Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Did it ever occur to you that might be because your client is guilty?”

  Ben sprang out of his chair. “You son of a—” He gripped the edge of the table. “I’ll take this up with the judge.”

  Abshire appeared indifferent. “Cards-on-the-table time? I don’t care what you take up with the judge. He hasn’t ruled in your favor yet, and he’s hardly likely to start doing so now.”

  True enough, Ben thought, but he’d be damned if that would stop him from trying. “What about the time of death?”

  “What about it?”

  “When last I was permitted to discuss these matters, I was told Koregai was having trouble establishing the time of death. Koregai’s too smart to have trouble with a fundamental like that, unless there’s some unusual factor involved.”

  “The coroner has had trouble establishing a definite time of death. He says there’s conflicting evidence. But none of it is exculpatory.”

  “Says you. Can I talk with Koregai? Alone?”

  “Can I talk to your client? Alone?”

  “Only if you can get the Fifth Amendment repealed.”

  Abshire folded his arms. “Then you’ll see Dr. Koregai in my presence. If he isn’t busy.”

  Ben had to keep reminding himself that an assault charge against Christina’s attorney would not help her case. “Did you conduct a paraffin test?”

  “Uh…yeah, we may have done that.”

  “And the results?”

  “Were not necessarily exculpatory.”

  Stanford looked at his protégé sternly. “Tell him.”

  Abshire’s face tightened. “But it’s not exculpatory,” he hissed.

  “I believe I am still your supervisor, Agent Abshire,” Stanford said. “Tell him.”

  “We did the test,” he said bitterly, like a child forced to share his candy. “She was clean.” He withdrew a file folder from his stack, then tossed it across the table to Ben.

  Ben scanned the report. He knew from his days at the D.A.’s office that the discharge of a firearm automatically released gas and powder residue, including suspended nitrate particles, and that the particles would adhere to any skin touching the gun when fired. As best he could tell, the test had been performed properly—swabs moistened with dilute nitric acid, followed by neutron activation analysis. And they found no nitrate particles on Christina’s hands.

  “This is great.” Ben shot Abshire a pointed look. “And you were of the opinion that this wasn’t exculpatory?”

  “We’re required to produce exculpatory evidence. The absence of evidence is by definition not evidence.”

  “So you weren’t going to produce this? Even though it proves Christina isn’t the killer?”

  “I hardly agree,” Abshire said, snatching back the report. “Have you never heard of gloves?”

  “I’ve heard of them. Did you find any?”

  “Yes. We found three pair.”

  “Where?”

  “In Lombardi’s bedroom closet.”

  “In his closet? What are you saying? That she killed him, then folded the gloves neatly and put them away in the closet?”

  “That’s what I’d do,” Abshire replied.

  Ben’s teeth ached from the pressure. Abshire obviously didn’t give a damn about evidence. He had a thirst for conviction that was unquenchable. Ben glanced at Mike, but he was still staring at the wall.

  “Talked to any witnesses?” Ben asked.

  “Scads.”

  “Did you learn anything exculpatory?”

  “Not by my definition. On the contrary, I think everyone I’ve spoken to is convinced your client offed Lombard.”

  “Then what else have you got for me?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  Ben put his notes back in his briefcase. “This is just as well, Abshire. It removes some confusion I was having. For a second, I thought I saw a glimmer of decency in you. Now I realize it must have been a trick of the light.”

  Stanford turned away and covered his mouth. Even Myra appeared to be suppressing a smile. And Mike—did he look up? Ben couldn’t be sure.

  “I’m moving to suppress your testimony at trial, Abshire,” Ben added. “You’re a hopelessly biased witness.”

  “You certainly are planning a lot of motions. I guess that’s based on your record of success with the judge.”

  Bastard. “If you come up with anything new, I expect to be informed.”

  “Of course,” Abshire said, grinning. “If it’s exculpatory.”

