Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Lennie grabbed the phone book and threw it to the other side of the room. “That’s nobody’s business but mine.”

  Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Are you planning to turn state’s evidence? Is that your ticket out of town?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your ten minutes is up.”

  Ben stood, but he did not leave. “What do you know that you haven’t already told me?”

  “I don’t know nothin’. I told you to leave already.”

  Ben walked toward him, eyes like stone. “Goddamn it, you slimy worm. The feds wouldn’t be interested in you if you didn’t know something that helped their case. Tell me what you know!”

  “Forget you, asshole.”

  “Tell me now!”

  In a heartbeat, Lennie reached under his pillow and withdrew a small caliber pistol. “All right, you son of a bitch. I warned you! Now just get the hell out of here!”

  “Not again!” Ben slowly backed away. “I am sick and tired of having guns pulled on me!”

  “I tried to be Mr. Nice,” Lennie said. His arms were shaking. “But no, you had to push me around. Everyone pushes Lennie around. Well, a guy can only push so far!”

  He fired the pistol. The gun flared and the bullet smashed into the wall just over Ben’s head. This time it was the real thing.

  “Now are you gettin’ out of here or what?”

  “I’m leaving, Lennie. See? I’m opening the door.”

  “Count of five, man. One, two…”

  By five, Ben was already back on the interstate.

  25

  HE HAD HOPED SHE wouldn’t be there.

  But of course, she was. Marjorie sat at the front desk in Swayze & Reynolds’s office lobby, typing away. If she had been ten months pregnant before, she was at least twelve months pregnant now. She greeted him by name.

  Well, it was encouraging that she remembered. Sort of. “Hello, Marjorie. I’m here to see Mr. Reynolds.”

  “I don’t see you on his appointment schedule. Perhaps you called while I was at my Lamaze class?”

  “No, I don’t have an appointment. But it’s urgent that I see him.”

  She frowned, then punched a button on her intercom and whispered into the box. After a few moments, she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid. He says he’s busy—”

  “Tell him if he’s not out in five minutes, I start smashing Lalique.”

  He was out in two.

  “I’m sorry for the delay,” Reynolds said, as he escorted Ben back to his office. “I was on the telephone with my wife. The judge.”

  No kidding. I thought maybe it was your other wife. Ben walked into Reynolds’s office and, to his surprise, found Margot Lombardi sitting at the conference table.

  Margot spared Reynolds the ordeal of a graceful introduction. “Mr. Kincaid and I have met,” she explained. “And I behaved disgracefully. I had no right to burden you with my problems.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ben said.

  “There’s no excuse for such a public display. On the contrary it’s time for me to stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with my life. That’s what Mr. Reynolds is helping me do. He’s the executor of Tony’s estate.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “The FBI is determined to link Tony’s assets to drug smuggling,” Reynolds said. “If they are successful, they can confiscate the assets. In the meantime, the estate is frozen.”

  “I don’t know why they’re doing this,” Margot said. “What have I ever done to them?”

  “Don’t fret,” Reynolds said, patting her on the shoulder. For a moment, Ben thought, he almost sounded human. “Everything will work out in time.”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.…” Ben said, suddenly regretting his door-smashing tactics.

  “Not at all,” Margot said. “I was on my way out.”

  Reynolds helped her out of her chair, then escorted her to the door. When he returned, he and Ben sat at the center table.

  “How’s Polly?” Ben asked.

  “Oh, she’s…as she always is.”

  Ben examined the parrot, almost motionless in her tiny cage. She was not as she always was. She was still a regal purplish blue, but the colors seemed faded since his last visit. Her reddish brown tail feathers were almost black. At the bottom of the cage, he saw a small bed of feathers.

  “She’s feather-plucking!” Ben cried.

  “She’s what?”

  “Feather-plucking. Clayton Langdell was telling me about it.”

  “Clayton Langdell is…something of an extremist,” Reynolds said, in his slow, pained manner.

