Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Which brings us back to my original question. Are you going to tell Christina?”

  “She may have already figured it out,” Ben said. “And if not, well…I think she’s been through enough pain and disappointment these past few weeks.”

  “I concur.” Mike started out the door, then stopped, as if something were holding him back.

  “Ben,” he said, after a long moment.

  “Yeah?”

  “I just wanted…well…to discuss the way I’ve been behaving—”

  “You were on the other side, Mike. I understand.”

  “Let me finish, will you?” He walked closer to Ben and leaned against the examining table. “When I took this job, I swore an oath.”

  “I know. To defend the United States and the Constitution, etc.”

  “More than that. To obey the rules and procedures of the state and federal law enforcement agencies. To be a good cop. To play it by the book. And that meant something to me, Ben. It really did.” He exhaled slowly. “Well, I’ve learned something from all this.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve learned that by the book isn’t good enough anymore.” His eyes became hooded. “That following the rules isn’t always sufficient. Oh, I’m not talking about becoming a vigilante or anything: I’m just saying…I think sometimes we hide behind our professionalism, our badges, our licenses, our procedures—”

  “Our Rules of Professional Conduct,” Ben added.

  “Yeah. May be. We hide behind those things because they protect us from moral debate, from the really tough questions. It’s easier to read a rule than to consider individual cases—specific people in specific situations.

  “But that’s wrong,” Mike said firmly. “People are more important than rules. I won’t make that mistake again.” He half smiled. “You think you can forgive me?”

  “Mike, pals are for thick and thin—no matter what happens. That’s why they’re called pals.”

  Mike clasped Ben’s arm firmly. “Thanks, pal.”

  “Don’t mention it. Incidentally, pal, you’re hurting my arm.”

  44

  BEN SLIPPED INTO THE Oneok Building at about 7:45 and rode the elevator to the tenth floor. He might be slow, but he wasn’t stupid; if the security guard didn’t take names until eight, the intelligent burglar slipped in just before. He ducked into the bathroom, hid in a stall and read back issues of Stereo Review for two hours. He had a story planned out in the event someone came in to clean the bathroom, but the contingency never arose.

  At eleven o’clock, when he was reasonably certain everyone was gone, Ben slipped out of the men’s room and crossed the hallway to Swayze & Reynolds. Keeping an eye out for security, he used his copied key to open the front door. He passed through the ornate lobby and into Reynolds’s office.

  He found Polly in her usual place, trapped in a cage much too small, barely alive. Her coat had lost its sheen; the colors of her wings and the brightness of her eyes had faded. Worst of all, the pile of feathers at the bottom of the cage had doubled in size. Ben could see exposed patches of flesh where the feathers had been yanked out.

  As quietly as possible, Ben removed the cage from the stand and carried it out of the office. He rode the elevator to the ground floor.

  He stopped at the security guard’s station. “I’ve got a medical emergency,” he said. “This parrot’s dying.”

  The security guard scrutinized him with evident suspicion.

  “I was working in Reynolds’s office,” Ben added, “when she started croaking.”

  “Working this late?” the guard asked.

  “Of course. Why else would I be up there? Look, if Mr. Reynolds’s prize parrot dies, he is not going to be happy.”

  The guard shrugged. “So what do you want me to do, call an ambulance or something?”

  “Never mind,” Ben said. “I’ve got a car.” He brushed past the guard and walked out onto the street.

  Whew! Managed to bluff his way through that one. Reynolds, of course, would be furious the next morning when he found his parrot missing. Even if he thought to ask the night security guard, though, Ben didn’t think the guy could describe him well enough for Reynolds to make an ID. And if he did, that was fine, too. Ben would sic Clayton Langdell and his entire organization on Reynolds. Maybe the ASPCA and a few others, too, just for good measure.

  Ben crossed the street and walked about halfway down Fifth Street. After a few seconds, he heard the low plaintive wail of a hoot owl. He walked toward the sound.

  “Pssst.” Ben followed the voice into a side alley.

  In the soft moonlight,, he could just make out Wolf’s face. He looked good; his appearance had improved a hundred percent since he had been released from St. John’s. His right arm, the one that caught the first bullet, was still in a sling, but otherwise he almost seemed like his former self.

  “Here,” Ben said, passing him the cage. “Take care of her.”

