William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

“Because he has no choice.”

Pearson nodded slowly. “That’s basically correct. Look, I didn’t make this world—”

Ben cut him off. “And so—you bought a baby?”

“Eventually. We did quite a bit of bickering over the price. They’re tough, and they have an advantage because they’re used to dealing with people who are desperate and emotionally involved.” Pearson leaned back on one elbow. “But I’m a pretty damn good horse trader myself. We struck a deal, and I brought home a beautiful baby boy.”

“Who were the baby’s birth parents?”

“I had no idea. I didn’t want to know.”

“Did you ever hear from … La Flavita again?”

“Yes. About six months later. There was some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“With the mother. Claimed she hadn’t given her consent, or had done so while under anesthetic, or some such sorry thing. I don’t recall the details. Anyway, they were trying to track the kid down.”

“So how did you respond?”

“I asked my client what she wanted me to do.”

“And what did you do?”

Pearson hedged. “What she told me to do.”

“And what was that?”

“I—” Pearson gazed out into the gallery. “I threw the telegram away. I contacted the sender and informed them that the persons in question had moved to another state and I didn’t know how to contact them. Didn’t even know their names. Couldn’t be traced.”

“Did you ever hear from La Flavita again?”

Pearson looked down at his shoes. “No.”

Ben took a deep breath. “Mr. Pearson, who was your client?”

Pearson gazed out into the gallery.

“Mr. Pearson? I’d appreciate an answer.”

“I really don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Unfortunately, sir, you are not the judge. Please answer.”

Pearson gazed up at the judge. Ben had a sneaking suspicion that if Hawkins renewed his application for country-club membership at that moment, it might be accepted. “The witness will answer the question,” the judge said solemnly.

“It’s confidential,” Pearson said. “I made a professional promise I can’t violate.”

“Yes you can,” Ben said. “Answer the question.”

“I object,” Bullock said. “We can’t ask the man to violate a confidential relationship.”

“Why not?” Ben asked.

“Well … it’s a privileged matter. It’s like the attorney-client privilege, only—”

“Only for baby brokers?” Ben said. “I don’t think so.”

“Overruled,” Hawkins said unhappily. He turned to face Pearson. “Now answer the question!”

Pearson’s shoulders rose and fell heavily. “Rachel Rutherford.”

69

BEN SPOKE OVER THE buzz that swelled through the courtroom. “Nothing more for Mr. Pearson, your honor.”

“Cross?”

Bullock rose slowly to his feet. “No, your honor. Mr. Pearson told some interesting stories, but as far as I can tell, they don’t have a blessed thing to do with this case.”

“I share your mystification,” Judge Hawkins said. “But I’m sure Mr. Kincaid will clear it up soon.” He glanced at his watch, then Ben. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”

The judge instructed the witness to step down. Pearson crawled out of his seat, glaring at Ben the whole time.

Ben saw Rachel moving toward the back door. He had to speak quickly. “The defense calls Rachel Rutherford.”

She froze in her tracks. She looked back over her shoulder, as if wondering if anyone had spotted her. Then, suddenly, she started moving again.

Ben alerted the court. “Your honor, that’s her.”

The judge gestured to the sergeant at arms, who sidestepped in front of the door. Rachel froze again, then turned about, a look of utter resignation on her face.

“Let me guess,” the judge said. “You’ve had no advance warning that you would be called to testify. That seems to be one of Mr. Kincaid’s trademarks.” He sighed. “Please come to the front to be sworn.”

Rachel hesitated, then grudgingly faced the inevitable. She stepped slowly to the front of the courtroom.

Ben watched her every movement. He had admired her figure before, back at the spa. Tall, broad-shouldered, statuesque. With short hair. A person looking at her from behind could be fooled into believing she was a man.

“Pssst!”

Ben turned back toward the gallery. Mitch Dryer was leaning over the rail, trying to get his attention.

“I got the papers you wanted,” Mitch hissed.

“What? What papers?’ 7

“What papers? The country-club records reflecting contacts between the board members and foreign countries, remember? It was your idea! I’ve been staying up all night working on it. You wouldn’t believe how many there are.”

“Great,” Ben said. “That may be just what I need. But I can’t look at it now. Could you wait until the judge calls a recess?”

“Do you know how much stuff I have here? It isn’t going to do you a bit of good till you’ve gone through it and organized it.”

“Damn! I can’t possibly do that now. Look, I hate to impose, but would you mind delivering this to my legal assistant?”

“Is she here?”

“No. She’s at my place taking care of a baby and a young boy. She’ll probably be grateful for the distraction. If she finds anything useful, she can prepare exhibits for trial.”

“Okay. Where is she?”

Ben gave Mitch his address. “Tell her to get on it right away.”

“If you say so. She’s not going to be mad at me, is she?”

“Nah. But she may try to get you to sing the Flintstones song.”

Mitch looked at Ben strangely, then picked up the document box and left the courtroom.

By this time Rachel had been sworn and had settled into the witness box. “Would you state your name, please?” Ben asked.

“Rachel Rutherford.” The surprise of being dragged to the stand was deeply affecting her. She seemed unnerved.

Ben established that she was married to Harold Rutherford, a member of the Utica Greens board of directors, and that she often went to the club herself.

“You have one son, isn’t that right?”

“You know it is,” she said softly.

“What’s his name?”

“Abraham Martin. We call him Abie.”

“Could you describe Abie?”

“Describe him?”

Ben nodded. He was doing his best to be gentle. If he pushed too hard, he knew she’d crumble. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Rachel shrugged. “Well, he’s … around four feet tall. Maybe a little more … I don’t know. …”

“Dark black hair, right?”

She ran her fingers through her own sunny blond hair. “Right.”

“Dark complexion?”

“True.”

“Prominent nose.”

“Y-es.”

“Your honor,” Bullock protested. “What could possibly be the point of this?”

“Let me ask one more question,” Ben said, and he didn’t wait for a response from the bench. “Abie doesn’t look much like you, does he?”

Rachel’s lips drew together. “No.”

“And he doesn’t look much like your husband, does he?”

“If you’re trying to prove that he was adopted, let me make it easier for you. He was. I’ve already told you that.”

“That wasn’t actually my point, ma’am. My point is that his features could be considered somewhat … South American.”

A flicker of light shone in her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to tell Ben he was right.

“Ms. Rutherford, is Captain Pearson the … broker … who arranged the adoption of Abie?”

No answer.

“Please, Ms. Rutherford. I need an answer. Is your Abie the boy he bought at that baby farm in Peru?”

All at once her carefully composed veneer dissolved. She pressed her hand against her face. Tears spilled out between the fingers.