  Ben hesitated beside his chair. He wanted to give Mike one last chance to say he wasn’t in on this railroad, that he was appalled by Abshire and the way he and Moltke were handling this case.

  Or just one last chance to acknowledge that he was listening.

  But Mike didn’t move a muscle.

  23

  BEN’S OFFICE WAS IN chaos. Even more so than usual.

  Outside, representatives of the Creek Nation were protest marching, insisting that the McCall case be referred to tribal courts. A large placard read: WHITE MAN’S LAW—WHITE MAN’S JUSTICE.

  The protest was senseless; tribal courts don’t have felony jurisdiction. Besides, didn’t they know he tried to get the case out of federal court? Why protest here? Because they weren’t allowed in the courtroom, Ben supposed, and besides, this was where the reporters were.

  Inside, the front lobby of Ben’s office was brimming with journalists of every variety. The blue beam of minicams crisscrossed the room. Reporters were huddled around Jones’s table, trying to read the paper in his typewriter.

  They spotted Ben before he had a chance to sneak into his private office. A tall, anorexic-looking female he thought he recognized from the Channel 8 news pressed herself in front of him.

  “Mr. Kincaid!” the woman shouted, although she was less than a foot away. “Can you give us a statement?”

  “No.” He tried unsuccessfully to pass her.

  “Can we take your reluctance to speak as an admission that you haven’t got much of a case?” Her microphone was tickling his nose.

  “No, you may not. Our case is rock-solid. The Rules of Professional Conduct prohibit me from making substantive comments regarding pending criminal actions.”

  “U.S. Attorney Moltke didn’t have any problem talking to us.”

  “No comment.”

  Another reporter; a tall man with wavy, blond hair, accosted Ben from the other direction.

  “Is it true that a radical minority sect of the Creek Nation tribe is protesting your representation and requesting immediate custody of the murderess?”

  “Christina McCall is not a murderess! She’s innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Can you tell us what, if any, evidence you have uncovered to rebut the prosecutor’s seemingly airtight case?”

  Ben clenched his teeth. “No.”

  “Mr. Kincaid, with the scheduled trial date close at hand, the evidence against Christina McCall appears to be overwhelming—”

  Ben grabbed the microphone and shoved it back in the man’s face. He grabbed the reporter by the lapels of his double-breasted jacket. “Don’t you have any sense of decency, you acerebral twit?”

  The minicam operators scrambled, butting heads for the best angle.

  “Don’t you realize what you’re doing?” Ben continued. “You’re tainting the jury pool!”

  “Can you explain that?” someone shouted.

  “Those aren’t just Neilson ratings sitting out there in television land. Those are prospective jurors! And if you tell your viewers the evidence against Christina McCall is overwhelming, most of them will believe you!”

  Ben shoved the blond man away with disgust but found he had nowhere to go. The reporters pressed even closer. The bright white lights were everywhere, disorienting him. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow, his face, under his collar. He was trapped. And the cameras were rolling.

  Suddenly a new voice emerged from the crowd. “Yo! Armed robbery at
the pawn shop next door. They’ve got automatic weapons!”

  As one body, the reporters scrambled toward the front door. After an unseemly scuffle, they managed to plunge through the narrow opening—leaving Jones standing just outside.

  He smiled. “Hiya, Boss. Giving an interview?”

  “Not very well,” Ben replied. “I don’t suppose there really is a robbery at the pawn shop.”

  “Nope,” Jones said, locking the door behind him. “But wouldn’t you like to see the look on Burris’s face when he sees twenty or so reporters bashing their way into his shop? He’s gonna think he’s on Sixty Minutes.”

  Ben pictured the tableau next door. He would like to see it, at that.

  “You got off easy,” Jones continued. “I’ve been dealing with those news fiends all week. What vultures.”

  “They’re not vultures. They’re just doing their job.”

  “Easy for you to say. You haven’t been around them, day in, day out, in addition to the hostile Native American protesters. It’s making this place a pressure cooker. I feel like someone’s watching every move I make.”

