William Bernhardt - Perfect Justice

“True.”

“Long way from home.”

“Well, I like to get away from time to time.” He ignored Christina’s smirk.

“I’ve been looking for you all over the lake.”

Now Ben was definitely intrigued. “How did you know I was here?”

“Sammy Dean told me.”

“Sammy Dean?”

“At the bait-and-tackle shop up the road a piece.”

“Oh. Right.” Christina had regaled the man at the bait-and-tackle with stories about Ben’s courtroom prowess, most of them exaggerated vastly out of proportion to reality, while she selected lures and other fishing paraphernalia. “Why would Sammy Dean tell you about me?”

“Because I’m looking for a lawyer. To handle a case.”

“Really?” Normally Ben would be less than thrilled to have someone offer him work in the middle of his vacation, but if it gave him an excuse to duck Christina’s fly-casting tutelage for a few days …

“Civil or criminal?” Ben asked.

“Criminal. You’d be representing the defendant.”

“Great.” Ben grinned. “What’s the charge—fishing over the limit?”

“Not exactly.” Payne stepped closer and looked Ben straight in the eyes. “It’s murder. Gruesome, premeditated murder. In the first degree.”

2.

“MURDER?” BEN HAD TO pause a moment to recollect himself. “You committed a murder?”

“No, no. Of course not. I’m a lawyer, just like you. Well, not just like you.” Payne fumbled for his wallet. “See? Here’s my bar card.”

Ben scrutinized the plastic card. Sure enough, Payne was a member in good standing of the Arkansas Bar. “Why don’t you handle the case yourself?”

“I don’t know diddly-squat about murder trials. I’m a probate lawyer. I draft wills for folks, take care of their estates—you know, pleasant, easygoing stuff. I was appointed to this case by the court because the defendant can’t afford his own lawyer. And I don’t know word one about criminal law.”

“Ben does,” Christina said, without missing a beat. “Ben’s a murder-trial expert. He’s handled dozens of big cases. He won one of the biggest, most controversial murder trials Tulsa has ever seen!”

Ben rolled his eyes. Good ol’ Christina, his personal PR agent.

“That’s what Sammy Dean was telling me,” Payne said to Christina, as if Ben were a million miles away. “He must be a humdinger.”

“If he weren’t,” Christina said, “I wouldn’t be standing here. I’d be in a cell somewhere waiting for the Big Needle.”

Payne’s eyes glowed with admiration. “I’ve never been around one of you superstar litigators before.”

“Now wait a minute,” Ben said, edging Christina out of the way. “I’m no superstar. I’ve only been out of law school four years. I’ve handled a few criminal matters.” He shot Christina a disapproving look. “Not dozens.”

Payne appeared crestfallen. “Then you haven’t handled murder trials?”

“Well, I have, but—”

Ben was interrupted by the impact of Christina’s elbow in his ribs. “ Pardonnez-moi. May I speak with you for a moment, Mr. Kincaid?”

Ben frowned. “Excuse me, Mr. Payne, while I confer with my legal assistant.”

“A lady legal assistant. I reckon you are big-time. Sure, take as long as you need.”

Christina and Ben strolled behind their two tents. “Okay,” Ben said, “what’s the big idea—”

“Listen up.” She pressed her finger against his chest. “You may not care whether you make any money during the current fiscal year, but believe me, your staff does.”

“I hardly think—”

“You are very lucky to have a loyal and dedicated staff—Jones, Loving, and best of all, me—who do not complain about the—how shall I say it?—erratic manner in which you pay us. I know getting a solo practice started is slow, hard work. But the fact remains, you haven’t had a bona fide blue-ribbon case since you left the Apollo Consortium, and that’s been many moons.”

“Nonetheless—”

“Ben, be quiet. This case probably won’t make us rich, but if the court is paying, at least we won’t have to worry about collecting the fee. Plus, this is exactly the kind of exposure you need to attract big-time cases. So march over there and tell Mr. Payne you’ll take the case.”

It was clear to Ben that nothing other than blind obedience would be acceptable. “Yes, ma’am.”

Payne was waiting patiently by his pickup. “After conferring with my staff,” Ben said, “I’ve decided to consider taking the case.”

“Great.” Payne mopped his brow. “What a relief.”

“I haven’t agreed to represent him yet,” Ben insisted, more for Christina’s benefit than Payne’s. “Where can I find the defendant?”

“At the city jail. I’ll drive you into town.”

“When can we do it?”

“The sooner the better. There’s a pretrial conference set for half an hour from now.”

“ What? ”

3.

THERE WASN’T ENOUGH ROOM in the cab of Payne’s pickup for three people and Payne’s extensive rifle collection, so Christina had to ride in the back. Normally Ben would’ve insisted that she ride up front; under the current circumstances, however, he thought it was only fitting.

The truck handled the winding mountain roads considerably better than Ben’s aging Honda Accord had the day before. Ben had another opportunity to admire the Ouachita scenery: dogwood trees surrounded by brilliant yellow coreopsis.

The road swerved up and down and in and out as it wound through the Arkansas hills. Ben began to feel nauseated. The back roads were bad enough, and Payne’s foot was heavy on the pedal. Ben assumed Payne was worried about making the conference.

“Are you sure it’s safe to drive this fast?” Ben asked.

“Oh, yeah. These mudgrip wheels can handle anything. They could take twice this speed. I just don’t want your girlfriend to fall out.”

“Very thoughtful. By the way, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s a good friend, and coworker. But that’s it.”

“And you two … coworkers are camping out together?”

“Separate tents.”

“Boy, you metropolitan types play by a different set of rules. My wife wouldn’t let me anywhere near a campground with another woman. Even if I were glued to my sleeping bag.”

They descended from the mountains and followed a dirt road into Silver Springs. Ben had seen the town only briefly when he and Christina arrived. Most of the residences on the outskirts of Silver Springs had a decided Victorian flavor—bright colors and prominent gables. As they passed into the downtown business district the buildings became predominantly gray limestone. Ben spotted the bingo parlor, the mercantile store, and the five-and-dime, all constructed in a turn-of-the-century style.

It appeared to be a two-street town; Main intersected with Maple, and both streets extended three blocks in either direction. Ben spotted a small grocery, a hardware store, and a drugstore that looked like a relic from the Roosevelt administration. The Teddy Roosevelt administration.

Ben heard the low wail of a train in the distance; otherwise the town was still. The streetfront stores were closed. A small group of teenage boys in bib overalls sat on the tailgate of a parked pickup, sharing a six-pack. Another group of kids pitched pennies against the side of a broken-down filling station. The only real signs of activity came from a pool hall and a few bars. One in particular, the Bluebell Bar, had a row of pickups outside that stretched all the way down the block.

“The Bluebell looks like the local hot spot,” Ben observed.

Payne grinned. “That’s for certain. We’re right on the outer edge of Reeves County, which is just about the only wet county between Fort Smith and Hot Springs. The good ol’ boys get tanked up, then head home ’fore it gets too dark.”