William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

He dialed the combination on the bicycle lock he used to secure the door, then stepped inside. The birds were still there. He kept them in cages he had fashioned from cardboard box lids and straightened coat hangers, both of which he found in the Dumpster behind Phoenix Cleaners. The birds beat their wings upon his arrival—glad to see him. Such excellent birds, he thought. Did you miss me?

The hawk, whom he called Katar, pressed his beak against the coat hanger barrier. If you really wanted to, you could get out of there. But why would you want to? It’s too soon. When it’s time, I’ll let you out. You know I will.

Gently, Wolf examined the bird’s bandage. The wound seemed to be healing nicely. He’d be well in no time, and back sailing the skies, hunting his prey.

The raven, whom he called Edgar, seemed equally pleased to see him. His makeshift splint was still in place, and he seemed stronger than he had during Wolf’s last visit. They said there was nothing they could do for a bird your size, Wolf remembered. They said you couldn’t take a splint. Said even if they put one on, you’d pick at it till it was useless. They were wrong. As they and people like them had been wrong on so many other occasions.

He peered through a small slit between two warped wall-boards. It was late, he realized, much later than he was supposed to be out. His mother would be furious. Assuming she noticed. Assuming she hadn’t stayed late at the bingo parlor, or gone home with that Cherokee badass from Tahlequah again. Still, he couldn’t risk one of her infrequent blasts of parental discipline. He had to remain free; the birds depended upon him.

He checked the other birds, made sure everyone had plenty to eat and drink, and locked the door behind him. He jogged toward the main road where he could pick up a ride. After a few minutes, though, he heard something—something that shouldn’t be there. The same noise he had heard a week ago last Tuesday. It was the sound of an engine, but not a car or a truck or a motorcycle.

The noise grew louder. It was coming closer. Wolf saw a moonshadow swoop across the ground and realized what it was and where it must be going. He ran as fast as he could, through the trees, kicking up leaves in every direction. He reached the main clearing, a large area where the trees had been burned away. It was the only place in the forest a plane could land.

He watched as a small black plane positioned itself for final descent. Wolf knew about planes. He knew almost everything about anything that flew. Even as dark as it was, he recognized the aircraft as a Cessna 210—small, light, quick, quiet—perfect for long-range flights. It was painted black for invisibility and for flying at a low altitude (under radar) with its navigation and identification lights turned off.

He watched as the plane soared into the clearing and eased itself to the ground. After a few moments, the pilot hopped out of the cockpit, a thick, well-muscled man in jeans and a windbreaker. He was packing; Wolf could tell. A few seconds later, another man rode up on a dirt bike, his long blond hair streaming behind him. There were rifles strapped to both sides of the bike, just below the seat. The two men spoke briefly. Wolf saw a sudden glint of light, then packages changed hands. He couldn’t tell what was being exchanged. To tell the truth, he didn’t care. As long as they weren’t hunters, they were outside his jurisdiction.

Wolf watched and waited. The man on the dirt bike rode away, and the pilot climbed back into his cockpit and took to the skies. After he was sure both were gone, Wolf jogged out to the place where the plane had landed. He thought he’d seen the pilot drop something.

He was right. On the ground, near one of the indentations in the grass left by the landing gear, he found a small glassy pouch with a powdery substance glistening inside.

Wolf shoved the package into his pocket. He thought he knew what the stuff was, and if he was right, it would buy him a lot of birdseed. