Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  With the bang of the gavel, the reporters leaped to their feet. Flashbulbs flared and a thousand voices filled the courtroom. Ben heard only one. As he passed the defendant’s table Alexander Moltke smiled a sickening smile and said in a singsong voice, “You should have taken the deee-al.”

  Ben wondered if he was right.

  31

  “HERE’S YOUR FOURTEENTH MOTION for a continuance,” Jones said, as he tossed the pleading to Ben. “Shall I draft the judge’s denial also?”

  “What a wisenheimer.” Ben scanned the brief, then passed it back to Jones. “What about our petition to the Tenth Circuit for emergency relief?”

  “Denied. Premature.”

  Ben sighed. It was hardly surprising news, but he couldn’t help but hope. “I’m about at the end of my rope. Is there anything else we can try that I haven’t thought of yet?”

  “I don’t think so, Boss. That trial is gonna start Tuesday morning whether you want it to or not. What about hiring a shadow jury?”

  “Shadow juries are for big firms with lots of money to spend and a client to impress. No shadow jury could ever duplicate the thought processes of a real jury, no matter how many demographic studies are conducted. You just have to pay attention during the trial and do the best you can with the jury you draw.” He ticked through his mental checklist. “Have you made any progress with the business records we got from Reynolds’s office?”

  “Yeah.” Jones pointed to a tall stack of papers. “These are my notes and work papers. I’ve been backward and forward over these records a dozen times. I can tell you what they say, but not what they mean. I need something to compare and contrast these figures with.”

  “Something like Albert DeCarlo’s business records of the same transactions.”

  “Exactly. Then I could put the two together, see what matches and what doesn’t. And if there were discrepancies, say, large infusions of cash that appeared in one set of records but not in the other—”

  “We’d be onto something. I know. Have you heard from Loving by any chance?”

  “Not since he took off the other day.”

  “I was afraid of that. I hope he’s not in trouble. Why don’t you see if you can find him?”

  “Why me? You’re the Skipper.”

  “Yeah, yeah, just do it. Seen Christina this morning yet?”

  “She called.”

  “Did you tell her about the pretrial hearing?”

  Jones nodded.

  “How did she take it?”

  “Very calmly. But Boss,” he added, “you know she’s scared to death.”

  “I know,” Ben said quietly.

  The phone rang; Jones picked it up. He appeared puzzled for a moment, then he passed the receiver to Ben. “I think this is for you.”

  Ben took the phone. “Ben Kincaid here.”

  “Yeah? This is Lennie. We gotta talk. Fast.”

  “When I needed to talk to you, you ran me off with a gun.”

  “You was buttin’ in where you had no business, but screw that anyhow.”

  “Is this about the Lombardi case?”

  “Of course it’s about the fuckin’ Lombardi case,” Lennie shouted. “Why the hell else would I be callin’ you?”

  “Look, I’m very busy—”

  “No, you look, you little shit. This is life and death I’m talking about here.” Despite his belligerence, his voice was trembling. “We’re all in danger. Including that bimbo client of yours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we’re all dead men, you asshole! Fuckin’ dead men!”

  “Lennie, calm down and tell me what you’re babbling about. Why is Christina in danger?”

  “I can’t tell you over the phone, man. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Are you still at the Cowpoke Motor Inn? Room 13?”

  “You got it.”

  “Fine. I’m leaving now.”

  The motel hadn’t changed, except perhaps that it seemed even more deserted than before. The occupancy level was down; business wouldn’t pick up again until nightfall, Ben supposed, when the hourly clients started dropping in.

  Ben swerved into the parking lot. He was grateful to have made it; his Accord stalled twice on the drive over. He jumped out of his car, rushed to room 13, and pounded on the door. “Lennie! It’s Ben Kincaid!”

  There was no answer. Dead silence.

