Ben listened to the sound of her breathing, inhaling, exhaling, gradually falling into a slow, easy rhythm. In a few minutes, she was asleep.
“Christina?”
She didn’t stir. He nudged her gently. “Christina? Christina, wake up. I hear movement outside.”
“What—where—Ben?” After a moment, she regained her bearings. “We’re still in this closet, aren’t we?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Was I asleep?”
“Yes. Very soundly. All night.”
“Oh, God. I didn’t snore, did I?”
Ben smiled. He wasn’t about to tell. “You were fine.”
“Ugh.” She tried to straighten herself out. “My legs feel like lead.” She reached down and yanked off her shoes.
“Yeah, I’m pretty stiff, too.”
“Did you sleep?”
“Not really, but I tried not to move too much. Didn’t want to wake you.”
“You sweetie.”
“Shhhh! Footsteps.”
They listened to the clicking of little heels down the hallway. The footsteps turned into the supply room, then they heard a woman’s voice: “What in the—” The footsteps returned to the hallway. “Cliff, can you come here?”
Another pair of footsteps, softer and squeakier (sneakers, Ben guessed) bounded down the hallway. “What’s up, Marjorie?”
“Would you look at the copy machine? How did it get out in the middle of the room?”
“Beats me.”
“Were you and the other clerks playing around last night?”
“No way, Marjorie. Honest.”
“Making goofy faces? Xeroxing your hairy buns?”
“I promise, no.”
“Well, help me get it back where it belongs. Mr. Reynolds will pitch a fit.”
Ben listened to the grunting on the other side of the door. “Look, it’s wedged under the doorknob,” Marjorie said. He heard some more heaving and straining, then the door popped free. Ben could see it slacken in the jamb. “Got it. Now let’s wheel this behemoth back where it belongs.”
A minute later, the squeaking of wheels came to an end. “That about right?” Cliff asked.
“Close enough,” Marjorie said. “Thanks. Now go back to sorting the mail. Mr. Reynolds gets grumpy if it’s not set out neatly on his desk when he arrives.”
Ben waited until they both left the room. Slowly, he opened the door, just a crack. The coast was clear.
Ben and Christina crawled out of the closet. Their joints cracked and popped as they pulled themselves erect for the first time in hours.
“My legs are asleep,” Christina whispered.
“Mine, too.”
“I hate this. Tingles and pinpricks.” She shook her legs until the sensation subsided. “How do we get out of here? Marjorie’s probably sitting by the front door. Even assuming we could explain our presence here, I can’t let Marjorie see me without my pillow.”
“I know.” Ben spotted a telephone on the other side of the room. “I have an idea.” He glanced at the extension numbers on the card beside the phone, then dialed the operator.
“Hello, operator, can you help me? I can’t seem to get an outside line. Thanks.” He covered the receiver and whispered to Christina. “I don’t want Marjorie to be able to tell the call is coming from inside the office.” After he heard the dial tone, he punched in the front desk number.
“Hello?” Marjorie said.
Ben affected a fake nasal tone. “Lady, we got a package down here for you.”
“Are you the one who left all these document boxes on the dolly outside the front door?”
“Uhh, yeah. That’s right, ma’m. Any problems?”
“The boxes are all filled with blank paper.”
“Really. The things people do. Look, lady, we just ship ’em. But you need to get this package.”
“Send it up.”
“No can do. You have to come down and sign for it.”
“Mister, I’m eight months pregnant. I don’t make trips for no good reason.”
“Sorry, lady. Regulations. Must be really confidential information.”
“Very well; I’ll be there in a few minutes. Assuming I don’t give birth on the way.”
As soon as they heard her leave, Ben and Christina tiptoed out of the supply room. Ben dropped the originals of the financial documents back into Reynolds’s credenza, more or less as he found them. Careful to avoid the clerk, they sidled out the front door. They had rounded the corner and almost made it to the stairwell…when Quinn Reynolds stepped out of the elevator.
“Mr. Kincaid,” he said, aghast.
