William Bernhardt - Criminal intent

I have titled this document, perhaps in a moment of self-pity or would-be martyrdom, "The Gospel According to Daniel." The word gospel, of course, was originally derived from Greek words meaning good news. It is familiarly linked with another important word-truth.

I just pray to God that this is. I'm not sure I know what the word means anymore. Ben sat in the jailhouse cell facing his new client. "Eric, because you can't afford an attorney of your own, the court has appointed me to act as your attorney with regard to this criminal charge. You may rest assured that anything you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Eric Biggers was a big man; he outweighed Ben two-to-one. His broad and brawny chest was so large it fairly rippled out of his prison jumpsuit. "Sure, I got ya."

Ben laid three forms on the table between them. "If you're agreeable to having me represent you in court, then you need to sign these. That will demonstrate to the court that you have accepted me as your legal representative." And will also allow me to get paid-no small matter.

"No problem."

"Now, according to the information provided to me, you've been charged with assault and battery with a deadly weapon. Do you know what that means?"

"Sure, sure. I know."

"And it also says-that the victim was your father."

Biggers hunched forward, his chin drooping, his eyes sad. "Mr. Kincaid, I want you to know, I really regret what happened."

Ben found himself warmed by this honest expression of remorse-something he saw all too rarely. "I'm sure you do, Eric."

"I mean that, truly. I really regret hitting my daddy over the head with that gun."

Ben nodded. This was good. The man had made a mistake, but wanted to make it better. This was why he was a defense attorney, Ben told himself. So he could help men of this caliber. "Well, Eric, I know sometimes temper gets the best of all of us-"

"I mean, it was a real nice gun. I loved that gun."

"Uh, what?"

"It was a great little pistol, pearl-handled and everything. But I got blood and hair and guts all over it. Now it ain't worth a damn."

Ben drew in his breath, then slowly released it. "Just sign the papers, Eric. I'm late for a wedding." Jones pushed back his French cuff to check his wristwatch for roughly the three thousandth time. "Where is he?"

"Relax, he'll be here," Loving replied, glancing into a nearby mirror and adjusting his bow tie. "Doesn't the Skipper always come through?"

Jones paced up and down the length of the small dressing room adjacent to the church sanctuary. "For petty criminals, yes. For his office manager, no."

Loving spread his arms expansively. He was a big man, with a chest as broad as the Grand Canyon, especially by comparison to Jones's slight frame. "Now you're not bein' fair, Jones. Didn't Ben make all the arrangements for this weddin'? Didn't he get it all squared with the church and rent all the mornin' suits and everythin'?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"The Skipper always takes care of his own." Loving straightened the lie of his vest. "You know, there's a certain symmetry here, Jones. He's takin' care of your weddin', jus' like he took care of my divorce."

"A charming comparison." Jones began wringing his hands. "I can't understand why Ben isn't here. The best man should be at the church on time. He's got the ring! We can't go on without him. You're a private investigator, Loving. Can't you go… sleuth around or something?"

"He'll show up, Jones. Just you wait."

"Wait until when? The honeymoon? He's supposed to be here now!"

The door cracked open. Jones rushed forward-but it wasn't Ben. The white-bearded face of Father Beale appeared through the opening. "It's almost time. Has he arrived yet?"

"No," Jones growled, looking even more agitated than before. "He hasn't."

Beale frowned. "Keep me posted."

As soon as the door was closed, Loving jabbed Jones in the stomach. "Was that him? Was he the one?"

"The one that what?"

"You know. The one they say killed that-"

"Ben says he didn't do it. We won that case, remember?"

"Yeah, but still. Kinda creepy, isn't it? Bein' married by a guy who-"

"Would you stop already!" Jones looked as if he were on the verge of a total meltdown. "Where the hell is Ben?"

Loving wrapped a burly arm around Jones's shoulders. "Don't fret, little buddy. I'm here. I've been through this before, and I know that you're not really worked up about Ben. You're worried about gettin' married, whether you're goin' to be happy or whether you're makin' the biggest mistake of your life."

"Oh God, you're not going to get psychological on me, are you?"

"Paula is a wonderful woman, Jones. You two are a perfect match. You're gonna be very happy together." He paused. "And if you're not, you know where you can get a divorce cheap."

Jones removed Loving's hand from his shoulder. "Loving, you're supposed to be an usher. Go ush." At the opposite end of the sanctuary, in a small dressing room barely bigger than a closet, Christina and the bride-to-be, Paula Connelly, were huddled together with two elderly representatives from the ECW, Ruth O'Connell and her friend Ernestine Rupert. One of the women was adjusting the bride's headdress while the other was messing about with her train.

"There, there," the woman with the big white bouffant said as she adjusted the headdress a micro-inch. "I think that looks better, don't you, Ernestine?"

"Ever so much better, Ruth," replied the one with the blue hair and the expensive jewelry. "I'm having a bit of trouble with this train, though."

"Here, dear, let me help." Both women grabbed an end of the white lace train and started tugging herky-jerky.

Paula was staring straight ahead, her eyes wide and fixed. "I will not break down. I will not break down."

Christina tried to intervene. "Excuse me, ladies, but I think it might be best if we left Paula alone for a bit."

Ruth was not deterred in the least. "Oh, my-no, dear. This is Paula's special day. We want everything to be perfect."

"I want to be left alone," Paula muttered.

"Seriously," Christina said, gently tugging at the ladies' elbows. "Let's give Paula some quiet time. Let her meditate a bit, so she can get in a serene and bridelike state of mind."

"Oh, very well." Ernestine brushed her hands together. "Do you have something blue, dear?"

Paula blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Blue. You must have something blue."

"I thought white was the traditional bridal color."

"Well, of course it is," Ruth explained. "But a bride needs more than just a dress. You need something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue."

"Why?"

"Well… you just do. It's traditional. All the great brides of literature did it. Don't you ever read?"

"I'm a librarian," Paula said. Her voice had acquired a decided edge. "I have, on occasion, read a book, yes."

"Well then, you must understand. Most brides come equipped with something new-their dress. And they usually have something old, even if it's just their skivvies. Something borrowed is easy to come up with, but something blue can be tricky. So I wanted to make sure you had something."

"Well, I don't. We'll just have to do without."

"Nonsense." Ernestine opened the door to the sanctuary a crack. "Bruce!"

A moment later, Ernestine's nephew, Bruce Ashour, entered the tiny room, decked out in a gray pinstripe with a red carnation on the lapel.

"Bruce? We need something blue. Quickly."

Amazingly, Bruce appeared to have no problem comprehending this request. "Are you wearing your turquoise necklace, Ruth?"

The elderly woman shook her head no.

"Aunt Ernestine, what about that cerulean lapel pin?"

"Not wearing it."