  Ben pounded and yelled, but there was no response. Oh God—please don’t let anything bad happen. Don’t let it be my fault again. Let him be out for coffee, or Twinkies, or the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Anything but—

  He smelled something. Even through the door. Something disturbingly familiar.

  He considered running for the front desk clerk, but he knew that would take too long—the clerk wouldn’t want to come and wouldn’t open the door for a stranger if he did. Motel owners couldn’t legally force their way into leased premises without a compelling reason, and an officer of the court such as Ben couldn’t incite someone to break the law. Not in front of witnesses, anyway.

  He ran back to his car and took the pocket knife out of his glove compartment. He extended the blade and wedged it into the space between the door and the jamb, just beneath the bolt of the lock. The lock was old, and not much of a lock in the first place. After a few moments, the door sprung free.

  Ben pushed the door open. The smell hit him like a wall. He inhaled deeply, clearing his lungs, then scanned the room. The decor was much as before—dirty clothes, fast food, porn magazines. And as before, Lennie was lying on the bed. But this time, Lennie wasn’t moving. His body was contorted in a painfully unnatural position; there was an ice blue pallor about his skin.

  And a huge, bleeding, star-shaped hole where the left side of his head should have been.

  Ben held the handkerchief over his nose and mouth, trying to keep the odor out and his lunch in. This was a smell he would never get used to. Never.

  “Well,” Mike said, “the plot thickens. The cemetery plot, that is.”

  “Spare me the Halloween humor,” Ben replied. “What killed him?”

  “Four bullets to the head. Just like before.”

  Four bullets. To the head. What was left of it.

  “Look at the blood color,” Mike added. “This happened recently. Couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before you arrived.”

  Ten minutes. Ten goddamned minutes. If only his stupid car hadn’t stalled. If only he hadn’t gotten caught in traffic on the Beeline. If only he had been smarter.

  “Any idea what he wanted?”

  “Not really. He said he had some important information. He said we were all in danger.”

  “It seems he was right. At least about himself.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And if he was right about himself…”

  “Thanks. I grasped your point.”

  Ben tried not to watch as the paramedics lifted Lennie onto the stretcher. The body sagged; bloodied brain tissue fell out of the exposed cranium. “You think this was a mob killing?”

  Mike considered the question, “A possibility. Given this chump’s occupation. But there’s nothing about this murder that screams out gangland execution.”

  “What about the four shots to the head? Surely one would have been sufficient for any normal murderer.”

  “Well…” Mike said hesitantly. “Of course, that factor doesn’t make the killing resemble a mob execution. That factor makes the killing resemble the murder your client is going on trial for Tuesday.”

  Ben’s face and neck muscles tightened. “What are you saying, Mike?”

  “Where was Christina twenty, thirty minutes ago, Ben?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I think you’d better find out.”

  “Are you telling me she needs an alibi?”

  “You’re the one who told me Lennie was snitching to the FBI. That he might have been planning to testify against her.” He fumbled through his coat pockets f
or his pipe. “You could hardly blame her for becoming desperate, under the circumstances.”

  “Just spit it out, Mike. What’s your goddamn point?”

  Mike matched his volume. “I’m saying your case just got about one hundred thousand times worse, Ben. And it wasn’t great in the first place.”

  “I can’t believe you would even consider bringing charges against Christina for this weasel’s murder!”

  “I’m a cop, Ben! I catch bad guys; I don’t bring charges. But I can sure as hell tell you what’s going to happen. Moltke and his buddies will view this development as proof of the pudding.”

  “And let me guess,” Ben said bitterly. “There’s nothing you can do to help.”

  Mike jammed the pipe stem between his teeth and turned away.

  “As I suspected. Thanks for nothing.”

  Ben stormed out of the room. The blood was racing to his head. And the words, the words kept racing through his brain, filling him with dread.

  Your case just got about one hundred thousand times worse, said Mike, a man in a position to know.

  And it wasn’t great in the first place.

