Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Boss…do you think this is wise?”

  “What? Bringing a motion to dismiss?”

  “No. Representing Christina.”

  “Why does everyone in town think I’m such an incompetent attorney?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just…well, I don’t want to be indiscreet.…”

  “She let me stay at her apartment for a short period after I got fired at Raven, till I got back on my feet.” Ben placed one hand on his hip. “There was nothing romantic about it. We’re just good friends. Totally platonic.”

  “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Boss.”

  “Besides, this has nothing to do with personal feelings. This is a murder case, pure and simple. I can be perfectly objective about this.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You don’t seem convinced.”

  Jones pressed his hand against his chest. “Who cares what I think? I am but a secretary, a vassal, a servant. You’re the boss, Boss.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “By the by, I read the article in the World. The feds think they have her dead to rights.”

  Ben nodded. “They’re like a terrier with a bone—once they bite into someone, they never let go. If I’m going to convince anybody that Christina didn’t kill Lombardi, I’m going to have to be able to tell them who did.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything else I can do?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” He opened his briefcase and tore off a sheet of legal paper. “I have the names of three people other than Christina who were at Lombardi’s apartment last night.”

  “All right!” Jones said, snatching the paper. “Suspects! You want me to investigate these guys?”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “No, I definitely do not want you to investigate these guys.”

  “Where did you get these names, anyway?”

  “From the security guard at the lodge where Lombardi lived.”

  “You went to the scene of the crime!”

  “So to speak.”

  “Without me?”

  “Of course I went without you. You’re a secretary, remember? A vassal, a servant. Not Paul Drake. Not Magnum, P.I.”

  “I’ve been wanting to expand my horizons,” Jones said, gazing at the list. “Albert DeCarlo! This is the big time.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “You really think one of these guys is the murderer?”

  “Assuming the guard is telling the truth, it has to be one of them.”

  “And assuming it wasn’t Christina,” Jones added.

  Ben looked at him stiffly. “That’s my job. Anyway, if you’ll stop drooling over the list of suspects, I’ll tell you what else I need.”

  Properly scolded, Jones put the paper down on his table. “Shoot.”

  “I want you to get me appointments to see these three people, sometime in the next day or two. Before the preliminary hearing, if possible.”

  “You want an appointment with Albert DeCarlo? Before Friday? How am I going to get you an appointment with the Don Corleone of eastern Oklahoma?”

  “You’ll think of something. Try to line up Quinn Reynolds first. There’s no reason why he should deny an appointment to a fellow member of the bar.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. Also, I want you to drive over to Christina’s apartment and get her a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and assorted other necessaries.”

  “You got a key? From your totally platonic temporary residence there?”

  Ben reached inside his jacket pocket and passed Jones the key.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Ben said, scanning the lobby. “Do something with these chickens,” He snapped his briefcase closed and headed out the door.

  9

  BEN MANAGED TO FIND Mike more quickly this time. Not that he had acquired any knowledge of the Law Enforcement Division floor plan—the barriers and detours had all been changed since morning—but at least now there was a receptionist on duty who could tell him whether he was hot or cold.

  “I thought you weren’t going to hang around,” Mike said, as Ben entered his cubicle.

  “Hey, I haven’t been here since this morning,” Ben replied. “I thought I was showing restraint.”

  Mike closed the book he was reading. “Your restraint will probably get me fired.”

  “Don’t be a grump. I won’t be long. I just wanted to learn if you had any forensic reports yet.”

  “Yeah, some. Remember, this is the feds’ case. They don’t share anything without a reason.”

  Ben noticed that the file folder on Mike’s desk labeled Lombardi was thicker than it had been this morning. He also noticed the book Mike had just closed. “You’re reading The Complete Plays of William Shakespeare?”

  “Yeah. Merchant of Venice. What of it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Ben said. “It’s just not what I expected from a hardboiled guy like you. Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler, maybe. Sherlock Holmes, on the outside. But Shakespeare? What if someone found out? Your whole image could be destroyed.”

  “I try to keep it out of sight when I have company.” Mike scooted the book to the side of his desk. “I love that trial scene toward the end of the play when Portia disguises herself as the judge and twists the law around to cheat Shylock out of his pound of flesh, not to mention half his property.”

  “A disguised judge? Probably grounds for appeal.”

  “No doubt. So, do you want this file, or do you want to give me grief about my literary taste?”

  “Tough choice, but let’s have a gander at the file.”

  Mike and Ben sat down at the table in the corner of Mike’s cubicle. “This is the preliminary report from the hair and fiber boys. The most relevant discovery was the long curly red hairs they found all over the room. We’ve taken an exemplar from Christina. They match.”

  “So what? It’s not as if she’s claiming she wasn’t there.”

  “It doesn’t look good.”

  “What does? Anything else?”

  “Lots of fibers from Lombardi’s clothing. He seemed to favor tweeds and other sheddable fabrics. And a few other fibers we haven’t been able to identify,”

  “I assume you’re going to try.”

  “We’ll check the carpets and clothes closets of Christina and the three men who came to Lombardi’s place last night, if that’s what you mean. But frankly, even if we find something, so what? All it will prove is that they’ve been to Lombardi’s penthouse at one time or another, something they’re not likely to deny in the first place.”

