Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Pssst!” Christina was pushing her hand toward him. “You’re supposed to hold my hand.”

  “Why? Surely you can breathe by yourself.”

  “It’s how it’s done, you dweeb. Here!” She thrust her hand into his.

  Her hand felt warm and soft; he could feel her pulse as she inhaled and exhaled.

  “Mr. Kincaid, where’s your focal point?”

  He looked up. Vickie appeared to be displeased with him, in a perky sort of way. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re her partner, Mr. Kincaid. You’re in charge of bringing the focal point.”

  “The focal point?”

  “Yes. Some familiar object your partner responds positively to and can concentrate on, to focus her breathing energies. Don’t they do that at St. John’s? It’s a widely recognized technique.”

  “Uh, gee,” Ben said. “I guess I left that at home.”

  “Hmmph.” Vickie strode sullenly away. Wonderful, Ben thought, now the Childbirth Cheerleader is mad at me.

  She returned carrying a small teddy bear. “You can use this as a substitute, dear. Let’s hope your regular partner will be a bit more conscientious.”

  “I don’t mean to complain,” Christina said, “but can I request a different focal point? I’ve had bad luck with stuffed animals lately.”

  Vickie’s lips pursed tightly together. For a perky woman she was becoming decidedly grumpy. She returned a few moments later with a framed photo of a lumpish newborn and plunked it in front of Christina without discussion.

  Ben waited patiently for about ten minutes as the class ran through their breathing exercises. Personally, he thought he did a commendable job of hand-holding.

  “All right,” Vickie announced. “Time for the abdominal massage.”

  “No,” Ben whispered. “I absolutely refuse.”

  “Ben,” Christina hissed, “stop being a pain,”

  “I am not going to sit here massaging a pillow!”

  “Hurry along,” Vickie said, staring at Ben. “Put your body bolsters in place.”

  Ben looked puzzled. “Body bolsters?”

  Vickie rolled her eyes and turned away. Apparently he was beyond help.

  Marjorie tried to explain. “A firm pillow. Something your friend can rest her tummy on.”

  “Darn,” Christina said. “I think we left mine at home.”

  Marjorie commiserated with her. “Oh, that’s awful, dear. You’ll never make it through the rest of the session without one.

  “I guess I’ll have to try,” Christina said, looking sorrowful. “Unless someone has an extra.”

  “I have a spare that I use in the office,” Marjorie said. “It’s just down the street.”

  “That’s generous of you,” Ben said, quick on the uptake, “but I’d hate for you to miss any more of the class.”

  “Me, too,” Marjorie replied. “You think you’d mind getting it?”

  “Me?”

  “Well, I don’t want your friend to miss anything. And you don’t seem terribly…occupied at the moment.”

  “You’re right,” Ben said, trying to contain himself. “I’ll go.”

  Marjorie groped around in her purse. “Here’s the key,” she said. “You shouldn’t have any problem. The security guard doesn’t start taking names until eight.”

  “This is awfully nice of you,” Christina said. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s just a pillow.”

  True in more ways than one tonight, Ben thought. “I’ll be back in a flash.”

  And he was.

  But he made a stop at the locksmith’s first.

  27

  BEN HOISTED THE HEAVY document boxes out of the back of his Accord and onto the sidewalk in front of the Oneok Building. “I thought we swore we were never, ever going to do something like this again.”

  “This is different,” Christina said. She pushed the boxes onto the flat of the dolly. “This isn’t nearly as dangerous.”

  “I’m not sure I see the distinction. It’s late at night, we’re breaking into someone’s office, there are guards, possibly alarms, and a high likelihood of getting caught.”

  “Ah,” Christina said, recalling their earlier breaking and entering, “but there are no Dobermans.”

  “You’re right. I feel much better now.” He tilted the loaded dolly back and pushed it toward the front doors of the office building. He was wearing blue jeans and a blue work shirt. Christina was wearing cling-tight black leggings, a black shirt, and a sequinned black jacket with a gold lame collar.