  32

  BEN DREW IN THE sweet smell of damp pine needles. It felt good coursing through his lungs, but it didn’t dispel his intuitive feeling that he shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have brought Christina, should’ve stayed home and locked the doors. We’re all in danger, Lennie had said. We’re all dead men.

  The night wind whistled through the trees, bringing a sharp chill. Ben watched Christina draw her arms tighter around herself. “Told you to bring a coat.”

  “All my coats are neon colors,” Christina replied. “Not really appropriate for this line of work.”

  “That’s true.” He glanced at his watch. Almost two in the morning. According to Wolf, the plane was overdue. Was it coming? Or had he been totally mistaken? The only way to find out was to wait and watch and listen. All night, if necessary.

  Wolf began pacing in a small circle. He’d been antsy all night, not that Ben could blame him. It had been a long stakeout, and so far, entirely unproductive. Ben had been trying to get him to go home for hours; this was much too dangerous for a boy his age. And what did Wolf’s parents think about him being out all hours of the night? Wolf refused to leave; and he wouldn’t discuss the subject of parents at all.

  “I gotta take care of something,” Wolf said abruptly.

  Ben nodded. “Don’t be gone long.”

  “I won’t. If I see anything, I’ll call for you. Like this.” Wolf placed both hands over his mouth and released a long, eerie hooting noise. It was some kind of bird call—an owl, perhaps? It sounded authentic, whatever it was.

  “Nothing in this forest makes that noise,” Wolf explained. “So if you hear it, you’ll know it’s me.”

  “All right,” Ben said. “I’ll be listening.”

  “And if something happens, or you need me in a hurry, you make the same call.”

  “Me? I couldn’t make that noise if I practiced a million years. I can’t even whistle.”

  “What noises can you make?”

  “I can do excellent armpit-farts.” He cupped his hand under his armpit and brought his arm down over it. “I learned that in college.”

  Wolf wasn’t impressed. “What about you?” he asked Christina.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t go to college.”

  “Maybe you should just yell, ‘Hey Wolf.’ ”

  “That I can handle,” Ben said. “And when I do, what course of action does a twelve-year-old boy plan with regard to these professional criminals?”

  “I can handle myself.” Wolf reached into his jacket and withdrew a small wooden slingshot. “I’m a crack shot.”

  Ben smiled. “Just stay out of trouble. Hurry back.”

  Wolf plunged into the dark thicket and within seconds Ben couldn’t see him at all. He couldn’t hear any movement, either. The boy was almost as much a part of the forest as the trees.

  A few moments later, Ben’s ears pricked up. “Did you hear something?”

  “Oh God, it’s Mr. Paranoid again—”

  “This is serious, Christina. I heard some leaves crunching.”

  “It must’ve been Wolf.”

  “No, it was over there. The other direction.”

  “Ben, if you see something, fine—let me know. Until then, stop giving me the creeps.”

  “Have it your way.” He crouched down beside her. “You never actually told me what you were doing this afternoon.”

  “What does it matter? I can’t believe anyone would suggest I killed this Lennie creep. I didn’t even know him.”

  “He knew you. And unfortunately, he may have been planning to testify against you.”

  “How could he know anything about me?”

  “Who says he did? He was in trouble, and he was planning to turn informant to get out of that trouble. He wouldn’t be the first crook who invented some testimony to buy himself immunity.”

  “That really stinks.”

  “I agree, but nevertheless, having a witness for the prosecution offed on the eve of trial doesn’t augur well. So where were you this afternoon?”

  “I was at home. Alone. Watching television.”

  No chance of an alibi, then. Nothing to protect her from another murder charge but her word—the word of the accused. Ben heard a low rumbling noise on the opposite side of the clearing. The noise grew stronger, and a few seconds later, Ben could see the outline of a small plane flying low, just above the treetops. It was painted black; but for the noise, it would be almost invisible. He watched the plane circle the clearing a few times, then approach.

  “Stay low,” Ben whispered. “Don’t let him see you.”

  Christina obeyed.

