Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Says he doesn’t remember her from Adam.”

  “Well, he sure as hell remembers me.”

  “True enough,” Mike said. “Unfortunately, contacts with counsel generally are not grounds for recusal, as well you know. I don’t see him stepping down from a high-profile case like this one promises to be.”

  Ben tried to reply, but found he was only able to produce a hoarse, choking sound. He stumbled toward the door, contemplating this hideous prospect.

  The United States versus Christina McCall—with the Honorable Judge Richard O. Derek presiding.

  Judge Derek, the newest member of the federal judiciary in the Northern District of Oklahoma, formerly in private practice at the firm of Raven, Tucker & Tubb.

  Ben’s old boss. The one who hated him.

  7

  AS BEN DROVE TO the Creek Estates Lodge, he tried to imagine what could possibly be worse than Richard Derek getting Christina’s case. All things considered, Jack the Ripper would’ve been a more agreeable judicial assignment. It had been almost eight months since Derek had been appointed to the federal judiciary, and Ben had scrupulously managed to avoid being before His Honor. This time, unfortunately, it appeared there was no way out. Not without abandoning Christina.

  Derek had been Ben’s supervising attorney back at Raven, Tucker & Tubb. Just recalling the experience gave Ben shivers. Every single day he had been required to put up with Derek’s egomaniacal, hypochondriacal ravings. Ben had suffered through as best he could. But when Ben started personally investigating the strange mutilation-murder of a client, Derek went through the roof. As a result of Ben’s investigation, the firm ended up losing a major corporate client—a client that, as Ben discovered, was suppressing evidence and embezzling large sums of money from its shareholders to create a private slush fund. But Derek didn’t care about any of that. Derek lost one of his drawing cards, and he blamed Ben. In a particularly nasty fit of pique, Derek trumped up some false charges and got Ben fired.

  About four months later, Ben heard that Derek had been appointed to the federal bench. It seemed an odd move for someone who considered himself the Prince of Litigators, but it wouldn’t be the first time the prestige and godlike power associated with a lifetime appointment to the federal judiciary had lured someone away from a lucrative practice.

  Ben pulled his Honda Accord into the parking lot. It had taken him ten minutes to get the car started, and once he had, it shuddered, sputtered, coughed, and emitted several other noises Ben knew weren’t described in the owner’s manual. He needed to take the car in for a checkup, but luxuries like that didn’t fit into his current budget. Maybe next month.

  He opened his car door and pushed himself out. Might as well stop stalling.

  Ben hated crime scenes. Maybe not worse than the prospect of being in court before Judge Derek, but certainly worse than anything else, including fingernails on chalkboard, teeth on aluminum foil, street mimes, and tax auditors. At least the corpse was gone—that provided some measure of relief—although a dark black stain on the carpet provided a grisly reminder of what had occurred earlier that morning.

  Ben had an aching, hollow feeling, as if someone had carved out his internal organs and left him an empty shell, a transparent voyeur at this place of horrible violence. He had hoped the crime scene would give him some insight as to what had happened. So far, no insight. Just revulsion.

  Ben didn’t have any illusions that he could disturb anything; he knew Mike’s men had already been over every inch of the place—the photographers with their cameras, the print boys with their dusters, the fiber boys with their tweezers. They would have tested and probed and sampled every stain, smudge, or tissue they could find. Mike undoubtedly had the room photographed and videotaped from every angle. Mike was always thorough. Ben had considered that an asset. Until now, anyway.

  Except for the ghastly bloodstain, the room seemed to be an ordinary living room in a spacious, but otherwise ordinary, apartment suite. Ben had expected something grander from a room billed as the penthouse—a sunken Jacuzzi perhaps, beside a well-stocked wet bar. Everything was in place; there was no sign of a struggle, no scrapes or scratches, nothing overturned. Ben saw the TV and, next to it, the overstuffed chair Christina must have fallen asleep in. On the table beside the chair, he saw the wine carafe from which she must have poured her drink. And on the floor, not four feet away, the telltale stain. How could he possibly have been killed so near without waking Christina? It seemed incredible, and yet, he saw no evidence that the body had been moved. There was very little splattering—just a sickening mound of congealed blood where Lombardi’s head would have been.

