Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Polly?”

  Reynolds appeared embarrassed. “I’m afraid so.”

  Ben smiled, pleased by this breathtaking lack of creativity. “Does Polly speak?”

  “Only when spoken to,” Reynolds answered. “The ideal pet.”

  “ Make her say something.”

  “I prefer not to. We don’t do tricks.”

  “Just once?”

  “Oh, very well.” He turned toward the parrot. “Polly, introduce me.”

  The parrot spoke in a sharp nasal tone. “Quinn Reynolds,” it squawked. “Attorney-at-law.”

  How unbearably egocentric. Reynolds had turned his pet into the doorman. “Does she ever get out of the cage?”

  “Heavens, no.” Reynolds shuddered. “Letting a bird fly around the office. What a mess. You know, parrots, like all birds…” He cleared his throat. “Are incontinent.”

  Lawyers learn the most fascinating things. “You never let her out of the cage?”

  Reynolds shifted his weight. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Kincaid, I have several legal matters that require my attention.…”

  “Just one more question. What happened at Lombardi’s apartment Monday night?”

  Reynolds shrugged listlessly. “Absolutely nothing. The doorman let me in; I rode the elevator to Tony’s apartment; I knocked on the door. After a few moments, I surmised that he was not in. So I left.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Why did you go?”

  “I had a business matter to discuss.”

  “What kind of business matter?”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

  “The police will ask you the same question.”

  “Then I shall answer it,” Reynolds replied. “But you are not the police, are you?”

  Ben felt his fists tighten. Reynolds’s air of passive serenity was making his skin crawl. “I’d like to look at Lombardi’s business records.”

  “I’m afraid that is impossible.”

  “Mr. Reynolds, it may be very important to Christina’s case.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Mr. Reynolds, I have a responsibility to my client—”

  “As do I, Mr. Kincaid.” For the first time, Reynolds’s voice increased minutely, both in volume and speed. “Those documents are strictly confidential. At least until we’ve completed probate. Then you may take the matter up with Tony’s heirs.”

  “That could take months!”

  “I’m afraid that will likely be the case. I’m sorry.”

  His voice, Ben thought, gave little indication of either fear or sorrow. “Mr. Reynolds, think about Christina, your own legal assistant. This could be a matter of life or death for her.”

  “Mr. Kincaid,” Reynolds said, “there’s nothing you can do to change my mind.”

  “I can subpoena those records.”

  “You can try. But you will have to convince the judge that the business records are somehow relevant to your murder case, and that may be rather difficult.”

  Yeah. Especially with the judge I drew.

  “And of course,” Reynolds continued, “your subpoena will put the federal district court judge in conflict with the state probate court judge. Those interjudicial disputes are always messy…and extremely time consuming.”

  I get the message, jerk. I might as well lay off, because I don’t have that much time. The government has already filed a complaint and the date for the preliminary hearing was set; under the Speedy Trial Act, the countdown to Christina’s trial had already begun. A lawyer of Reynolds’s ilk could file motions and countersuits and cause all manner of delays for a good deal longer than it would take Moltke to get Christina into the courtroom. While Reynolds sat around playing lawyer games, Christina would go to trial, on schedule.

  Whether she had any defense or not.

  Christina sat in her office staring at the walls. The cardboard boxes had multiplied while she was gone—whether by spontaneous generation or inbreeding, she wasn’t sure. But they totally covered all four walls now; there wasn’t even a space where she could pretend there was a window. She had never liked this claustrophobic decor, but now it provided a distinct reminder of a certain six by-eight-foot cell she had no desire to ever see again in her life.

  She was distracted from her interior decorating reverie by a timid knock. Alf Robins was standing in the doorway. “What’s up, Alf? Come by to see if the slammer changed me?”

  Alf stepped cautiously into the office. “I…er…need to discuss something with you.”

  “Well, don’t be shy. I live to serve. Have a seat.”

  Alf sat in the chair opposite her desk. He was one of five attorneys in the firm for whom Christina worked. Alf was the youngest of them by far; he had just graduated from TU law school the previous May. “I’ve been asked to…well, to deliver a message.”

  “Oh?”

  Alf fiddled with his fingers. “I want you to know this isn’t my idea. I’m just the messenger.”

  Christina definitely didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s it all about, Alfie? Are you here to tell me the firm isn’t going to pay me for the time I was in jail? If so, don’t sweat it—I think that’s fair. The firm’s disability policy probably doesn’t cover incarceration.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit…more than that,” Alf said. He was beginning to stutter, and he looked as if he sincerely wished he was anywhere other than where he was. “It seems the firm has decided to let you go.”

  Christina stared back at him. “Me? You’re kidding.”

  “I wouldn’t kid about something like that.”

  “But why? I’ve kept my billable hours up. I’m the most experienced legal assistant in the firm. Every litigator here has been trying to get me on his team.”

  “I know,” Alf said, hugging his knees. “I know.”

  “Then why the hell am I being fired?”

  “I believe the firm feels there could be adverse publicity resulting from having—” He looked down at the floor. “—an accused murderess on the payroll.”

  Christina leaped out of her chair. “But I didn’t do it!”