  The plane swept in for a perfect landing. Shortly after the engines died, a man in a dark leather jacket and blue jeans crawled out of the cockpit. He looked like the pilot Wolf had described before. Instead of waiting by the plane, he walked briskly across the clearing. He entered the forest about a hundred feet north of Ben and Christina.

  After Ben was certain the man was far enough ahead, they started after him. They couldn’t see the pilot, but they could hear him—the soft, steady sound of his boots bearing down on branches and leaves.

  They followed him for almost ten minutes. At last, the pilot arrived at the wooden shack Ben and Christina had discovered during their previous visit—Wolf’s animal sanctuary. The pilot paused, apparently trying to read the notice on the door. Then he examined the lock; it was already open. He stepped inside.

  Ben heard a sudden commotion—some scuffling, a muffled yell. Could Wolf be in there?

  Ben crept forward, but almost instantly shrunk back into the shadows. On the far side, a silhouetted figure moved toward the shack. Ben could barely make out any detail; it seemed to be a man, a tall man, on the thin side. The moonlight caught the side of his face—and his long flowing blond hair. It was Vinny, DeCarlo’s so-called executive officer.

  Vinny pushed the door of the shack open and strode inside. Ben heard another burst of scuffling, and a sudden, sharp sound—a slap? a blow to the head?—then silence.

  “I think Wolf may be in there,” Ben whispered to Christina.

  Her eyes widened. “No!”

  “He probably went in to check on his birds, only to get caught by these goons. Perhaps they were scared by all the recent FBI activity and decided to make the exchange somewhere more secluded than the clearing.”

  “What are we going to do? We can’t just leave him in there.”

  “Agreed.” Before Ben had a chance to suggest a course of action, he heard a violent crashing noise from inside the shack, followed by muted angry shouts.

  “I’m going in,” Ben muttered.

  “And what are you going to do once you’re in?”

  “I’ll figure that out when I get there.” He started to rise, pushing forward on the balls of his feet, but almost instantly felt an
arm wrap around his neck and jerk him onto his back.

  “What the—”

  Before Ben could finish, two more hands pulled a gag tightly between his teeth. Another hand wrapped heavy duct tape across his mouth, plugging the gag into place.

  He coughed, choking, and squirmed helplessly on the ground. He saw Christina, just a few feet away, getting the same treatment. Men in dark clothing were holding her in place, one gripping her arms, the other yanking her head back by her hair. Ben pushed toward her, then felt someone twist his arms painfully behind his back and snap a pair of handcuffs over his wrists.

  An electric bullhorn blared in the darkness. “This is the FBI. Your current location is surrounded by FBI and DEA agents. We have impounded your airplane and your motorcycle. There is no escape. Come out with your hands up.”

  What the hell was going on here? Ben tried to twist free, to no avail. How did the FBI find this drug drop, and why would the FBI treat him and Christina like criminals? He tried to shout, but couldn’t—just trying made him choke and gag. Where was Christina? He couldn’t see her now at all. By God, if they hurt her—

  “You have sixty seconds to come out on your own,” the bullhorn voice said. “If you do not, we will be forced to fire tear gas grenades which may be hazardous to your health. I repeat: you are surrounded. There is no escape.”

  Unless the smugglers have a hostage. Ben heard another crashing noise inside the shack, followed by more scuffling and banging, more muffled shouts. A struggle was taking place. Ben tried to say something, tried to tell them Wolf was in there, but it was impossible.

  “Don’t shoot!” a voice inside the shack shouted. The voice was frightened, panicked, “No gas. Please.”

  Someone darted out of the shack. Ben couldn’t see the face, but he knew from the height, or lack thereof who it must be.

  “Stop where you are,” the bullhorn demanded. “Hands in the air. If you do not cooperate, we will be forced to fire.”

  The figure paused, bouncing from one foot to the other. He was obviously frightened, uncertain what to do. He kept looking back over his shoulder.