William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

“Enough of this grimness,” Christina said, cutting him off. “You should be celebrating, not castigating yourself. Congrats on the slick cross-ex. Formidable. ”

“It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“Says you. You’ve come a long way, kiddo. When I first met you, you couldn’t say conjugal relations without turning beet red.”

“We all have to grow up sometime,” Ben said. The words rang in his ears. “Thanks for burning the midnight oil and catching the discrepancy in Applebee’s testimony.”

“I’m just glad you made it to the courtroom. For a while there, I was afraid I was going to have to do the cross-ex myself.”

“And you’d have been great, too. Seriously, Christina.” She acknowledged his compliment with a beatific smile. “Meanwhile, back at the office, I had a morning like you wouldn’t believe.”

“What happened?”

“Well …” In the corner of his eye, Ben saw his new client—the middle-aged black man with the pronounced limp—hobbling into the courtroom. “It’s too complicated to explain. But tell me. Do you know how to change a diaper?”

“ What? ”

Ben moved toward the door. “I need to talk to my new client. Why don’t you sit in?”

Ben greeted the man and introduced him to Christina. “Mr. Hayes, you didn’t need to come to the courthouse. I would’ve returned to the office.”

“It’s no problem. ’Sides—I thought I might jus’ get a chance to see you in action.”

“I’m afraid you missed it. The case has already been dismissed.”

“Hoo-ee! You are good, ain’tcha?”

Ben looked embarrassed. “It was nothing, really. Christina did—”

“I been readin’ about you, Mr. Kincaid. In that magazine they give out in restaurants and stuff.” A few months before, an article about Ben’s efforts against an Arkansas white supremacy group had appeared in Tulsa People, a classy biweekly distributed in Tulsa retail outlets. “You really fight for the reg’lar folks, don’tcha? That’s what the magazine said. Said you had to get right down in the mud and wrestle with those Klan boys. But you did it. That’s when I knew who I wanted. See, I been talkin’ to lawyers all over town, and no one wants to help me. They say it’s hopeless. But after I read that article and saw your picture, I knew. I knew you were the one who was finally going to help my boy.”

“Your … boy?”

“My little Leeman. ’Course he’s twenty-eight now, not really a boy, but still. You wouldn’t believe what they’re accusin’ him of. Lord, but he’s had a hard life. And it’s about to get a sight worse.” He reached out and shook Ben’s hand vigorously. “It’s so good of you to take on his case like you did. ’Specially since I barely got two pennies to rub together.”

Christina stared at Ben as if, once again, he’d lost his mind.

“Wait a minute,” Ben said. “I thought you wanted me to represent you regarding an automobile accident.”

He cocked his head. “Cain’t say as I do. What made you think that?”

“Well—my assistant—the front of your car—”

“ ’Fraid one of my boys drove it into a lamppost on Riverside Drive. I think he’d had one too many at Orpha’s Lounge. Prob’ly more than one too many. Can we sue somebody over that?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” Ben inhaled sharply. “You’ll forgive me for pointing this out … but you do appear to be having some trouble walking.”

“Well, son, I am sixty-three years old.”

“Sixty-three?” He didn’t look a day over forty-five.

“That’s right. I been gettin’ the arthritis in this leg for five years now. It’s especially bad when it’s hot outside. And Lordie, is it ever hot outside.”

“Then … there’s no personal-injury case?”

“Nope. My only problem is gettin’ my boy out of trouble. That’s why I was so happy when you agreed to take him on.”

“About that,” Ben said. “You know, I’ve been very busy lately—”

“I know. That’s why I went ahead and filled out all these forms like your secretary told me. He said I was all taken care of. Done deal.”

Ben glanced pleadingly at Christina, whose sole response was an unhelpful shrug. He took the forms and scanned them. Fully executed employment agreements, signed by both parties. Great.

“So what is it your son is accused of?”

Ernie Hayes hung his head down low, his face cradled in knobby, veined hands. “Murder, Mr. Kincaid. Murder in the first degree.”

5

“MURDER?” BEN’S BRAIN REELED. Not only a criminal case, but of the most serious variety. “Who is he accused of killing?”

“This foreign woman. I cain’t rightly pronounce her name. Killed at the country club where my boy usta caddy. And the police think he did it. Fact is, everyone does.”

A cold-blooded murder, Ben thought. What timing. How long can you go on representing the scum of the earth? “What does your son say happened?”

“Well, now, he ain’t all that easy to talk to.”

“He won’t tell you what happened?”

“It ain’t that he won’t tell. It’s that he cain’t. Not really. He ain’t quite right in the head.”

“I’m sorry. You mean—”

“Ment’lly retarded. Been that way since he was born, poor boy. I know there’s different words for it now that we’re supposed to use to make everyone feel better, but that’s what it is. He’s retarded.”

“So, actually, you don’t know if your son killed the woman or not.”

Ernie Hayes raised his chin. “That’s where you’re wrong. I know my boy. And I know he wouldn’t kill no one. No, sir. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Don’t be such a sucker. Bullock’s voice was ringing in Ben’s head. Most of the people the police arrest are guilty. And you know it. “I haven’t heard anything about this murder. When did it occur?”

“ ’Bout ten years ago.”

“Ten years ago!”Ben stared at the man wide-eyed. “And it’s just now coming to trial? How can that be?”

“Don’t be askin’ me to explain that legal mumbo jumbo. All I know is he was arrested, then he hadta go away to some kinda hospital, and now they’ve sent him back for trial.”

That didn’t make sense at all. If what Hayes said was correct, this would be the all-time violation of the defendant’s right to a speedy trial. Ben made a mental note to check some more reliable sources to unravel the background of the case. “When is he scheduled to go to trial?”

“Next week.”

“Next week!” The nightmare just got worse and worse. “On a capital offense? What about the arraignment? What about the probable-cause hearing?”

“Thass all been handled by some other fella.”

“Some other fella?” Ben could measure the depth of his consternation by the fact that his responses had been reduced to parrotlike repetitions. “You mean another attorney?”

“Yeah. Some old dude the judge assigned. I don’t like him. I want you to try the case, Mr. Kincaid. You’re the only one who can help him now.”

Ben didn’t share Hayes’s sentiment, flattering though it might be. In his experience, most public defenders did first-class work despite a backbreaking caseload. Nonetheless, there was the troubling matter of the signed employment agreement. “I don’t want to handle your son’s case unless I’m sure I can do the best job possible. And I don’t see how I can get up to speed by next week.”

“You can. I know you can. You’ve done it before.”

“I have?”

“Yup. In Arkansas. I read about it in that magazine.”

“Well, yes, but there were some extenuating circumstances.” Ben gazed deeply into the man’s eyes. “Look, that employment agreement we signed isn’t binding. I misunderstood the circumstances. The Rules of Professional Conduct don’t even permit contingency-fee agreements in criminal cases.”