  “You and me both.” Ben sighed. “We have the regrettable pleasure of being Tulsa’s current headline news.”

  “Actually, we’re the top story throughout the state,” Jones said. He showed Ben the headline on the day’s Daily Oklahoman. The bold black letters covered nearly half the front page: DRUG PRINCESS TRIAL NEARS.

  “That’s just great,” Ben groaned.

  “The shooting death of a linchpin in the Cali cartel—that’s big news. The Texas papers are starting to pick up the story, too.”

  “Much as I’ve needed publicity, this wasn’t what I had in mind. Pray for a natural disaster to divert everyone’s attention. Or maybe a small war. By the way, heard anything from Mike?”

  “No. He’s dodging me. I keep calling, but he won’t take my calls and he doesn’t call back.”

  Ben shook his head. He couldn’t believe Mike was avoiding him, that he was so determined to toe the line he’d let Christina fall through the cracks. Permanently.

  “Keep trying,” Ben said quietly. “Anything else we need to catch up on?”

  “Yeah. How ’bout I run over and check out the crime scene?”

  “How ’bout you stay here and man the telephone?”

  “Boss, I want to do some legwork.”

  “I’ve been to the crime scene already. Trust me—it wasn’t that enlightening.”

  “Easy for you to say. You get all the fun assignments. I have to stay here all day fending off creditors and drunks and reporters.”

  “Life is tough.”

  “Aw, c’mon, let me go. I can handle myself.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  “I can. How can I prove myself to you?”

  Ben glanced down at the floor, where he saw two chickens, each pecking a shoe. “Well,” he said, “for starters…”

  24

  THE WHITE LIGHTS THROBBED on and off at the Cowpoke Motor Inn on I-44, just before the Turner Turnpike tailgates. The marquee informed Ben that there were vacancies (no great surprise) and that a room could be obtained for twelve dollars. He wondered if that was for the night or the hour.

  Two muscular men stood in the parking lot, leaning against the tailgate of a pickup truck. Looked like an illicit transaction was going down, but Ben didn’t have time to investigate. He knocked on the door—room 13. How ironic.

  The door parted, just the length of the chain. All Ben could see was a beak nose poking through the gap.

  “Who izzit?” said the voice behind the door.

  “My name is Ben Kincaid. I’m an attorney.”

  “I already got an attorney.” He started to close the door.

  “I didn’t come here to solicit business.” Ben wedged his foot into the door. “I’m representing Christina McCall.”

  “Oh yeah? Prove it.”

  “How can I prove it through a closed door? Look, if you won’t talk to me voluntarily, I’ll be forced to get a subpoena. Then the marshal will come out and drag you down to the courthouse, where all the cops hang out, and we’ll all hear what you have to say.”

  The pressure on the door eased.

  “Of course, while the marshal is here, he might want to take a look around your room. Just to see if he can turn up anything interesting.”

  With that, the man unfastened the chain and opened the door. “Ten minutes,” he said. “I got an appointment”

  I’ll just bet you do, Ben thought. He walked inside. The room was a sewer. Dirty clothes, newspapers, and fast food containers were strewn across the floor and the unmade bed. The mirror over the dresser was cracked in several places. Ben didn’t know if it was the clothes, the food, the bathroom, or some other horror, but the room stank abominably.

  “Swell place,” Ben said, sitting down in the chair closest to the door.

  “It ain’t great,” the man said, “but it’s the only motel room under fifteen bucks that gets the Playboy Channel. Just a buck extra.”

  “Sounds like a deal.”

  “You know it, pal.”

  “My secretary had a hell of a time finding you.”

  “Good. I’ll give you a little clue, chump. You oughta make yourself scarce, too.”

  “Why is that?”

  He leaned forward, spitting as he spoke. “ ’Cause there’s certain people, man, who do not want Lombardi’s murder investigated. The kind of people who’d blow your brains out just to relieve a hangnail. And they know who you are.”