Ben realized he must look awful. He ran his lingers through his oily, matted hair and felt his stubbled chin. “Decided to grow a beard,” he mumbled.
“I see.” Reynolds glanced briefly at Christina, then returned his attention to Ben. “I thought I made it clear to you we had nothing further to discuss.”
“We didn’t come here to see you.”
“Oh?”
Ben saw Reynolds’s eyes roam to the documents he was cradling. He held them upright so Reynolds couldn’t see what they were. He hoped. “We were visiting my broker in another office.”
“Indeed,” Reynolds said dryly. “Rather early to be checking your investments. Your financial status must have improved markedly.”
“As a matter of fact, it has,” Ben said.
“No doubt. Well…if you’ll excuse me.”
Ben stepped aside and let him pass. As soon as Reynolds was out of sight, they ducked into the stairwell. Ben closed the door behind him just as he saw Marjorie step out of the elevator, an extremely irritated expression on her face.
“We made it,” Ben whispered, wiping his forehead. “Assuming Reynolds didn’t suspect.”
“I think he suspected you were a king-size slob.” Christina started down the stairwell. “Now his suspicions are confirmed.”
28
BEN STROLLED TOWARD HIS office feeling renewed and invigorated. It was amazing what a difference a shower and a shave could make. Especially when you’ve spent the night in a closet.
He grabbed a copy of the World on his way in. Naturally, the impending trial of the so-called Drug Princess was the page-one story. How could any juror claim to be unbiased, he wondered, after reading a daily deluge of articles characterizing this case as “instrumental to the federal government’s quest to shut down the Cali drug cartel”?
He stepped into his office and stared at the floor. “Jones,” he asked, “what is this?” He pointed at several plastic margarine tubs filled with gray pellets.
“That’s Barbara’s feed bowl.”
“Okay, I’ll play along. Who’s Barbara, and why are we feeding her?”
“Barbara is the chicken you just scared away.”
“I suspected as much.”
“And we’re feeding her because she was hungry. And because you told me to.”
“I did not—” But why bother? He tried a different tack. “Why do you call her Barbara?”
“Because that’s her name.”
“Barbara is a name for a human being, Jones, not a chicken.”
“Is that a rule? What would you call her, Chicken Little? Foghorn Leghorn?”
“I told you to get rid of the chickens, Jones, not adopt them. I thought you were going to build a coop out back.”
“I did. They hated it. All twelve of them, confined in a tiny area, staring at the world through chicken wire. How would you like to live like that? Sorry, Boss, but until we find them a nice home, they’re staying right here.”
Ben realized it would be pointless to argue. “Any luck getting the trial postponed?”
“None. I’m facing a brick wall. Derek’s clerk keeps pleading the Speedy Trial Act.”
“That’s ironic. The Speedy Trial Act was supposed to benefit the accused. Instead, it’s become a tool prosecutors use to hang them. The U.S. Attorneys can take their time, wait until they ha
ve all the evidence they need, then file charges whenever it suits them. And the hapless defendant has perhaps as few as thirty days to prepare his defense.” Ben noticed something new on Jones’s table. “What’s with the TV and VCR?”
“I rented them from Burris. He’s charging me by the minute, by the way, since I work for you. I wanted to show you something.” Jones turned on the television and pushed the play button on the VCR. It creaked and groaned into action. “Not exactly quality equipment.”
“Feel fortunate if it works at all.”
The picture flashed on and Ben saw himself, gritting his teeth and shaking the lapels of a decidedly intimidated blond reporter.
“Oh God.”
“I figured you wouldn’t want to miss this,” Jones said, grinning.
Ben watched himself lecture the reporter on the evils of tainting the jury pool. His face was flush red; veins throbbed across his temples.
“I look like a maniac,” Ben said. “I’ll probably be tossed out of the bar for this.”
“I don’t think so.” Jones reached under his table and withdrew a thick rubber-banded stack of mail and phone messages. “All this came for you after that clip was broadcast. They’re congratulating you for standing up to that obnoxious reporter.”