  “By the way,” Ben said, “if you were trying to dress inconspicuously, you failed.”

  “I’m not trying to be invisible,” she replied huffily. She held open the door while Ben wheeled the dolly through.

  The security guard, sitting behind a large oval station, waited for them to arrive. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Got a delivery for Quinn Reynolds,” Ben said.

  “Awfully late to be making deliveries.”

  “We did the best we could. We had to bring these documents all the way from Amarillo.”

  The guard nodded toward Christina. “You with him?”

  “Oh yes. Haven’t you seen me before? I’m a legal assistant working for Mr. Reynolds. I’ve got to organize these documents.”

  “We’ve got a trial first thing in the morning before Judge Schmidt. Mr. Reynolds is going to be furious if we’re not ready.”

  At the mention of the judge’s name, the guard’s resistance dissolved. “You got a key?”

  “Of course,” she said. “How else would we get in?”

  “Okay. I’ll let you up.” He led them to the main bank of elevators. Christina and Ben followed with the dolly. After the elevator doors opened, the guard inserted a card into the metal slot just beneath the floor buttons.

  “If you have any problems, call my desk,” the guard said. “Extension 4571.”

  “Got it.” The door closed between them.

  Ben and Christina exhaled. “See,” Christina said. “I told you it would be easy. You just needed to get the old testosterone pumping, Ben.”

  “We’re not home free yet.”

  They exited the elevator on the seventh floor and wheeled the document boxes to the front door of Swayze & Reynolds. Ben inserted the key and pushed. No alarm sounded. That was one point in their favor, anyway. Assuming it wasn’t a silent alarm.

  They scrambled through the lobby and into Reynolds’s interior office. Ben saw Polly perched in her usual spot in the corner. “Hello, Polly.”

  Polly did not respond. She looked even worse than she had on Ben’s last visit. Her eyes were hazy; her plumage had faded. The pile of plucked feathers on the bottom of the cage had grown taller.

  Ben pointed to the large credenza. “The documents are in there.”

  Christina scrutinized the lock. “Piece of cake. I used to pick locks like this regularly at Raven, Tucker & Tubb. So I could read my quarterly evaluations.”

  She took a paper clip from Reynolds’s tabletop, straightened the outer prong, and inserted the rounded center into the lock. She jiggled the clip for a few seconds. Ben heard a tiny clicking noise. Christina withdrew the paper clip and the drawer popped open.

  “Not really designed to hold state secrets,” she said.

  “Lucky for us.” Ben examined the top row of files. “True to the man’s word, here’s what we’re looking for.” He pulled three thick files out of the drawer, then closed it.

  Ben perused the files for a few moments. “These are exactly what we need. They explain how much money Lombardi got from ADC, with names, dates, and places. Have you got that copier?”

  “You bet.” Christina withdrew a black hand-size device from inside her jacket.

  “That’s a copier?”

  “The crème de la crème. It can scan four by eight inches at a time, and it’s very quiet.”

  “What did that set you back?”

  �
�Only twenty bucks. I got it from Burris. Secondhand.”

  “At least.” Ben handed her the documents. Christina turned on her machine. There was a soft purring noise, then a red light flashed.

  “Watch this.” She pulled the scanner down the first column of the top document, then pressed a button. A printed strip of paper emerged from the back of the scanner, but after a second or two, the paper became tangled and snarled. The paper backed up, clogging the machine. The scanner began to vibrate, then emitted a high-pitched squealing noise.

  “Shut it off!” Ben said. Christina pressed the power button. The squealing gradually subsided.

  Ben sighed. “So much for the crème de la crème. Get your money back.”

  “Can’t. Burris doesn’t give guarantees.”

  “With good reason. Where’s the firm’s copy machine?”