  “Maybe so, but he knows his parrots. Feather-plucking is an abnormal behavior pattern—the parrot goes crazy and starts mutilating itself.”

  “That hardly seems likely.”

  “That’s exactly what’s happening. You’ve got to set this bird free. Or turn her over to someone trained to care for birds.”

  “Mr. Kincaid. Do you have any idea how valuable that bird is?”

  “I don’t really care. This isn’t Waterford crystal you’ve got locked up there. It’s a living creature. A fellow animal.”

  Reynolds seemed vaguely amused. “Have you been spending an inordinate quantity of time with Mr. Langdell?”

  “I’ve been reading his brochures.”

  “That explains a great deal. Now, were there any legal matters you wished to discuss, or are you simply here to admire my parrot?”

  “I’ve come to renew my request that you permit me to examine Lombardi’s financial records.”

  “Really, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Hear me out. I know you don’t have to comply. But I’m hoping you will anyway. I need to learn more about Lombardi’s business, especially his dealings with Albert DeCarlo. Those financial records may be the first step toward discovering who’s behind Lombardi’s murder. I can’t believe you’re so heartless you’d let your former employee be executed just to keep a dead client’s confidences.”

  “My position is not changed by your hyperbole, Mr. Kincaid. What if you in turn provided the documents to the FBI, and they used them to seize the assets that rightfully belong to Margot Lombardi? I simply can’t risk it. And may I also say I resent your turning my compliance with established rules of ethics into a vast moral indictment.”

  “Mr. Reynolds, you are somewhat responsible for Christina’s plight. And so far, your only contribution has been firing her. Here’s your chance to help.”

  “You’re wasting your time, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “What’s in those records that you don’t want revealed?”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “You’re not a stupid man, Reynolds. And I can’t believe you’re devoid of human kindness, much as you might pretend to be. Therefore, I have to assume there’s information in those records you don’t want me to see.”

  “Assume what you like. However, if you do your assuming anywhere outside this office, you may find yourself in a court of law. Not as a counselor, but as a defendant.”

  “At least allow me to see the documents in probate. The will, any prior wills, the property assignments. Let me see who else might’ve had a motive to kill Lombardi.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Those documents are going to be public eventually.”

  “All the better for you. Perhaps you should move for a continuance.”

  “I already have. Several times. The motions were denied. I need those documents now.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Are you a beneficiary of Lombardi’s will?”

  Reynolds stared at Ben as if his parents simply had to be first cousins. “As you should know, if I were a beneficiary, I couldn’t act as executor.”

  “Did Lombardi create any charitable trusts? And appoint you as trustee?”

  Reynolds stuttered for a moment. “I—he—”

  “Yeah. I get it now. You’re going to be the chairman of the Lombardi Memorial Fund for Widows
and Orphans.”

  Reynolds wasn’t pleased, but he wasn’t denying, either.

  “You must be looking forward to playing J. P. Morgan—doling out money to charitable groups as the whim strikes you. If they please your delicate sensibilities. If the fund is well endowed, this could make you almost as important as your wife.”

  “I think you should leave now, Mr. Kincaid.”

  No way. “Funny thing is, nothing I’ve heard about Lombardi suggests that he was the charitable type. I wonder if maybe you cooked up this trust yourself, then shredded all the prior wills and underlying documents to cover your trail. That would explain why you’re refusing to cooperate. If I scrutinized the records too carefully, I just might figure out what you’ve done.”

  Reynolds rose to his feet. “Go.”

  “When I see the documents.”

  Reynolds walked to the credenza on the north wall. “Do you see this drawer, Mr. Kincaid? It is filled with the documents you so strongly desire. All the information you need to know. I’ll tell you something else, too. The documents are loaded with information you would love to have. The references to Albert DeCarlo are legion.”

  His voice rose. “And do you know what else, Mr. Kincaid? You will never see these documents. Absolutely never!”

