William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

“True. If it hadn’t been for that, Mitch would’ve never come to the country club and would’ve never met the Rutherfords.”

“People often pay horrible prices for seemingly small mistakes. It isn’t fair, but that’s the way it works out.”

Mrs. Kincaid snapped her other bags closed and set them on the floor. “There. That’s done.”

“Are you taking Joey with you?” Ben asked.

She offered a weak smile. “I assumed you would want me to. I’ll send someone for him.” She sighed. “It won’t be easy, caring for an infant again after all these years. But someone has to do it.” She hesitated a moment. “And I know you’ve never wanted to have much to do with your family.”

True enough, but the words still cut like a knife. She had always had that talent—the ability to utter a seemingly innocent remark that would slice his heart out.

“Do you think your friend Mike knows?” his mother asked.

“No, I’m certain he doesn’t. Mike is incredibly bright, but he has a gigantic blind spot when it comes to Julia. I think that extends to the baby.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Well …”

“A man has a right to know he has a son.”

“I don’t know. Not now. Maybe later. When the time seems right.

Mrs. Kincaid nodded. “It’s a serious responsibility, being a father.”

That was abundantly clear. What was it about fathers, anyway? Fathers and sons. What made them do the things they did? Ernie Hayes, who would pull any trick to take care of his boy. Harold Rutherford, who wanted to be a good father but couldn’t figure out how. And then, of course, there was Mitch, and the permanent horror his father had visited upon him.

And Ben’s father. Or fathers, if you counted Jack Bullock. Not that it mattered now.

“I left something for you.” His mother walked into the living room and picked up an envelope resting on the piano. “It’s that picture of you and your father. You threw it down when … well.” She held out the photograph. “I thought you might like to have it.”

Ben took the snapshot from her shaking hand. He stared at the strong proud father and the little boy who loved him so much. Ben didn’t know either of them. They were strangers.

Ben’s mother stood awkwardly in the hallway. “Benjamin, I know you won’t like this, but …” She shifted her weight to the other foot. “I’ve been living here in this …” Her hand waved spasmodically about the room. “Whatever. I think I’ve been very brave about it, but—enough is enough.” She took another envelope out of her purse. “I’ve written you a check, and I want you to take it.”

“No.”

“Benjamin, be reasonable!”

“If my father had wanted me to—”

“Ben, you don’t know what you’re talking about !” Her head snapped back suddenly, as if she herself was surprised at the sudden intensity of her voice.

“I’m sorry, Mother.” Ben looked down, pushing away the money. “No.”

She sighed heavily, and for the first time Ben thought he saw all her sixty-six years etched in her face. “Well, if you won’t change your mind, I guess there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

She lifted her luggage and started to go.

“Wait.”

She stopped.

Ben reached out to her. “There is something.”

She turned. Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes.” Ben put down her bags, took her trembling hand, and guided her to a chair. “Tell me about my father.”

Acknowledgments

ONCE AGAIN I HAVE been fortunate to draw on the expertise of others in writing this novel. I want to thank Linda Barry for sharing her wisdom gained from years of experience working with developmentally disabled children; Judge Thomas S. Crewson, for telling me about the real Leeman Hayes; Walter Booker Martin, Jr., Gang Specialist for the Midwest City Police Department, for putting me in the know and in contact with Oklahoma youth gangs; and Arlene Joplin, of the U.S. Attorney’s Office, for keeping me straight on criminal procedure.

I want to acknowledge my sources for much of the historical background material in the book: “The Court Martial of Johnson C. Whittaker” and “The Blacks in Oklahoma,” both by Burkhard Bilger and both published in the splendid regional magazine Oklahoma Today, edited by the incomparable Jeanne Devlin; and Death in the Promised Land , by Scott Ellsworth and published by the Louisiana State University Press.

Thanks to Cecil Adams of The Straight Dope for bringing autoerotic asphyxiation to my attention. What a sheltered life I’ve led.

Thanks also to Michael Stipe of R.E.M., who incidentally was born on the same day, same year, that I was. A fateful day in history.

I want to thank Gail Benedict for her help with the manuscript; Kathy Redwood for her nonpareil secretarial skills; and Drew Graham and Esther Perkins for agreeing to read and comment upon an early draft of the manuscript. Finally, I have to thank my family, Kirsten and Harry and Alice, for putting up with the days Daddy spent on the road, the nights Daddy spent staring blankly at a computer screen, the three A.M. feedings during which Daddy held the bottle with one hand and revised his manuscript with the other, and so forth.

Any cyber-savvy readers who would like to drop me a line are encouraged to do so. I’d love to hear from you. My e-mail address is: willbern@mindspring.com.

By the way, Christina really did buy Ben a brick at the zoo. It’s by the elephant house. Check it out.

—William Bernhardt

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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 © 1996 by William Bernhardt

cover design by Jason Gabbert

978-1-4532-7715-7

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