  There was an unpleasant odor in the room; Ben couldn’t quite identify it. Death, he supposed. He used to read about the smell of death and think, how banal, how melodramatic. But now he realized there was some indefinable odor that lingered at the site of a murder, even after all the technicians and forensic experts had scrubbed and tested and Lysoled the room from top to bottom.

  Ben suddenly realized he had to leave. He wasn’t accomplishing anything for Christina, and he certainly wasn’t doing himself any good. And Mike would probably be pretty grumpy if he vomited on the crime scene.

  Ben took a last look, then ducked back under the yellow tape. He signed out and searched for the men’s room. He needed to splash some cold water on his face, wash his hands. Try to get rid of the smell of death.

  Unlike most murder witnesses, the security guard actually seemed to enjoy being interrogated. Ben had expected another dazed testimonial from an unsuspecting innocent who suddenly found himself on the sidelines of murder, or perhaps a frightened paranoid who didn’t want to get involved. Instead, he found an amiable man in his early sixties named Holden Hatfield, eager to be of service.

  “Just call me Spud,” Spud said. “Everybody does.”

  “All right,” Ben said, “…Spud.” He refused to let himself get sidetracked into asking how everybody got Spud out of Holden Hatfield. “Did Mr. Lombardi have any visitors last night?”

  “Yup. Four. You want their names?”

  Ben marveled at his exuberance. He must’ve told this story at least twice already to the police—probably some reporters as well. Then again, why shouldn’t he be enthusiastic? Spud wasn’t a suspect; no one was even suggesting he had done something wrong. This was probably a rare opportunity for him to shine in a job that normally seemed about as dull as counting cars on the turnpike.

  “How can you be sure there were only four visitors?” Ben asked.

  Spud pointed his thumb toward his chest. “Because they all have to go through me. I have to let them inside.” He demonstrated the procedure of pushing the button on his control panel to release the front door. “And I have to activate the elevator with a key and push the floor button. I keep a list of everyone who comes in and where they’re going.” He tapped a clipboard on his desk.

  Ben stepped closer and read over Spud’s shoulder.

  “Like it says right here,” Spud continued. He brought the clipboard up about an inch from his eyes. “Only four people took the elevator to the top floor last night.”

  Ben took a giant step away from Spud. The stench of alcohol was so thick on the guard’s breath he might as well have been wearing it as cologne. Perhaps this was the lodge’s unique way of discouraging intruders. “How do you know someone didn’t, say, ride the elevator up to the ninth floor, then walk up to the tenth?”

  “ ’Cause it ain’t possible,” Spud answered. “The doors are locked from the outside. We have to maintain access to the stairwell—fire codes, you know. But once you’re in, you’re in for good. You can’t exit the stairwell until you get all the way down to the first floor.”

  “How do you know these four people weren’t going to see some other tenant on the top floor?”

  “ ’Cause there ain’t no other tenants on the top floor. Mr. Lombardi’s suite takes up the whole floor.”

  Good answer, Ben thou
ght.

  “That’s why they call it a penthouse, son.”

  “Does your list also record the times these four persons left the building?”

  “No can do, son. See, there’s only one way into the building, but there’s a couple’a ways out. There’s two back doors that are locked from the inside. You can’t use them to get in, but you can sure use them to get out. Most folks do, since those doors are closer to the parking lot.”

  “Ah,” Ben said, spotting an escape hatch. “Then someone could open a back door from the inside and let someone else in.”

  “Possibly,” Spud admitted, “but the intruder still couldn’t get nowhere. He couldn’t ride the elevator unless I activated it for him. He couldn’t enter the stairwell without my seein’ him, and even if he could, he couldn’t open the stairwell doors on any of the upper floors.”

  “Right. Locked from the outside.”

  “Absolutely correct,” Spud said. “You’re a pretty quick study, son.”

  “They teach that in law school,” Ben replied. “I don’t suppose you might’ve fallen asleep last night?”

