. “What happened last night?”

  Christina pressed her fingers against her temples. “To be perfectly honest, Ben, I’m a little fuzzy on last night. I got a message telling me to meet Tony at his place. I did, but he wasn’t home yet. I turned on the TV, poured myself a drink, and waited. I must’ve fallen asleep. When I woke up, it was two o’clock in the morning, and Tony was lying on the floor with a huge chunk of his head missing.”

  “That must’ve been a shock.”

  “It…was.” She laughed softly. “And like the genius I am, I got up to investigate, rubbed my fingerprints all over everything, crouched over the body, and a nanosecond later the FBI showed up.”

  “I don’t suppose you saved the message?”

  “Nope. Tossed it in the trash. It’s long gone by now.”

  “And the message was from Lombardi?”

  “That’s what the receptionist said: But anyone could’ve called in and claimed to be him. She wouldn’t know.”

  “I suppose they remembered to read you your rights.”

  “Alas, yes.” Christina wiped her face with her sleeve. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Were they…rough on you? I mean…”

  Christina nodded. “They were okay. Under the circumstances. These guys were FBI, after all. They weren’t going to let some loose cannon get their case thrown out.” She paused; her eyes seemed to withdraw. “Didn’t care much for the strip search, though. And the delousing spray definitely did not make me feel minty fresh.”

  Ben tried not to wince.

  “So, counselor,” Christina said, “are you going to take my case?”

  “What, me? You don’t want me to represent you.”

  “Au contraire, mon ami. I do.”

  “Christina, this is really…serious. I’m no criminal trial expert. Get Pat Williams. He’s the best.”

  “I don’t want Pat Williams. I can’t afford Pat Williams. I want you.” Her voice quieted. “You’re the best. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “Christina, I don’t think this is wise.”

  “Are you saying you won’t do this one little thing for me?”

  “Christina, these accusations—this case could be really…important.”

  “If that’s your articulate way of reminding me that the death penalty is a possibility, believe me, Ben, I know.” She looked him square in the eyes. “I think it’s essential that my attorney believe I’m innocent. You know I didn’t kill Tony! I want you, Ben.”

  “There are any number of experienced trial attorneys who would realize you’re innocent.”

  Christina leaned forward and placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder. “I want more than that, Ben. I want to find out who really killed Tony. I want the SOB who set me up.”

  Ben scrutinized her face. “All right,” he said finally. He stood up. “But I reserve the right to affiliate co-counsel if I get in over my head.”

  “Fine.” She placed her hands behind her head and stretched out on the bed.

  “I’ll try to get you out of this rathole as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’ll go by your apartment and pick up a change of clothes. Have you got a key?”

  She looked at him pointedly. “I haven’t changed my locks, Ben.”

  “Oh. Well. Fine then. I’ll also talk to Mike and see what he knows.”

  “Good plan.”

  “If you need anything, just send word through Lester. I’ll stay in touch.”

  “Ben?”

  “Yes?”

  Christina sat up. She opened her mouth, started to say something, then said something else. “Merci beaucoup.”

  6

  BEN FELT LIKE A laboratory rat trying to find the path to the cheese in a gigantic maze. The plaza was easy enough. Wind your way through the roller bladers, the street preachers, and the panhandlers—and you find Tulsa’s municipal offices. But how long had they been renovating the interior—six, maybe eight months? At least that long. And every day, the barricades and ropes changed, and Ben had to rediscover his way around. Usually, of course, he was only trying to get to traffic court. Today he had an even more difficult chore—plowing through the jumbled, poorly marked offices of the Law Enforcement Division.

  Eventually, Ben spotted the glass door marked TULSA POLICE DEPARTMENT-CENTRAL. He walked inside. It was still early; no one was at the reception desk. In the most remote corner of the department HQ, Ben located the cubicle labeled LT. M. MORELLI. Ben and Mike Morelli had been friends since college days, when they were roommates and fellow Liberal Arts majors, reading Faulkner by day and making music in pizza parlors by night. Then Mike married Ben’s younger sister, Julia. Everybody knew it was a bad match—everybody but Mike and Julia. Mike worked his butt off for three years, but still the result was an intensely nasty divorce, which strained Ben and Mike’s friendship to the breaking point. Since Ben moved to Tulsa last year, he’d been trying to revive their friendship. But the effort was slow work—like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle that came together one piece at a time.

  Mike’s cubicle was as bland as they come. The only feature Ben could call a decoration was a coat rack bearing a stained overcoat and a loaded gun holster. Mike was on the phone, but as soon as he saw Ben, he said, “I’ll have to get back to you later, Ellie.”

