William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

Ben covered his smile with his hands. This was going beautifully. He glanced at his colleague in the back row; he could tell Rob was pleased.

“Your honor, these are very complex, technical issues. We need more time—”

“There is no more time, Mr. Abernathy. Summary judgment is a put-up-or-shut-up motion.”

“Still, your honor—”

“Mr. Abernathy, do you at least have affidavits from your clients? That might be enough to put a material fact into dispute. Surely you could get an affidavit from your own clients.”

“I hadn’t really considered that, sir….”

Roemer threw up his hands. “This is absurd. You have no evidence. Furthermore, you have no likelihood of finding any in the future unless it walks up and clubs you in the face. This case is ripe for summary judgment.”

“Judge, if I may—”

“In fact, it’s more than ripe. This is a perfect example of what summary judgment was designed to preclude. A frivolous lawsuit alleging unsupported claims dragging a faultless defendant through pointless, expensive litigation. Summary judgment is hereby granted.” He banged his gavel to solidify his decision.

Ben rose. “Thank you, your honor.”

“You’ll draft up the order and judgment, counsel?” Ben nodded. “I’ll expect to see it in fifteen days. This hearing is dismissed.” Everyone shot to their feet as Roemer exited the courtroom.

Ben whirled around, buoyant. What a coup. Even if Abernathy threatened to appeal, as he probably would, it would be futile. He’d been creamed.

The only thing that could be better than a major victory is a major victory while your boss’s informant is watching. He started down the aisle toward Rob—then noticed the Nelsons sitting motionless on the front row.

June Nelson’s lips were moving, but no words were coming out. Ben leaned in closer. She was murmuring something over and over, just on the edge of audibility.

“My son…my son…They took my son.…”

Carl Nelson gently took her by the arm. “The show’s over, June. Let’s move along now.”

She did not respond. “Nobody cares.… They took my son.…”

Gently, Carl Nelson raised June to her feet and steered her toward the door.

“Is she going to be all right?” Ben asked.

“She’ll be fine. She’s just upset. It’s hard, losing your son like that. And now, with the judge throwing our case out of court—” His voice choked. He paused, inhaled deeply. “It’s as if the judge was saying it was okay. It was okay for them to do what they did. It was okay and nobody cares that our son is gone forever.”

Ben was unsure whether he could maintain control of himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Carl Nelson patted him on the shoulder. “That’s all right, son. You were just doing your job.”

They shuffled past Ben and left the courtroom.

32

TOMLINSON WAITED OUTSIDE THE Eleventh Street Denny’s, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of his car. He’d been there since eight-fifteen. An overabundance of caution—perhaps. But he wasn’t taking any chances. He was close—very close—to catching the killer, and proving to Morelli once and for all that he had the right stuff to play on the Homicide team. Now all he had to do was make sure he didn’t fumble the ball in the last quarter.

He checked the clock on the dash of his car. It was five after nine. Trixie was late. He tried not to become concerned. She was a teenager, after all. When was a teenager ever not late? Still, it made him nervous. Too many potential witnesses had died already. He wasn’t going to let this one slip silently into the grave as well.

He fingered the outline of the revolver in the shoulder harness under his jacket. He’d catch all kinds of hell if anyone knew he’d removed a weapon from the station arsenal—guns weren’t generally required for switchboard duty. But Trixie needed protection, and he intended to provide it. She was a likable girl—charming, in her way. He hated to think about what could have driven her to the streets at her age. Her life had been tough enough already. It was going to stop here, if he had anything to say about it. He hoped Trixie didn’t take much longer. Nervousness aside, he’d promised Karen he wouldn’t be out all night, as he had been last night, and the night before, and the night before that. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d spent a pleasant evening with Kathleen. These days, the only hours he was home were the hours she was certain to be asleep. He’d become exactly what he told himself he’d never be—an all-work, no-family fool. Just like his own father.

He rolled down the window of his car and listened to the dissonant sounds of the city. If he could just get past this one case, he thought to himself. If he could just get this psycho behind bars, get his promotion, and get on with his life. That was all he wanted. Why did it have to be so hard in coming?

At ten after, Trixie pushed open the front door of the building on the opposite side of the street. She was wearing tattered jeans with holes over the knees, a white T-shirt turned backwards, and gold hoop earrings. She looked almost normal—like any teenage kid you might see wandering around the mall. If only it were so.

She passed between two parked cars and started crossing the four-lane street. Just as she made it to the center, Tomlinson heard the squeal of tires. A large black van pulled away from the curb and peeled across the street. It careened down the center at an impossible speed; its target was obvious.

“Trixie!” Tomlinson screamed out.

Trixie looked up just in time to see the van’s headlights bearing down on her. She staggered backward, confused.

“Trixie! Move!”

Trixie skittered clumsily back the way she had come and jumped onto the hood of one of the parked cars. The van whizzed by, scraping the parked car as it passed. There was an electric, burning sound; sparks flew between the cars. The parked car shuddered. Trixie rolled with it and landed on the sidewalk.

“Trixie, wait! I’m coming!”

Trixie did not wait. She fled back inside the building.” A few moments later, Tomlinson saw all the lights shut off.

Tomlinson ran across the street. There was no point in trying to follow the van; it could be halfway to Joplin by now. He entered the tall, narrow building Trixie and her buddies called home.

The entire house was dark. Faint traces of moonlight filtered through a few high windows, but provided precious little illumination. He couldn’t see a foot before him.

“Trixie! It’s Officer Tomlinson!”

There was no response. Of course not. She didn’t know who was prowling around down there. She hadn’t known him long enough to recognize his voice. For all she knew he was the maniac driving the van. Maybe she thought he had arranged this meeting so he could kill her. No, she wasn’t going to come out for anyone.

“Is anybody else in here?” If so, they weren’t answering. Probably there was no one—the other girls would be working, and their pimp lived across the street. In all likelihood, it was just him and Trixie.

Slowly, his eyes began to adjust to the darkness. He could see the dim outline of a staircase leading upstairs. Through the foyer, he saw a parlor—nothing elegant, just a television and a ratty old sofa. He passed through the parlor, then through the kitchen, then back into the foyer, without finding anyone.

He mounted the staircase. The steps creaked beneath his feet. In the blackness, the effect was eerie. He watched his feet, trying to make sure he didn’t slip through a crack or fall off the edge. Even in the dark, he could tell this house was a rathole. Unclean, unfit, poorly ventilated—and Trixie’s boss probably charged her more for it than Tomlinson paid on his mortgage. Another piece of the boss man’s percentage.