  Ben tried not to react. “Is that a fact?”

  “Yeah, that’s a fuckin’ fact. The only thing worse than a fuckin’ killer is a fuckin’ scared killer. And these guys are scared.”

  “I take it you’re referring to your former employers?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Can I call you Lennie? That’s what people call you, isn’t it?”

  “My friends, yeah. Which you ain’t.”

  Ben had heard of people being described as weasely before, but Lennie must’ve been the prototype. He had a pencil-thin mustache and long sideburns. There was something pervasively oily about his complexion and his manner.

  “About your late employer, Tony Lombardi. I understand you acted as a…runner for him. On both personal and business matters.”

  “That’s true,” Lennie said, stretching. His sleeves were rolled up; Ben could see the tracks on his arms.

  “Looks like you occasionally dipped into the inventory.”

  Lennie jerked his arms back. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Never mind. What can you tell me about Tony’s business?”

  “Which one?”

  “The drugs one.”

  “Don’t know shit about it. I can’t believe Tony would do something illegal.”

  He was nothing if not loyal. Although there was probably a strong element of self-preservation involved as well. “All right, then. Tell me about the parrot business.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “It was a front for the drug smuggling, right?”

  “I already told you—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Forget I spoke.” He tried a different tack. “Did you ever make any deliveries or pickups for Albert DeCarlo?”

  “Yes. Both. So?”

  “Any idea what was being delivered?”

  “Money, sometimes. That always got counted in my presence. On both ends. Just so I didn’t get any ideas, they said.”

  “And your belief is that this money being exchanged was for parrots?”

  “I never asked what the money was for, and nobody ever told me. It don’t pay to be too curious around Albert DeCarlo. He’s a bastard.”

  “You sound as if you know him well.”

  “I do. Since he was a little shit. I worked for the DeCarlo family back when his father was in charge.”

  “DeCarlo told me he’s making big changes in his daddy’s business. Making i
t more wholesome.”

  Lennie laughed, then started to choke. “That’s a laugh. He’s changing the business, all right, but it has nothin’ to do with being wholesome. I worked for his papa for twelve years and never had any problems. Albert Junior takes over, and within six months, this.”

  He held up his right hand, palm back. The tips of his two smallest fingers had been cut off at the second knuckle.

  “What did you do to—”

  “Forget it. I ain’t gonna talk about it.”

  “Because of the Omerta?”

  “You’re goddamn right because of the Omerta! I won’t make that mistake twice.”

  “I guess that’s when you quit working for DeCarlo?”

  “Quit? I got news for you, pal. You never quit working for DeCarlo. I was reassigned by him to Lombardi. DeCarlo had taken a strong interest in Lombardi, and I think he wanted one of his men on the inside.”

  It made sense. If nothing else, it explained Lombardi’s apparent hostility toward his own henchman. Lennie was DeCarlo’s pawn, not Lombardi’s. “Do you know anything about Christina McCall?”

  “Nah. What’s to know? Just another dumb bitch.”

  Someone should set this man on fire, Ben thought. “Do you have any idea why he asked her to meet him at his apartment?”

  Lennie shrugged. “Just dumb luck, I guess.”

  “Then you don’t think she killed him?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. It’s possible. But when a guy has as many enemies as Tony had, there’s no reason to jump to any conclusions. Hell, Tony was especially weird when it came to women.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “I saw Tony with his wife a hundred times, but if I hadn’t already known, I never would’ve guessed they were married. Cold as ice.”

  Ben shifted positions in his chair. He couldn’t get comfortable. He leaned to one side…and realized he was sitting on something. He yanked it out from under him. It was a pair of Lennie’s underwear, soiled and rank. A wave of revulsion swept over him; he tossed it onto the floor.

  “Sorry about that,” Lennie said.

  “Yeah.” While leaning forward, Ben noticed a phone number scrawled on the cover of the motel room phone book. “That’s the local FBI office, isn’t it?”