  Alf held his hands in front of himself, as if to hold her back. “I’m sure…I mean, I know—”

  Christina slapped his hands away. “Don’t be such a wimp, Alf. I’m not going to hurt you.” She widened her eyes and held her hands like claws. “We murderesses only strike at night, when the moon is full.”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” Alf said hastily. “The decision was made by the Executive Committee by consensus.”

  “And they sent you, the lowest man on the totem pole, to give me the bad news. What a bunch of cowards.”

  “Believe me, Christina, I didn’t want to do this.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But you didn’t want to lose your job either, huh? Who gave the order? Reynolds?”

  Alf cleared his throat. “I’m…er, not altogether sure I should say.”

  “As I thought. Reynolds.” She strode toward the door. “Well, by God, I’m not leaving without giving him a piece of my mind!”

  “Christina, wait!”

  It was too late. Christina was already down the hall and around the corridor. She arrived at Reynolds’s office just as he was escorting Ben out.

  “Ben!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Mr. Reynolds and I were having a little chat,” Ben said succinctly.

  “Yeah?” She glared at Reynolds. “Well, I’m going to have a little chat with you too, you miserable pantywaist.”

  Reynolds fingered his shirt collar. “I believe you should, uh, be speaking to Mr. Robins.”

  “I’m not going to waste my time with your toadies, Reynolds. I’m going straight to the horse’s butt!”

  “What’s this all about?” Ben asked.

  “This miserable SOB fired me! Can you believe it?”

  Ben faced Reynolds. “Is this true?”

&nb
sp; Reynolds shrugged uncomfortably. “The economy being what it is…Cutbacks became necessary.…”

  “Bull,” Christina said. “He’s cutting me loose because he’s afraid of adverse publicity. He’s convicting me before the trial begins!”

  “I assure you the firm will provide a full two-week severance package—”

  “I ought to sever you from your head!” Christina shouted. “I’m the best legal assistant you ever had!”

  Reynolds glanced up and down the hallway. A crowd was beginning to gather. “Perhaps we should step into my office—”

  “I’d sooner die, you miserable worm,” Christina said. “How can you live with yourself, anyway?”

  Ben grabbed Christina’s arm. “Christina, perhaps you should calm down.…”

  “Why should I? I’ve never been fired in my entire life. And now this cretin puts a permanent stain on my record!”

  Ben stepped between Christina and Reynolds. “Mr. Reynolds, I would ask you, as one attorney to another, to reconsider your decision. The prosecuting attorney will almost certainly use this against us. He’ll make sure the jury knows Christina is unemployed and will either suggest that she is a shiftless loser or that the people who know her best believe she is guilty.”

  “The decision is out of my hands.”

  “Perhaps you could retain her temporarily on a contract basis. After all, this incident did arise to some degree as a result of Christina’s work for your firm.”

  “That’s just the difficulty,” Reynolds said. “She’s been accused of killing a client, someone the firm owes a duty of zealous loyalty. It was an unpleasant decision, but the members of the Executive Committee have spoken.”

  “The members of the Executive Committee are puppets,” Christina said. “They do what you tell them to do.”

  Reynolds stiffened. “I’m going to have to ask you both to leave.”

  Christina grabbed his lapel. “Not until you explain to me—”

  “If you don’t,” Reynolds continued, “I will call security. Would you like charges for trespassing and assault to add to your collection?”

  “Come on, Christina,” Ben said, tugging her arm. “This isn’t doing you any good. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Fine.” Christina stomped toward the lobby. “Make sure my check gets sent to my home address,” she shouted back at Reynolds. “If it isn’t, I’ll come back for one of your Louis the Fourteenths!”

  Happily, Ben managed to prevent her from kicking any priceless antiques on her way out.

  Shortly after Ben and Christina left, Reynolds punched the button on his intercom phone.

  “Marjorie?”

  “Yes, Mr. Reynolds.”

  “Can you requisition some office equipment from Central Supply? Without filling out the usual dreary forms?”

  “Well…” She thought for a moment. “I can try.”

  “I would appreciate it. I don’t wish to leave a written record if I can avoid it. It might, um, be accidentally produced during discovery.”

  “I can probably bring it off,” she said cheerily. “Those guys in Central Supply can’t resist a pregnant woman. What do you need?”

  “A paper shredder,” he said, slowly and carefully. “A large one. Industrial strength.”

  17

  BEN AND CHRISTINA APPROACHED a small booth in the front plaza of the Tulsa Zoo. A banner stretched across the booth identified it as belonging to the Oklahoma Society for the Protection of Other-Than-Human Lives.

  “May I help you?” the woman behind the booth asked.

  “We’re here to see Clayton Langdell,” Ben said. “We have an appointment.”

  “He’s in the aviary at the moment. Can I interest you in a bumper sticker?”

  She had two different stacks of bumper stickers; one read SAVE A SEAGULL—CLIP SIX-PACK RINGS, while the other explained that FUR ISN’T FASHIONABLE, with a bloody raccoon draped around a woman’s neck.

  Ben took one of the brochures and began to read.