  He swiveled his chair around. “It’s Benjamin Kincaid, counselor-at-law.”

  “And Lieutenant Michelangelo Morelli, homicide investigator,” Ben replied. “Why do I feel we should now execute the secret handshake?”

  “Must be a throwback to our wicked college days.”

  “Yeah. So give me the straight scoop, Mike. What are the charges against Christina?”

  Mike looked at him gravely. “Murder one, I’m afraid.”

  “Why murder one?”

  “Well…it doesn’t look very accidental.”

  “Maybe it was self-defense.”

  “No signs of a struggle.”

  “Maybe Lombardi shot himself.”


  “Four times? In the head?”

  “Oh.” Ben fell into one of Mike’s chairs. “Are you handling the case?”

  “Nope. Outside my jurisdiction.”

  “Can’t you make it your jurisdiction?”

  “No.” Mike fingered a manila folder on his desk. “I’ve got bad news for you. And Christina. What do you know about jurisdiction over crimes committed on tribal lands?”

  “I know it’s incredibly complicated. Why?”

  Mike opened the file and read an address aloud. “That lodge where Lombardi was killed is on tribal land. Creek Nation. With a name like Lombardi, I would’ve sworn he was all-Italian, but it turns out he was part-Creek.”

  “Are we talking about tribal courts?”

  Mike shook his head. “Christina was arrested by FBI agents in the course of an ongoing narcotics investigation. They’re planning to charge her with drug-related homicide under the new ‘continuing criminal enterprise’ statute—which, I might remind you, is the only death penalty statute in the entire federal criminal code.”

  Ben felt a dryness in his throat. “Give me the bottom line, Mike.”

  “This one’s going to be tried in federal court.”

  “Oh, great. A murder trial in federal court. With the death penalty.” He pressed his fingers against his temples. “She was in the county jail.”

  “That’s where the feds keep their prisoners. They don’t have cells of their own, so they rent space from us.”

  “Will the feds push this?”

  “They will,” Mike said grimly. “This isn’t a grounder, Ben. It could be a grand slam for them. With all the connections Lombardi had to organized crime and South American drugs, the case takes on a larger significance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is the kind of case a guy like Alexander Moltke can really make pay off for him.”

  Alexander Moltke, the U.S. Attorney. Sailing through life with one eye on his press clippings and the other eye on a soon-to-be-available Senate seat. “You think he’ll use this case for a publicity play?”

  “That’s what prosecutors do, isn’t it? Stay away from controversy, wait for the right case, and run for election in the courtroom.”

  “Damn. And the FBI is involved?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe. The white shirts have been trying to get the goods on Lombardi and his druglord bosses for over a year. And they’re still trying.”

  “So Christina ends up as shark bait. Let some blood and try to attract the big fish. This stinks, Mike. How long till the grand jury sits?”

  “Not long. The feds have filed a complaint so they can detain her in the meantime. And as you well know, the grand jury is just a formality. The government can get any indictment it wants.”

  Ben took a deep breath. “Mike, I need—”

  “Let me stop you right there. What I’ve told you so far is already a matter of public record. Beyond that, I can’t help you.”

  Ben stared at him, stunned. “What do you mean, you can’t help?”

  “Just that.”

  “You know damn well Christina wouldn’t kill anybody.”

  “On the contrary, Ben, if I’ve learned anything during my time as a police officer, it’s that anyone is capable of doing anything, under the right circumstances.”

  Ben could see Mike was falling into his tough-guy routine again. That was Mike: the shell of Hammett, the heart of Rimbaud.

  “How do I know what happened this morning?” Mike continued. “Maybe Lombardi was two-timing her. Maybe she decided to join the war on drugs. Maybe he tried to molest her. Anything could have happened. Anyway, I can’t help you.”

  “Not even for old times’ sake?”

  “Before we were both working together to accomplish the same goal. This is different. This time we’re on opposite sides.”

  Ben couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I didn’t realize we were on sides. I thought we were both trying to discover the truth. What really happened.”

  “Well, you’ve been needing to grow up for a long time now.” Mike took his pipe and tamper out of his desk drawer. “Frankly, Ben, most of the guys in this office couldn’t be less interested in convicting Christina; we consider this a community service homicide. But the feds are going forward gung-ho, and we’ve been told to assist whenever possible and otherwise stay out of the way. And I intend to do just that.”

  There was a long silence, as if they had forgotten their lines. Both men avoided eye contact.