  “Sure.” With his free arm, Wolf opened the cage and gently drew Polly out. Polly cooed quietly, then nestled against his shoulder. “Ma says I have to spend less time in the forest and more time in school.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s okay. She says I can still search for traps, and I can start keeping my birds at home. I’m building a shed in the backyard. The landlord doesn’t like it, but he hasn’t said anything. Everyone seems to be bending over backward to be nice to me. Since I got shot and all.”

  “Milk it for all it’s worth,” Ben advised. “It won’t last forever.”

  “Yeah, I ’spect you’re right.”

  “And pay attention in school. You need to make good grades so you can grow up to be the world’s greatest veterinarian.”

  “Aw, I hate school. The other kids never like me.”

  “Nonsense. You should be very popular. How many kids can brag about being shot by the FBI?”

  “Hmmm.” This was apparently a prospect Wolf hadn’t contemplated. “Well, I’d better go.”

  “Okay. See you around.”

  Wolf started out of the alley.

  “Oh-Wolf.”

  Wolf turned. “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you know anything about chickens?”

  45

  THERE WAS SOMETHING WRONG with Ben’s office, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. For starters, Jones’s card table had been replaced by a desk, a real desk, with drawers and everything. What’s more, there were two other real desks, one on either side of Jones’s.

  That was different, sure, but Ben sensed there was more. He stood in the middle of the lobby trying to figure out what had changed.

  And then he realized.

  “What’s wrong, Boss?” Jones asked.

  Ben frowned. “I hate to admit it,” he said, “but I miss the chickens.”

  Jones sighed. “Yeah. Me, too. Especially Barbara.”

  “Well, I’m sure Wolf will provide them with a loving home.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Hey, what’s in the sack?”

  “Sack?” Ben held his groceries away from Jones’s eyesight. “Oh, nothing in particular.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jones pulled down the side of the sack. It contained a large quantity of Feline’s Fancy. “Giving in, are we?”

  Ben yanked the sack away and put it in a closet. “I just thought I should have a little on hand. For special occasions.”

  “Right. That’s why you bought the king-size twelve-pack. Don’t feel bad, Boss. Cats have broken better men than you. Oh, that reminds me. Clayton Langdell called. He wants to set up a meeting.”

  “He still wants me to represent him?”

  “Apparently so.”

  The light dawned: Langdell wasn’t a suspect trying to buy him off. He really did want to hire Ben because he thought he was a decent lawyer. “Did he mention anything in particular?”

  “He said he checked you out during the trial and was very impressed. Oh, he also said he liked th
e way you handled that reporter on television. He wants to consult you regarding their new public relations campaign.”

  “Oh, swell. A new career teaching lobbyists how to bully reporters.”

  “At least it’s work, Boss. Things could be—”

  “Don’t say it!” Ben said, cutting him off. He glanced at the pleading Jones was typing. He had the carbon in backward; the second copy was a blue smear. Oh, well. If this Langdell business paid off, maybe he could spring for a photocopier. “By the way, Jones, I’ve been meaning to thank you for all the work you put in on the Lombardi financial records.”

  “Oh, yeah. And that was so helpful, too.”

  “No, really. It was. I also want to thank you for your first-rate fieldwork. You got a lot more out of Spud than I ever did. I won’t forget it.”

  Jones leaned forward eagerly. “Does that mean you’ll let me do more investigating in the future?”

  Ben cleared his throat. “Well…we’ll see.” He turned and almost smacked into Loving, who was carrying a tall stack of file folders. Loving veered away at the last moment before impact, plopping the folders down on one of the new desks.

  “Loving!” Ben said. “What are you doing here?”

  Loving looked back at him, puzzled, “Didn’t she tell you? Christina hired me.”

  “Christina hired you? To do what?”

  “To be your investigator, of course. Nuttin’ personal, Skipper, but you’ve really been lettin’ the work pile up around here.”

  “I’ve been kind of busy.…”

  “Anyway, I went through all your active files, and figured out where I could lend a hand. I’ve already started working on several of these cases.”

  “You have?”

  “Yeah. It’s going pretty well. I may have to rough some people up, but I’ll get the dope you need.

  Rough some people up? “Wait a minute—”

  “Hi, everyone.”

  Ben whirled around and saw Christina come through the front door. “Just who I’ve been wanting to see,” he muttered.

  “It’s Ben Kincaid!” she cried out. “My hero!” She batted her eyelashes.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Look, Christina—”

  “Do you like my new desk?” she asked.