  In 1980, the population of Spaceship Earth was 4.4 billion. In 1990, the population was 5.2 billion. Every single day, human beings move into rain forests, oceans, ice caps and prairies where once only plants and animals lived.

  I get the message, Ben thought. He skipped to the last page.

  Extinctions are accelerating on an exponential basis. Spaceship Earth loses as many as three species per day. By 1995, we may lose three species per hour. By 2000, twenty percent of all species currently living on this planet may be gone.

  “Got anything lighter?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” the woman replied.

  “I’m not surprised.” He put the brochure back on the desk.

  “They’re free. Take as many as you want.”

  “No thanks. Just point me to the aviary.”

  The aviary was a huge sunlit building surrounded by transparent glass walls. The interior replicated a natural woodland area; it was filled with tall trees and plants and brush. Perches disguised as branches provided numerous places to rest. Exotic birds of every color and variety fluttered across the aviary, nesting, swooping, or making the proverbial lazy circles in the sky.

  Ben and Christina stepped inside. “Have you ever seen that Hitchcock movie?” she asked.

  “Which? North by Northwest?”

  “No, stupid. The Birds.” She looked around uneasily. “They kind of give me the creeps.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re in a zoo. What could be more harmless?” Ben spotted a short, pudgy man with a bird perched on each shoulder. “That must be Langdell.”

  “You go chat with him,” Christina said. “He might be inhibited if I’m around. I’ll just stay here and try not to look like carrion.”

  Ben approached the man with the birds, his arm extended, and introduced himself. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

  “Not at all.” Langdell had improbable orange hair and a speckled turnip of a nose. He seemed born to seriousness, his face set in stern lines. “Your secretary indicated you had some vital information about cruelty to animals.”

  Oh great, Ben thought. This was going to get them off to a fine start. “Well, he may have been a bit misleading.”

  “You’re not here to discuss cruelty to animals?”

  “Well, I am, but the animal suffering cruelty was a human animal. I’m here about Tony Lombardi.”

  Langdell’s movements slowed. He shrugged slightly and the two birds on his shoulders flew off.

  “I’m representing the woman accused of murdering him,” Ben added.

  A tiny light flickered in Langdell’s eyes. “There’s no question about her guilt, is there?”

  “There’s a supremely big question. I’m convinced she didn’t murder Tony Lombardi, and I ‘m trying to find out who did.”

  “Very well then. What do you want to know?”

  “Why did you go to Lombardi’s apartment the night he was killed?”

  To Ben’s relief, Langdell didn’t try to deny it. “I wanted to talk to him privately.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d been writing letters to him for months. And attempting to reach him by telephone. He never answered, and he never returned my calls. So I decided to confront him face-to-face.”

  “About what?”

  “About his despicable parrot trade.”

  “Despicable? Because he was using parrots as a front to smuggle drugs?”

  “Is that true? I knew nothing about that, although I’m not surprised. I just wanted Lombardi to terminate his cruelty to fellow members of the animal kingdom.”

  “Lombardi was cruel to the parrots he imported?”

  “The practice of importing parrots is cruel in and of itself, and it ought to be abolished. Do you know how parrots are caught? Lombardi’s men, like all parrot trappers, will do anything, so long as it’s quick, efficient, and heartless. They invade the birds’ South American habitat and wantonly cut down trees so they can rob the
nests. Or they trap the birds with leg snares from which the birds dangle helplessly for extended periods. Or they ignite a sulfur smudge to create a dense cloud of smoke, until the birds fall out of the trees unconscious. Then they can be plucked off the ground like ripe fruit.

  “Or they simply shoot the birds’ wings with pellets to wound them so they can’t fly and can be captured easily. Of course, since wing-shooting requires good aim, which most of the trappers don’t have, more birds are killed than crippled.” Langdell’s lips tightened. “Some poor birds never have the opportunity to fly free; thanks to Lombardi and his ilk, their life begins in captivity. And ends in death.”

  “Mr. Langdell, I like animals as much as the next man, but that’s not why I came here.”

  Langdell glared at him. “Thirty million wild birds world-wide are caught each year for resale as pets, Kincaid.”

  Ben was stunned. “Thirty million?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There must be some restrictions…something at Customs.”

  “A routine examination by the woefully understaffed Department of Agriculture, followed by a cursory thirty-day quarantine. It accomplishes nothing. Especially for the birds that are smuggled illegally into the country.”

  “Smuggled?”

  “You got it, counselor. About a quarter of a million parrots and other exotic birds are smuggled into the United States every year—often with drugs—for sale to pet shops and private dealers.”

  “How are the birds smuggled?”

  “You name it; it’s probably been done. Parrots are sewn into the lining of coats, crammed into false-bottomed suitcases, or stuffed into machinery, pipes, or gutted auto parts. Hundreds of birds are often packed in tiny crates meant for two dozen and left with no food or water. For days. Of course, their beaks are taped shut. The beak of an angry parrot can be a dangerous weapon.”

  “I can see where they might be angry.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. The mortality rate for smuggled birds is between fifty and seventy-five percent.”

  Ben felt the need to sit down. “That’s incredible.”

  “But true. Of the thirty million birds captured each year, only seven and a half million survive importation. And ninety percent of those will be dead within two years.”