William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

It was tough being someone’s hero. They expected you to do things right.

62

IT WAS DARK BY the time Ben got home that evening, but it didn’t matter. He could have closed his eyes and still found his way to his room. All he had to do was follow his nose.

“What is this?” Ben asked as his mother slid the plate in front of him.

“A spinach soufflé, of course.”

“Is this another of my childhood favorites?”

Mrs. Kincaid took her place at the other end of the table with a much smaller portion of the same. “I’m afraid not. We could never get you to eat any green vegetables. Actually, we could never get you to eat anything green, period. I had hoped you’d improved your eating habits since then.”

Ben stared at his plate. “Well …”

“Don’t bother lying. I’ve been through your kitchen cabinets.”

“You looked through—”

“Don’t protest. It’s a mother’s prerogative.”

Ben took a bite of the soufflé. It was actually quite tasty. Barely tasted of spinach at all.

“Something seems different,” Ben commented.

“About the soufflé?”

“No. About my apartment.”

Mrs. Kincaid looked back at him innocently. “Such as what?”

“I’m not sure. Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Mrs. Kincaid shrugged, then changed the subject. “How is the trial going?”

Ben shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Benjamin, if I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”

Ben drew in his breath. Mothers. “I start putting on defense witnesses tomorrow morning.”

“Who are your witnesses?”

“Well, I’ve got a new eyewitness who forgot that she was an eyewitness for about ten years. Her testimony could be critical, but to make it credible, I’m going to need an expert on memory loss who can explain this phenomenon to the jury. Jones is currently scouring the countryside for such an expert. And if that doesn’t work, I may call some of the country-club board members, none of whom are going to want to tell me anything.”

Mrs. Kincaid took a tiny bite of her soufflé, chewed it thoroughly, then swallowed. “Perhaps I can help.”

Ben smiled politely. “I hardly think so.”

“Why not? I’ve been dealing with wealthy, high-society sorts for half my life. What kind of men are they?”

“I didn’t know there were different kinds.”

“Of course there are. They can be divided into two main categories: those who worked hard and earned their money, and those who inherited it. Which are these?”

“The latter I think, with one partial exception, and he’s dead. What difference does it make?”

“It makes all the difference in the world, if your plan is to trick them into saying something they don’t want to say. That’s what lawyers do, isn’t it?”

“Well … I wouldn’t put it quite like that. …”

“These men are probably well educated, right?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“So you’re not going to outthink them. Nothing personal, Benjamin.” She batted a finger against her lips. “You need to make them want to talk to you.”

“And how do I do that?”

“What you have to understand is that men who inherit money have enormous insecurity complexes. If you’ve earned a tub of money, that’s one thing. You can feel good about that. You can have a feeling of personal accomplishment. But a man who has just been given everything, through no virtue of his own, even though he never accomplished anything of value in his whole life, is going to feel terribly inadequate. He will worry about what other people think of him.” She paused. “He thirsts for the opportunity to brag about himself.”

“And how am I going to use that in court?”

“Think about it, Benjamin. If your man sees an opportunity to strut, he’s much more likely to say something a cooler head would realize shouldn’t be said. Don’t you see that?”

Ben tapped his fork on the rim of his plate. “That’s not bad. I’ll give it some thought.”

Mrs. Kincaid beamed. “What do you know? Perhaps your old mother isn’t as out of touch as you thought.”

Perhaps not. “I still think there’s something odd about my apartment.”

“I’d say there are many odd things about it,” Mrs. Kincaid replied dryly.

“No, I mean—” He snapped his fingers. “I’m not sweating!”

“I’m so pleased, Benjamin.”

“No, I mean—that’s it! For the first time in weeks I’m not sweating.”

Mrs. Kincaid began to look somewhat uncomfortable. “Oh, really …”

“I know the temperature hasn’t dropped. …” Ben walked into the living room. The answer was perched in the window. “There’s an air-conditioning unit! Someone put a new air conditioner in my window.”

“Indeed?” Mrs. Kincaid said absently. “My goodness …”

“You did this.” Ben stomped back into the kitchen. “You had an air conditioner installed.”

“Well, it has been terribly hot. …”

“ How dare you! ”

“Benjamin, it was miserable in here! Think of the baby—”

“If you needed an air conditioner, you should’ve told me. I would’ve bought one.”

“Well, Benjamin, I know you’ve been financially strapped. …”

“That’s beside the point.”

“But I have more money than I—”

“I’ve told you repeatedly that I don’t want any of my father’s money!”

“It’s my money—”

“It’s his money!” Ben pulled the snapshot out of his pocket and threw it on the table. “His! And if he had wanted me to have it, his will would’ve read quite a bit differently.”

“All the will said was—”

“I don’t want to rehash it!” Ben realized he was shouting, and realized that he had no business shouting at his mother, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Benjamin, you’re being irrational. It’s just an air conditioner.”

“This is not about an air conditioner. This is about whether I’m going to be in charge of my own life!”

“Oh, Benjamin—” Her voice cracked. “That’s so … stupid!”

“Right. Now you’re going to make me feel guilty, like you and my father have all my life.”

Mrs. Kincaid drew her head erect and threw her shoulders back. “I’ll have the air conditioner removed.”

“Good.”

“While I’m at it, I’ll remove myself also.”

Ben hesitated only a moment. “Well …”

Too late. She marched out of the kitchen.

“ Mo-ther— ” But she was gone.

Ben slumped down in his chair. He hadn’t meant to yell at her. He really hadn’t. She was right. He was being stupid. Irrational. But he just couldn’t help himself. Somehow, for some reason—

Damn.

He picked up his fork and took another bite of the soufflé, but the taste had gone out of it.

63

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, with Joey bundled in his arms, Ben stopped by his office to see if Christina and Jones had accomplished their missions. Unfortunately, on his way in, he nearly tripped over the man from the air-conditioning company.

“Are you still here?” Ben said. “Get a life already!”

“I told you, I’m not leaving till this bill is paid. I’m on permanent assignment.”

“What is it with you? I’ve admitted that I owe you money. I’ve told you I’ll pay it as soon as I can. What more do you want? Just repossess the damn thing and get it over with. Or file a lawsuit, like everybody else in the country.”

“A fine attitude for you to take. I’m not the deadbeat who missed a payment. If you’ll just pay me what you owe, I’ll be gone.”

“Look, I’m in the middle of a murder trial, and what’s worse, I’m losing. I need an expert witness that I haven’t got, my mother is mad at me, I’m stuck with my sister’s baby, and my cat keeps dropping dead animals in my bed. I didn’t get a lick of sleep last night, and frankly, I don’t have time for this. So get out of my face!”