  “You should still make the attempt.”

  “We will, Ben, we will.” He turned to another document in the folder. “There’s absolutely no sign of a struggle. Nothing broken or dented, scraped or scratched. No stray bullets. Slight residual indentation in the carpet where the body fell, but that’s to be expected.”

  “What about serology?”

  “We found no blood or other trace evidence that appears to have come from the murderer. Nothing on Lombardi’s skin or under his fingernails. Which is understandable, since there was apparently no struggle.”

  “There must be something in there that’s helpful. What else have you got?”

  “We’ve got the gun. A Bulldog .44 Special. The Son of Sam gun. Ballistics confirms that it’s the gun that put four bullets in Lombardi’s head.”

  “Trajectory?”

  “Lombardi had contact wounds, from the barrel of the gun being pressed against his head. That’s why the entry wound was star-shaped. Expanding gases from the exploding gunpowder tear the skin.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the murderer was very close to Lombardi, which of course suggests that he…or she…was someone Lombardi knew. And trusted.”

  “Which could have been any of a number of people.”

  “Don’t bother pleading your case to me, counselor. I won’t be on the jury.�
�

  Mike passed another page of the report to Ben. “We searched Lombardi’s suite from top to bottom, but we didn’t find anything else of particular significance. Look for yourself.”

  Ben scanned the report. It itemized and detailed everything found in the penthouse. Dirty laundry—hardly unusual for a man living alone. An open carafe of rosé on the end table beside the chair. The TV was on. The phone was off the hook.

  “What about the medical examiner’s report?” Ben asked.

  Mike rifled through his folder, then retrieved a three-page document. “The preliminary report is pretty much as expected. Lombardi died as a result of bullet wounds to the head. Koregai’s having trouble confirming the time of death from the body heat of the liver. He’s promised a supplemental report. Oh, one other thing. Koregai is absolutely positive about this. He’s a D.R.T.—dead right there.”

  “Well, that hardly proves Christina killed him.”

  “Ben,” Mike said, “think about it for a minute. Her story is that she fell asleep in that chair, not four feet from the body. Four feet from where Lombardi was killed, where that gun was fired four times. How could she possibly have slept through that?”

  “Maybe the killer used a silencer.”

  “Not with a revolver.”

  Ben snapped his fingers. “She must’ve been drugged.”

  “Drugged?”

  “Yeah. She said she drank something, almost immediately fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until hours later. It all fits. Mike, I need you to get a lab tech in to do a blood test on Christina.”

  A third voice suddenly boomed through the cubicle. “What the fucking hell is going on here?”

  Ben whirled around. There was a man hovering over him—tall, young, dark-haired, and bearing a disgusted expression.

  Mike stood up. “Jim, this is—”

  “I know goddamn well who this is,” the man shouted. “I want to know what the hell is going on!”

  Mike’s face tightened. “We were reviewing some of the preliminary evidence—”

  “Shit! This is the goddamn adversary you’re talking to. Adversary, remember that? That’s why they call it an adversarial system.”

  Ben watched Mike clench and reclench his fists. “The defense will be entitled to see our evidence—“

  “In time—maybe.” The man scooped the file off the table and cradled it in his arms, as if to protect it from Ben’s corrupting influence. “After Mr. Defense Attorney files his paperwork, he may be entitled to see anything we deem exculpatory or intend to use at trial. Not the whole fucking file!”

  “Jim, there’s really no need—”

  “Jesus Christ! We’ve got a goddamn slam dunk, and you’re already trying to screw it up!”

  “Mike,” Ben said evenly, “who is this asshole?”

  Mike stifled a smile. “This is Jim Abshire of the FBI. He’s one of the FBI agents working this case.”

  “I’m the man who made this case fucking happen,” Abshire said.

  With some reluctance, Ben extended his hand. “I’m Ben Kincaid, the attorn—”

  “I know who you are.” He waved Ben’s hand away. “Nothing personal, Kincaid, but my years of experience have taught me that it’s bad policy to get too close to the opposition. Clouds your judgment.”

  Ben frowned. Years of experience? “You can’t be much older than I am.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m thirty.”

  “Well, I’m thirty-two.”

  Ahh, Ben thought. That explains your heightened maturity. “Look, Mike didn’t really want to show me these reports. I sort of twisted his arm—”

  “Don’t give me that crap,” Abshire said. “I know all about you two. You’re college buddies formerly related by marriage. And I don’t want any of that nostalgic bullshit polluting my case.”

  “Your case?”

  “Damn straight, my case. I’ve been setting up this sting for over a year. This is going to take us straight to the big boys. And I put it together.”

  “Under the supervision of his boss,” Mike said. “Roger Stanford.”

  Abshire smirked. “Well, I’m sure you know how that kind of arrangement works, Kincaid, and who ends up doing all the work. I understand you worked as an associate in a big firm. For about fifteen minutes.” Abshire shouted out the door. “Hey, Roger, get in here!”

  An older man wearing a white shirt and half glasses on the end of his nose walked into the cubicle. “Yes?”