  “Yeah. That’s what I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “Guess what! I figured it out.”

  Ben knitted his eyebrows. He had the distinct impression this conversation was getting away from him. “Figured out what?”

  “My dream, silly. Frosty the Snowman and the tremendous explosions.”

  “It was just a dream, Christina. It doesn’t have to mean anything—”

  “But it wasn’t just a dream. I was fighting the drug, trying to shrug off its influence and see what was going on in Tony’s apartment. I saw a blurred image of Margot with coal black eyes, wearing a big white overcoat and a black scarf. She fired a gun three times. Hence, in my drugged-up state, Frosty the Snowman and the tremendous explosions.”

  “Pity you didn’t think of this sooner.”

  “True. Comme çi, comme ça.”

  “I guess so,” Ben concurred. “Anyway, what’s with the new desks?”

  “That’s my handiwork. Consider it a down payment on legal fees owed.”

  “That’s not necess—”

  “My thinking is, if you’re going to be a big-time lawyer, you’re going to have to start upgrading your appearance.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. And your staff. So I hired Loving to handle your investigations. And,” she said, pulling some files out of her briefcase, “I’m going to be your new full-time legal assistant.”

  “Christina, I can’t afford to pay him. Or you.”

  “Oh, Ben, don’t be such a spoilsport. Look how happy he is over there, playing with his little files, threatening to punch people’s lights out. He really wants to be part of our little family.”

  “Family?”

  “Besides, he’s already gotten more work done in a day than you’ve done in two weeks. He’ll generate his own salary.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “And don’t worry about me. I realize this will mean a serious cut in my usual paycheck, but I’ll live. I think it’s clear you need me here. Where I can keep an eye on you.”

  Ben felt a familiar burning sensation creeping up his neck. “There’s not going to be much money here for anyone,” he said. “At least not at first.”

  “Don’t worry about it. After all you’ve done for me, I owe you.”

  “That’s nonsense. You don’t owe me anything. I was just lucky, that’s all. I made a thousand mistakes.”

  Christina swiveled around in her chair and grabbed Ben by his shoulders. “I can’t believe you would say that. After all you’ve accomplished. Listen to me, Ben. You are a miracle worker. You’re like the White Queen. You’ve accomplished at least six impossible things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, getting me off the hook against incredible odds—numéro un. Deux, nailing Stanford for killing Lennie. Trois, convincing the U.S. Attorney’s Office that Margot should get counseling, rather than a jail sentence. Quatre, finding Spud a nice job at the file desk in the downtown police station.”

  “Mike had something to do with that.”

  “Cinq, saving Polly from Reynolds and finding her a good home with Wolf, whom you also managed to keep out of J.D. court. Six, um—” Her eyes darted from side to side. She stalled for time. “Er, getting rid of those chickens.”

  “Stretching it a bit, aren’t we?”

  “Well, okay, number five was really two impossible things. The point is, Ben, you’re a winner and everyone knows it but you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m rather busy. I’ve got a lot of work to do if I’m going to whip this Popsicle joint into shape.”

  She closed her briefcase, put it away, and opened her top desk drawer. “Oh!” She gasped. “Ben!” She removed her small French porcelain pig, cochon emblazoned on the side. The cracks showed where it had been broken, but it was more or less intact. “You put my French piggy back together! And put it in my—” She looked up at him. “Then you must have known!”

  “Well, I suspected.”

  “But this is so—oh, Ben!” She placed the pig atop her desk and looked up at Ben with sparkling eyes. “I’m going to keep my piggy right there, always. And whenever I look at it, I’ll think of you.”

  How flattering.

  Ben surveyed his new office, marveling at the changes. No toilet paper, no chickens. Loving was growling into his phone, threatening to “make someone’s life a misery.” Jones was banging away at the typewriter, still typing on the wrong side of the carbon. And Christina was right beside him: Safe.

  Ben smiled. Things could be worse.

  Acknowledgments

  I WANT TO THANK Kathy Mozingo and Deborah Loss for their assistance in the preparation of the manuscript; Arlene Joplin and Kindy Jones for their assistance with the intricacies of federal criminal law; countless volunteers at the Oklahoma offices of the American Humane Society; and my wife Kirsten, for the closet bit.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1992 by William Bernhardt

  cover design by Jason Gabbert

 
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