Ben ran his fingers through the mail. “All this?”
“Yes. Read it for yourself—they love you. Letters from lawyers, private citizens, bar committees. Two of them are from judges.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Face it, Boss. You’re a folk hero. A new urban legend.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Now, remember, when you sell the TV-movie rights to your story, I want to be played by—” He froze, then completed the sentence in a whisper: “Kevin Costner.”
“What’s the problem?” Ben asked. “Jones?” He turned to face the door.
He immediately realized what the problem was. It was Loving, the disgruntled divorcé.
Ben dove behind Jones’s table. “Call the police!” he shouted. Jones started dialing.
“Wait a minute,” Loving said. “I ain’t here to hurt nobody.” He opened his windbreaker. “Look. I ain’t carryin’. Not even a pop gun.”
Ben poked his head out from behind Jones’s chair. “Then why are you here?”
“I just wanted…” He looked embarrassed, shuffled his feet. “I just wanted to say thank you.”
Ben slowly crawled out from behind the table, an inch at a time. “You wanted to thank me? For what?”
“For not pressin’ charges. After that little pop gun incident.”
“Oh. That.”
“I don’t know what got into me. I’d had a little too much to drink, tell you the truth. I had all this mad inside of me, beggin’ to get out. So I let it out on you.”
“Well,” Ben said slowly, “it could happen to anyone.”
“Aww, you’re just bein’ nice. You had every right to send me to the slammer. And with my record, I would’ve been there a good long while. But you didn’t. ’Cause you’re a nice guy.”
Actually, Ben thought, it was because I was too embarrassed to tell anyone what happened.
“I admire that,” Loving continued. “Especially in a big-shot like you.”
Jones gave Ben a seriously arched eyebrow.
“Bottom line is, I owe ya,” Loving continued, “and I know it. And Frank Loving doesn’t let a debt stand unpaid. So you just tell me what I can do for you, and I’ll do it.”
“Well,” Ben said, “that’s very kind of you, but…”
“You need any heads busted?”
“Uh, not today, thank you.”
“How about women? I could fix you up with a babe so hot she’ll put you in traction.”
“Really, no…”
“Identical twins. Blondes.”
“I’m terribly busy right now.”
Loving folded his arms across his chest. His frustration was evident—and scary. “Busy with what?”
“Well…my secretary is trying without much success to interpret some financial information.”
“Some deadbeats holdin’ out on ya, huh? Just give me the names. I’ll soften ’em up for ya.”
“Not deadbeats. These are business records of transactions between Tony Lombardi—”
“I don’t know him.”
“And Albert DeCarlo.”
“Whoopee!” Loving whistled. “Him I know. You really play with the big boys, don’tcha, Skipper?”
“Skipper?”
“I got a few pals who work for DeCarlo. I’ll set the ball in motion, see if I can shake anything loose for you.”
“I can’t ask you to go to the trouble—”
“It’s no trouble.” He thwacked Ben on the back. “If I find out something, who should I call?”
“Jones here takes my calls. He’s my secretary.”
A furrowed ridge formed over Loving’s eyes. “This guy’s your secretary?”
“That’s right.”
“Hey, you two ain’t, like, dating or something?”
“Definitely not,” Jones said. “He’s not my type.”
“I’m gettin’ out of here,” Loving said. “I’ll call you when I’ve got something.” He exited through the front door.
“Very funny there, Jones,” Ben said.
“I try to amuse, Boss. I mean, Skipper.”
“By the way, if anyone from the police department inquires, we did not ask Loving to investigate for us, and he is not our employee. In fact, we don’t know who he is.”
“Got it.”
Ben picked up his briefcase. “I’m out of here.”
Jones shook his head and pointed.
“What now?” Ben swung around and found himself staring at orange hair and a cookie dough nose. Clayton Langdell. That cinches it, Ben thought; I’m going to put a bell on that door.
“Mr. Kincaid,” Langdell said, “may I have a few moments of your time? I want to hire you.”