  “Check this out,” Abshire said. “I caught Morelli here opening our files to counsel for the defendant.”

  Stanford pursed his lips. “The defense is entitled to review exculpatory evidence.”

  “Then, Christ, let him file a motion,” Abshire said. “That’s why we have procedures.”

  Stanford gave his protégé a long look. Ben got the impression he had been down this road with Abshire before. “I see little harm in cooperating to the extent of sharing evidence we will probably be required to produce at a later date.”

  “Yeah?” Abshire said, a bit stung. “Maybe that’s why you’re still a middle-level paper pusher.”

  Ben shook his head back and forth, trying to confirm that his ears were still working properly. This guy really knew how to win friends and influence people.

  “FBI directors aren’t interested in cooperation,” Abshire continued. “They’re interested in results. And that’s what I plan to give them. This case is a reputation-maker.”

  He took a step toward Ben, poking a finger into his chest. “So watch your step, Kincaid. If you screw up my case, I’ll take you apart like a Tinker Toy. That’s a promise.”

  Ben cast his eyes toward Mike. He had hoped, in fact, expected Mike to intercede, to tell this pompous FBI twit to back off. But Mike just stood there, stone-faced.

  “Well,” Ben said, stepping away from Abshire’s finger, “I think I might as well be going.”

  “Agreed,” Abshire said. “And nothing personal, Kincaid, but I don’t want to catch you around here anymore. Cards-on-the-table time? If we have something to give you, we’ll do it in court.”

  “Be seeing you,” Ben said. He walked out of the cubicle.

  Ben felt a bitter taste rising in his mouth. He needed to disappear before he said or did something he would regret, before his frustration overwhelmed him. Everything seemed increasingly hopeless. Everyone seemed determined to sign Christina up for a lethal injection, the sooner the better, and for all the wrong reasons. Abshire was the scariest one yet. He was determined to make his mark. He had to get a conviction, whatever the cost.

  Which, in this case, was Christina.

  10

  BEN TAPPED HIMSELF ON the chest again. “C’mon, Giselle. Listen to me. Jump.”

  Giselle was sprawled across the easy chair in the living room, peacefully licking herself clean. She glanced up at him, wriggled her nose, then returned to her bath.

  “Giselle, this book Jones gave me says cats can be trained, just like dogs or dolphins or other smart animals. When I tap myself on the chest, I want you to jump into my arms and act like you’re glad to see me. Got it?”

  Giselle didn’t even look up.

  “C’mon, cat. I don’t have all day. I have to get ready for tomorrow’s hearing. So jump already.”

  Giselle shifted herself languorously to the other side of the chair. She stretched, meowed, and otherwise went about her business, totally snubbing him.

  “Giselle, pay attention. I’m talking to you. I’d like to see some cooperation.”

  Giselle jumped down from her chair, strode into the kitchen, perched herself beside her food bowl, and stared at Ben.

  “Forget it, Giselle. It’s not going to work that way.”

  Giselle shook in a manner that Ben thought looked much like shoulder shrugging, except of course that cats don’t have shoulders. She plopped down beside her bowl and waited.

  “I’m not kidding, Giselle. I’m not going to let some overstuffed
feline boss me around.”

  Giselle absently resumed her bath.

  “All right already! I give in!” Ben threw down the book and stomped into the kitchen. “I’ll get the Feline’s Fancy.”

  Giselle followed close on his heels. He opened a can of the gourmet cat food and set it on the floor. Giselle dove in nose first, acting as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Come to think of it, Ben thought, she hadn’t, although she appeared to have sufficient fat reserves to carry her through several lean periods.

  “But don’t get the idea that this is your permanent entree,” Ben said, trying to reassert his tenuous role as master of the house. “Once this can is gone, it’s back to the cheap stuff.”

  Giselle nibbled happily and ignored him entirely.

  Ben heated a Pizza Pocket in the microwave and took it into his living room. There was not much there in the way of furnishings—a TV, an old piano, and pizza delivery boxes stacked practically to the ceiling. His only indulgence was the stereo system: Mitsubishi receiver and CD player, Boston Acoustic speakers. A throwback to his days as a music major, no doubt, and his dreams of glory.

  Ben thought about playing the piano, but he knew he couldn’t compete with Joni and Jami’s Guns-N-Roses records reverberating on the other side of the paper-thin walls. He channel-surfed the TV—there was nothing worth watching. He listened to his CD of Judy Garland—Live at Carnegie Hall. An amazing recording, but he couldn’t focus.

  He decided to turn in early. He would have to get up around six to prepare for the hearing anyway. He performed his nightly ablutions, pulled on some old gym shorts, and crawled into bed. He tried to clear his mind, to drop off to sleep, but found it impossible. Everything was racing through his head at once, demanding his attention. Mike, and Spud, and Abshire, the FBI agent from hell. The chickens. Derek. And Christina, her face smeared with black.

  He couldn’t help but worry. Christina’s life was on the line. Even if she managed to avoid the Big Needle, this incident could destroy her life. He had to be thorough, had to consider every angle. If he let anything slip, the results could be tragic, even fatal. He would not let her down. The way he had Ellen.