  Spud shook his head vigorously. “Not a chance. But what if I did? Unless I open the front door or activate the elevator, nobody gets in.”

  So it seemed, Ben had to admit.

  “Doesn’t matter anyway. It didn’t happen. Let me tell you, son—I’ve been workin’ this job over three years now, and I ain’t fallen asleep once yet.” He lowered his voice a notch. “Just between you and me, every now and then, when I feel myself gettin’ a mite drowsy, I just whip out Jackie D here and take a good hard swig.” He withdrew a silver flask strapped to his leg and waved it under Ben’s nose. “Just a quick snort, and I’m wide awake again.”

  Not exactly the way they described it in driver’s ed class, Ben thought, but whatever works. “Tell me, Spud, did you recognize any of these four visitors?”

  “Recognized all of them.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Well,” Spud said, a bit awkwardly, “first of all, there was that cute redhead you’re representin’.”

  Right. Wouldn’t want to leave her out. “You saw Christina McCall come in?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Spud answered. “Couldn’t have missed her. She seemed kinda angry.” He leaned closer to Ben and whispered. “I think she was mad at Mr. Lombardi about something.”

  That’s wonderful. Just feed them a motive, why don’t you? “Who else?”

  “There was Mr. Lombardi’s lawyer, Quinn Reynolds.”

  Ben’s eyebrows rose. “Is that a fact? Any idea why he was here?”

  “Sorry. Can’t help you there. T’wern’t unusual, though. He came to see Mr. Lombardi all the time.”

  “Who else was here last night?”

  “That animal nut, Clayton Langdell.”

  The name was familiar. “Doesn’t he run some kind of society for animals?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “What would he be doing with Lombardi?”

  “He came callin’ from time to time. Don’t know what about. Don’t think they were particularly friendly.”

  Ben made a notation on his legal pad. “And the other visitor to see Lombardi?”

  Spud seemed to be prolonging the moment. Must be something good coming, Ben realized.

  “Albert DeCarlo.”

  If Spud was waiting for a reaction (and he was), he must have been disappointed. Mike had already prepared Ben for this revelation. “How did you know it was DeCarlo?”

  “Seen him here before. Seen him several times. Always the same. Dark sunglasses. Dark muffler. Big white overcoat. I’d recognize him a mile away.”

  “Any idea what business DeCarlo would have with Lombardi?”

  Spud cleared his throat. “Well,” he said sotto voce, “I wouldn’t want to speculate.…”

  What a perfect security guard. The soul of discretion, even about mob kingpins.

  “Did DeCarlo say anything to you?”

  “Heck, no. I just waved him through. You don’t mess around with someone like Albert DeCarlo.”

  “How much do you know about Lombardi’s…business activities?”

  “Next to nothing. Some kind of import business, so I’ve heard. Every now and then Lennie will say a little something about it.”

  “Lennie?”

  “Lombardi’s assistant. Thin, wiry guy. Does the work Lombardi doesn’t—excuse me—didn’t want to do. You know, detail stuff. Making deliveries. Paying the bills. Taking the missus her money.”

  Ben looked up. “The missus’?”

  “Oh yeah. Lombardi was married. Thin, blonde-haired lady. You didn’t know that?”

  Ben felt his heart sink into the vicinity of his intestinal tract. “No. Did she come here often?”

  “No way. Last time I let her in, Lombardi showed up with some floozy he’d picked up on Eleventh Street. Mrs. Lombardi went nuts. She started screaming and crying, calling names, slapping the woman around, making a major-league scene. She was like a madwoman. Crazy jealous. Ever since then, I’ve had strict instructions from Mr. Lombardi not to admit her under any circumstances.”

  “But they were still married?”

  “Oh, yeah. They’ve been apart for several months now. I don’t think they’re divorced—just separated or something. I’ve heard Lennie gripe about having to take money over to her. I guess she could be pretty unpleasant about it.”