Ben’s eyebrows floated to his forehead. A client? A client who wasn’t wearing handcuffs? A client dressed in a suit? That hadn’t happened in a good long time. “Step into my office.”
Ben ushered Langdell from the lobby into his office. Ben sat behind his desk and let Langdell take the sofa.
“How can I help you?”
“Mr. Kincaid, I’m inviting you to act as legal counsel for the Society. We’ve needed ongoing representation for some time, but I’ve been stalling, hoping to find a suitable person. I think you’re our man.”
Ben stifled his grin. Acting as legal counsel for a high-profile charitable organization would definitely be a step up in the world. “What would my duties entail?”
“You would advise us on legal matters. Review our publications to keep us out of unnecessary trouble. File lawsuits to enjoin activities that are harmful to our other-than-human brethren. Help organize our lobbying efforts. For instance, I’d like you to be involved in our cockfighting campaign.”
“Cockfighting? Isn’t that illegal?”
“Not in Oklahoma, or five other states, for that matter. And in some states like Texas, it’s illegal, but only a misdemeanor. Oklahoma does have a statute prohibiting animal fights, but in a notorious case, Lock versus Falkenstein, the Oklahoma Supreme Court ruled that, although the chicken was an animal, people of ordinary intelligence were incapable of understanding that. Since those people wouldn’t know they were breaking the law when they fought chickens, to try them for that offense would be an unconstitutional denial of due process.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I knew you’d be outraged,” Langdell said. “I saw your pet chickens in the lobby.”
“Those aren’t—oh, never mind.” Ben pulled a legal pad out of his desk and started making notes. “Who runs these cockfights?”
“Professionals, mostly. Each season, October through June, breeders bring their birds to game clubs and set up fights. We’re talking about birds that for centuries have been selec
tively bred for aggression. Plus the owners equip their birds with ice-pick gaffs or razor-sharp knives, just to make the birds tougher and the fight bloodier.”
“That’s grotesque,” Ben said quietly.
“Precisely. And a lawyer like you should be able to turn some heads down at the capitol. I saw you on television the other day. I figure if you can push around reporters like that, you can arrange to be heard by the state legislators, too.”
“I’d be happy to work on this,” Ben said. “As you know, I’m neck-deep in a murder case at present, but as soon as that’s concluded…”
“I understand. Fit us in as soon as you can. Cockfighting is just the tip of the iceberg. After that, we’ll go after the puppy mills.”
Ben felt a hollow in his heart. “Puppy mills?”
“Puppies confined to filthy mesh cages, forced to stand on chicken wire, day in, day out. Bred like rabbits, without regard to congenital defects or disease, then shipped off to pet stores and sold at exorbitant prices. Again, Oklahoma has many of the prime offenders.”
“Clayton, I don’t want to seem rude, but this conversation is depressing the hell out of me.”
“Believe me, I know. I live with it every day.”
“Why don’t I give you a ring as soon as I get free of the McCall case? We can develop a systematic plan of action.”
“Sounds dandy to me.” Langdell rose and shook Ben’s hand. “So, does this mean you’re my lawyer now?”
“Well, it means I’m the Society’s lawyer. Why do you ask?”
Langdell laughed, a bit too heartily. “I just like to know who is and isn’t on my side.” He winked and left the office.
Leaving Ben to wonder exactly what that meant.
29
“COME ON, GISELLE. EAT!”
It was a fair compromise. He’d filled her bowl with one-fourth Feline’s Fancy and three-fourths regular Cat Chow. He figured it would smell enough like what she preferred to get her started, till she developed a taste for the other. Eventually, he would wean her off the expensive brand altogether. He thought.
Apparently, Giselle didn’t see it that way. She circled the food bowl a few times. Her face crinkled; her whiskers shook. She stared at Ben with what he could have sworn were eyes of betrayal. Then she curled up in his easy chair, now covered with black cat hair, and acted as if he didn’t exist.
Blind Justice Page 18