  “Can you at least tell me what happened?” Ben asked.

  “I can tell you what I know. You could get that through pretrial discovery anyway.” He pressed the tamper deep into the bowl of his pipe. “The FBI, in association with our office, has been stalking Tony Lombardi for some time. They believe he’s a smuggler for Albert DeCarlo.”

  Ben whistled. Yet more bad news. DeCarlo had been the subject of more investigations than the Loch Ness monster, but no one had ever made anything stick. If Tulsa had a crime boss, he was it.

  “The feds think DeCarlo is big with the Cali cartel, running drugs up from Colombia. Since the Medellin cartel bit the bullet with Noriega and got out of the business, the Cali goons are the feds’ number-one target. They say DeCarlo’s involved in every aspect of the drug pipeline—handling, warehousing, airstrips, planes, boats, bribery—the whole works. And having successfully put the alleged number-four man in the Medellin cartel away a few years ago—”

  “José Abello.” Ben remembered the trial well. It was probably the biggest criminal trial Tulsa had ever had.

  “Right. Having done that, the feds now hope to snag someone even bigger. You know, to exemplify the escalating war on drugs. And they hope to shut down the Tulsa connection in the process.”

  “The Tulsa connection? Sounds like a TV movie.”

  Mike thumped his pipe against his desk and searched for a match. “It’s serious stuff, believe me. Sickening as it may be, our little town has become a distribution center for South American drugs. Getting them into Mexico is easy, and from there, it’s just a short hop over the border to us. Texas has been cracking down, making life miserable for drug runners, so they’ve been skipping the Lone Star State and coming straight to Oklahoma. And from Tulsa, it’s just a drive down the interstate to anywhere else in the country.”

  What the hell had Christina gotten herself into? “That explains why the feds are involved,” Ben said, “but what’s all this drug business got to do with the murder?”

  “A major shipment of cocaine was delivered last night, or so the feds believe. Anyway, four federal agents with a warrant burst into Lombardi’s apartment, around two o’clock this morning, hoping to find the drugs. Instead, they found Tony Lombardi lying on the floor with four bullet holes in his head.” He paused. “And Christina hovering over the body.”

  “That hardly proves she killed him.”

  “Her prints are all over the place.”

  “So? We know she was at the apartment. There could be a million explanations for that.”

  “We’re only interested in one.”

  “Can you get me in to see the scene of the crime?”

  Mike shrugged. “You have that right under the law. I don’t see any reason to make you file a lot of paperwork.”

  “I assume you’ll have access to the forensic tests.”

  “True.”

  “Will you copy me on all the test results?”

  “You mean, will I allow you to inspect any clearly exculpatory evidence we obtain?”

  “No. I want to see everything, Mike.”

  “The toxicology and microscopy reports won’t be completed for days,” Mike hedged.

  “The autopsy is probably already finished.”

  “Ben, you know goddamn well we’re not required to produce every shred of evidence we turn up!”

  Ben waited until Mike’s eyes met his. “I’m not asking you as a police officer, Mike.”

  Mike looked
away. He swiveled his chair around and stared at the back wall of his cubicle. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said quietly.

  “Thanks, pal.”

  “But don’t be hanging around here a lot, okay? Bad for my reputation.” His voice took on a somber tone. “You need to be careful this time, Ben. Very careful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re playing with the big boys. Organized crime. South American drug cartels. And worst of all, the FBI. If you get in their way, they will not be kind.”

  “They may call in my unpaid parking tickets?”

  “They may blow your fucking head off, Ben.”

  “Oh.” The air around them seemed to go flat. “I’m not dropping this, Mike.”

  “Then watch your backside, chum. At all times.”

  Ben rose. If this talk was intended to scare him, it was working. “Well, I have about a million things to do.…”

  “Ben?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you interested in this case because Christina is your friend, or…?”

  “She’s asked me to represent her.”

  “I was afraid of that. You may want to reconsider.”

  “Look, Morelli, I may not be the best attorney in the world, but I hardly think—”

  “Do you know who this case has been assigned to?”

  “The district court judge won’t be assigned until after the indictment.”

  “Technically, that’s true. But consider—Judge Collins is practically retired, and Judge Schmidt is up to his eyeballs in that huge Sand Springs RICO class action. Who do you think is going to get this case?”

  A cold chill spread through Ben’s body. “No.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Ben slapped his forehead. “I can’t believe it. What else could go wrong?”

  “I don’t think it gets much worse than this. Not for you, anyway.”

  “He’ll have to recuse himself. He knows her—he used to work with her.”