  Christina led the way. At the end of the hall, they turned left into the central supply room. A large wall-to-wall window admitted faint illumination into the room. Ben saw paper cutters, typing paper, printers, a computer terminal, and in one corner, wedged between a tiny supply closet and the wall, a large photocopier.

  “Stay away from the window,” Ben whispered. “We don’t want to be seen from the street.” He scrutinized the front panel of the copier. “I can’t tell which button turns this machine on. Have you still got that flashlight?”

  “Yeah.” Christina withdrew a small plastic flashlight. A weak beam shone across the room for a few seconds, flickered, then died.

  “D’you get that from Burris, too?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Just a lucky guess. Next time, Christina, you might try testing these things first. Or better yet, shop at Wal-Mart.”

  “Easy to say in hindsight.”

  “Help me pull this monster into the light.” Ben gripped the photocopier. Although the machine was on wheels, it was extremely heavy. After a few moments, it began to budge. Ben and Christina wheeled it out of its niche beside the closet into the faint light.

  Ben squinted at the control panel. There were at least a hundred buttons, in different sizes and shapes, some red, some green, some labeled, some not. He didn’t know where to begin.

  “Allow a bona fide document handler to assist,” Christina said, pushing him aside. She punched a large green button. The lights came on and a low humming sound emerged. It was alive.

  “Look at all these buttons,” Ben exclaimed. “This machine collates, staples, enlarges, reduces, copies on both sides, and copies in color.”

  Christina frowned. “Boys and their toys. Stop drooling and get to work.”

  Half an hour later, the documents were almost copied. Ben nudged Christina’s shoulder.

  “Did you hear something?”

  “Oh, please don’t start that again.”

  “I’m serious. Listen.”

  Christina listened. After a few seconds, they both heard it. The sound of footsteps. And voices. Coming closer.

  “Is it the guard from downstairs?”

  Ben shook his head no. “Maybe an employee, maybe a real cop, or—it could be Reynolds! Quick, hide!” Ben grabbed the documents, originals and copies, and ran into the supply closet behind the copier. Christina followed.

  They closed the door quietly. The closet was pitchblack. There was barely enough room for its top-to-bottom supply shelves, much less two adult bodies. They crouched down and listened.

  “I could’ve sworn I heard something, Joe,” said a voice on the other side of the door.

  “You’re losing your mind,” a second voice growled. “This Reynolds clown is never here after five-fifteen, much less this late.”

  “Which is all the more reason we should check it out. Oooof!”

  Ben heard a sharp grunt followed by mild swearing, then the sound of something clattering to the floor. Ben saw the beam of a flashlight, one that worked, crisscross the room.

  “Look at this,” the first voice said. “The goddamn Xerox machine is in the middle of the room. I could’ve killed myself.”

  “That would be embarrassing,” his companion said. “Imagine the obituary. Frank Kellerman, security guard. Killed by a Xerox machine.”

  “Don’t be a jerk. Help me push this back against the wall.”

  Ben and Christina held their breath and tried to be as quiet as possible. Two seconds later, Ben felt something bang against the closet door.

  “Much better,” the first voice said. “Jesus, isn’t that just like an attorney to turn his office into a goddamn deathtrap? Probably hoping for a slip-and-fall case.”

  “Sure, Frank. Now, if you’re done redecorating the supply room, let’s find this intruder of yours.”

  Ben listened as the footsteps receded.

  “Think they’ll talk to the guard downstairs?” Christina whispered.

  “Possibly. And he’ll tell them we’re supposed to be here, and those clowns’ll assume we left by the back door and they just missed us. We’re okay.” Ben released a sigh of relief and tried to open the closet door.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  “I may have spoken prematurely.”

  “That’s not funny, Ben.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.” He pressed against the door again; it wouldn’t open, not even a crack. He leaned forward and pressed his shoulder, with all his weight behind it, against the door. He felt a slight give, then the door slipped back into its groove.