  He pointed toward the door. “Now leave, before I call the security guards.”

  Ben stomped out of the office, smiling at Marjorie on his way through the lobby. All right, he thought. Have it your way. I’ll go.

  But I’ll be back.

  26

  “OF ALL YOUR LAME ideas, this is the lamest!”

  Christina sat on the sofa in Ben’s office, stuffing a large pillow under her oversized blouse. “It is not lame! It could work!”

  “Or it could get us both thrown in prison.”

  “You supplied the idea,” Christina insisted. “All I did was analyze it and figure out how we’re going to get what we need: c’est à dire, Reynolds’s files.” She shoved the bulk of the pillow into the top part of the pillowcase, twisted the tail tight, and tucked it into her slacks. “You told me where the records are. And that Marjorie opens the office each morning and locks up at night. And most importantly, you told me she goes to a Lamaze class. All I did was come up with a plan for infiltration.”

  “And a brilliant plan it is, too. Sets up our insanity defense nicely.” Ben paced back and forth. Since the office was only about fourteen by fourteen, he did as much turning as pacing.

  “I wish I had a key to the office,” Christina said, “but I don’t. I never did. Only Reynolds and the receptionist do.”

  “Are you certain her class is at St. Francis?” Ben asked.

  “Oui. Besides, why would she go anywhere else? It’s just down the road from the office.”

  Ben continued pacing and pondering. “Even if we do this, how will we get the records?”

  “I can’t think of everything, Ben. Let’s just get in there, cuddle up to this woman, and see what happens.” She fixed the pillow into place with masking tape. “We’ll play it by ear.”

  “But won’t Marjorie know you?”

  “Nope. She started working at Swayze & Reynolds the day I was fired. I’ve barely even seen the woman.”

  “I can’t believe you’re resorting to that old pillow-under-the-shirt gag. You’re not going to fool anyone.”

  “Just give me another minute.” She adjusted the pillow, fluffed things up a bit, applied more tape, men let her blouse fall over the whole. “What do you think?”

  Ben reconsidered. To tell the truth, she looked pregnant. “You’ll make a lovely mother one day, Christina.”

  “Not at the rate I ‘m going. Help me with this scarf.”

  Christina rolled up her hair while Ben pulled the dark scarf over her head. “I’m going to add some thick makeup, too,” she said. “Just to change my general look. Probably no one would recognize me anyway, but you never know. The Drug Princess has been in the papers lately.”

  “Christina, I have serious misgivings about this. We could jeopardize your whole case.”

  Christina didn’t answer. She opened her compact, studied her face in the mirror, and busied herself with her disguise.

  Ben realized he was being purposely ignored. He’d been so wrapped up in his own worries that he’d forgotten the defendant might have a few of her own. If this case went bad, she was the one who would be on the receiving end of a lethal syringe.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Ben asked.

  Christina nodded her head.

  “Then do it we will.” He smiled. “Finish putting on your disguise. But don’t wear the fake glasses with the Groucho mustache.”

  Ben and Christina walked through the door marked LAMAZE—SEPTEMBER DELIVERIES. The room was decorated like a grade-school classroom: construction paper cutouts and pseudo-inspirational posters (WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS, MAKE LEMONADE). There were photographs of babies everywhere, and all of them looked identical to Ben. Like little General Schwarzkopfs.

  “She’s over there in the corner,” Ben whispered to Christina. “The blonde. Next to the guy in the tweed jacket.”

  Christina nodded. “I can see why she caught your eye. Nursing should come naturally to her.”

  They strolled to the other side of the room.

  “Mr. Kincaid!” Marjorie said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well…” He cleared his throat. Get the story straight. “Our usual class at St. John’s was canceled. So we decided to sit in here.”

  “Oh, I know how you feel,” Marjorie said. “I just hate to miss a session. I feel like I’m cheating the baby, you know?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Our obligations begin at the moment of conception, right?”

  Without even time out for a cigarette? “Right.”