  A wife. Christina had a date with a married man. Ben’s eyes started to glaze over; the hollow feeling inside him increased a thousandfold. Ben expected the prosecution to try to paint Christina as some sort of tramp—the unmarried consort (wink, wink) of the perverted druglord. But this was worse. Now they would be talking (in hushed tones) about…adultery. Now they would take every opportunity to remind the jury she went to that penthouse apartment for a (dramatic pause) liaison with a married man.

  What would the jury think? Ben knew all too well. They would loathe her. Before the government had even finished its opening statement.

  The phone rang just seconds after Ben’s Honda pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Hello,” Spud said. And a few seconds after that, “Yeah, Kincaid, that was his name. Why?”

  Spud glided into the chair behind his station. His brow creased. “Sure, I told him. What, should I have clammed up?”

  A burst of static from the phone. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. If that’s the way you want it, from now on, that’s the way it’ll be. Promise.”

  The tension in his face intensified. “Sure, whatever you want. No, he didn’t say where he was going. Oh, wait, he did say he was going back to the police station later on. No, he doesn’t know anything. Well, I don’t see any cause for that. Yeah, I know, you’re in charge, not me. Of course I will. You can count on it. I’ll call you first thing. Right.”

  Spud wanted to hang up, but the voice on the other end would not release him. Another burst of staccato noise, finally followed by an abrupt disconnection.

  Spud hung up the phone.

  8

  IT TOOK BEN OVER half an hour to return to his office. Most of Tulsa’s law firms, courthouses, government facilities, and business offices were in the central downtown area. The outer border of downtown was First Street, and north of First Street, there was nothing. Nothing reputable, anyway. Bars, junkyards, strip joints. And Ben’s office. Conveniently wedged between Ernie’s Pool Hall and the B & J Pawn Shop, Ben’s office was still within walking distance of the courthouses. It was just in a neighborhood through which no rational person would ever walk.

  When Ben finally made it to his office, he found the front doors and windows splattered with dried egg yolks. Enough is enough, he swore silently. First T.P.’d, now egged. It was like high school all over again. He was going to have to put an end to this.

  Jones was sitting at his card table in the small front lobby.

  “I see you haven’t gotten rid of the chickens yet,” Ben noted. They seemed to be in constan
t motion, skittering frenetically from one side of the lobby to the other.

  “What did you expect me to do?” Jones asked. “Sell them to the Colonel?”

  “Not a bad idea, actually. I thought they were only supposed to run around like this when their heads were cut off.”

  Jones smiled. “I can tell you’re a city boy.”

  “Yeah. Hey, guess what?”

  “You’re representing Christina on that murder rap.”

  Spoil sport. “How did you know?”

  “My friend Didi called. You know, the court clerk. Must’ve gotten your name and phone number off your entry of appearance. Your client’s preliminary hearing has been set for Friday.”

  “Friday? Why not sooner?”

  “Didi was a little vague on that. Perhaps the magistrate has other plans.”

  “That’s unacceptable. The magistrate has already denied bail. Draft an emergency appeal to the district court, Jones, pending the preliminary hearing. I don’t want Christina spending any longer than necessary with the hookers and drug addicts.”

  “Derek won’t like it.”

  “All the more reason. Call the U.S. Attorney’s Office and get them to consent to the motion. Christina was arrested without a warrant. Under the Riverside County case, if the preliminary hearing isn’t held within forty-eight hours, the burden shifts to the government to prove the delay wasn’t unreasonable. Moltke won’t want to risk having his case dismissed on a due process violation. Tell him I won’t challenge the preliminary hearing date if he won’t oppose an emergency bail appeal. He’ll play along. Then Derek won’t have any choice.”

  Jones searched the file cabinet beneath his table. “Application for emergency appeal,” he repeated. “Do we have a form for that?”

  Ben removed the proper file folder. “Just fill in the blanks. I’ll review it later and make any necessary changes or additions. I want me hearing tomorrow morning.”

  Jones scribbled a note on his desk calendar. “Got it.”

  “While you’re at it, Jones, see if you can work up a motion to dismiss for lack of subject matter jurisdiction. Find out whatever you can about this new death penalty statute. Let’s see if we can get this case transferred somewhere else—state court, tribal court, the moon—just so it’s away from Derek.”