  “Ohmigod,” Christina said. “They pushed the copy machine back against the closet door, didn’t they?”

  “Kind of looks that way.” Ben twisted the doorknob both directions, without results. “What’s more, I think the top of the machine is wedged under the doorknob. Even though it’s on wheels, it’s holding tight. We’re stuck.”

  “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod,” Christina said. “What are we going to do?”

  “Not a hell of a lot, I think, since we can barely move.”

  “What will we do in the morning when everyone comes in and finds us trapped in the closet?”

  “I suppose we’ll find that out when it happens.”

  “Isn’t there something you can do?”

  “Like what? I left my acetylene blowtorch at home, Christina. Ditto on the sonic screwdriver. You might as well try to get comfortable.” He fell back against the side wall, stretching his legs out as much as possible, which wasn’t much.

  He heard a muffled sputter from the darkness on the other side of the closet. “Ben, are those your feet?”

  “Yeah. Why, do they, smell?”

  “Not really. But I still don’t want them in my mouth.”

  “Sorry.” He folded his legs back into the cannonball position. “Know any good jokes?”

  “Sorry. Haven’t been in much of a joking mood lately.”

  “Nor I.” Ben tried to make out her face in the darkness, but it was impossible. “For what it’s worth, Christina, you were a good sport at the Lamaze class. Pretending to be pregnant. That probably wasn’t pleasant.”

  “I didn’t mind. I enjoyed it, actually. I once mentioned to you that I…had a chance to be a mother. I let that slip away, for reasons that seem trivial now. The way my life is shaping up, that pillow stuffed under my blouse is probably as close to motherhood as I’ll ever get.” She paused. “Thanks for letting me pretend.”

  Ben sat silently on his side of the closet. Christina could still surprise him, it seemed.

  “So, since we’re having a little tête-à-tête,” Christina said, “may I ask a personal question?”

  “Such as?”

  “Why won’t you take any money from your mother?”

  “What makes you think she’s offered any?”

  “Common sense. If you can raise fifty grand at the drop of a hat for me, I suspect you could get out there and find yourself a decent office.”

  “I prefer to take care of my business on my own.”

  “Of course. Ben Kincaid, the eternal lone wolf. He’s not going to let
other people intrude in his life. He can do everything by himself.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But it’s what you meant. Ben, maybe you’ve been burned a few times, but that’s no reason to isolate yourself from the rest of the world. Let other people help you.”

  “Other people confuse me. I’m better off keeping to myself.”

  “Is that what your shrink told you?”

  Ben fell silent. How did she know these things?

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” Christina continued.

  “I saw a psychiatrist once. After my divorce. I was pretty strung out. Spent an hour lying on a sofa spilling my guts to this guy with a beard and a steno pad, but it didn’t help. I never went back.”

  “That must be rough,” Ben said. “Divorce.”

  “Yeah. It was.” She inhaled sharply. “Good grief, Ben, you’re thirty years old. Reasonably attractive. I’m surprised you’ve never been married.”

  Ben bit down on his lower lip. Not here. Not in front of. Christina.

  “Ben?” She leaned forward and touched him on the shoulder. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry if—”

  “It’s all right,” Ben said quickly.

  “I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you for taking my case. I realize I’ve kept you from accepting other cases that would be more profitable.”

  “Yeah, those corporate giants have been banging down my door.”

  “Still, merci.” She settled back into her corner. “Think we’ll ever get out of here?”

  “Not till morning.”

  “Without getting caught?”

  “Seems unlikely.”

  “You’ll think of something. You always do.” Ben felt her reposition herself. “I suppose we ought to try to sleep.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping very well lately at home. My chances for a good night’s sleep in a closet are not good.”

  She yawned. “I’m sleepy already. Mind if I catch forty winks?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Thanks. Feel free to sing me a lullaby.”

  “The only song I know the words to is ‘Oklahoma.’ ”

  “Maybe in the morning.” She snuggled in closer.