  Marjorie gestured toward the gentleman standing behind her. “This is my husband, Rich.”

  They shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” Ben said. Rich appeared to be about as happy to be here as Ben was.

  “Conception is easy,” Marjorie said, expanding upon her theme. “It’s everything that comes afterward that’s difficult. If you can’t do something as simple as driving without a license, why should just anyone be permitted to have a baby? I think people should have to be licensed to have children. You know, a procreation license.”

  Rich’s uneasy grin told Ben he dearly wished his wife would stop prattling on about conception and procreation.

  “I didn’t realize you were expecting,” Marjorie continued. “I didn’t even know you were married.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Ben said.

  “Ohhh.” She glanced sideways at Christina’s protuberant tummy. “Well, of course, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Ben’s filling in for my husband tonight,” Christina said. “We’re old friends.”

  “I see,” Marjorie said. “How thoughtful of you. Well, I see the instructor’s here. We’d better get into position.”

  The couples sat in a semicircle on the floor, men seated behind the women. The instructor (Ben could tell because she was wearing a large construction paper name tag: VICKIE—INSTRUCTOR) walked into the center of the circle and squatted in the lotus position. She was a petite, auburn-haired woman wearing a pink sweater and a short skirt. To Ben, she looked more like a cheerleader than an instructor. Vickie, the Childbirth Cheerleader.

  “All right, everybody,” Vickie said perkily, “how do we feel today? Are we in love with our lives, our bodies, our babies, and most importantly, ourselves?”

  There was a general chorus of assent. One disgruntled soul, however, mumbled that she was “sick of being fat.”

  Vickie pointed her finger at the offender. “That’s the wrong feeling, Sarah—exactly the kind of negativism we want to stamp out. Remember, you’re not fat—you’re pregnant.”

  “What’s the difference?” Ben whispered. Christina slapped his shoulder.

  “I’ve got a special activity planned
to break the ice for tonight’s session,” Vickie continued, “and to help us focus our positive energies on the new life that lies ahead.” She passed a stack of purple paper around the circle. “I want each of you to take a piece of construction paper and tear it into some shape that represents your feelings right now about the baby.”

  “I am not an origami artist,” Ben whispered.

  “Oh, Ben, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud.” Christina handed him several sheets of construction paper. “Let’s see some joie de vivre.”

  Marjorie tapped Christina’s leg. “Rich is balking, too,” she said with a giggle. “Aren’t men pathetic?”

  “Truly,” Christina agreed. “As if construction paper posed a threat to their virility.” They laughed.

  Ben began folding and ripping his paper. Aren’t we having a jolly time?

  When they were done, Vickie directed the participants to explain what they had made and what its significance was. There were numerous hearts, some beds (representing the sleep the parents wouldn’t get anymore, or the act that had gotten them into this mess in the first place), and several houses (representing the family unit, or the second mortgage they were going to need to pay for this blessed event). Christina created a calendar because, she said, every single day from now on she would be grateful for this precious gift from God.

  Good grief, Ben thought. She’s more sentimental than the real mothers.

  “And what did you make, Mr. Kincaid?” Vickie asked.

  Ben held up his artwork. “A pillow.”

  Christina blanched. She whipped her head around and glared at him.

  “Because I expect my kids to cushion me in my old age,” he explained.

  “Oh, of course.” Everyone laughed. Except Christina.

  “Well, that was fun,” Vickie said when they were through. “I learned a lot from that exercise, and I hope you did, too. I feel a lot of love in this room.”

  How could she be so perky? Someone needed to turn a fire hose on the woman.

  “Let’s start with our breathing exercises. Assume you’re experiencing a contraction peak. Remember, short, shallow breaths, then blow. You don’t want to hyperventilate in the middle of labor.”

  Ben watched as all the women in the circle huffed and puffed in unison. They puffed up their cheeks like chipmunks. Short, short, short, long. Short, short, short, long.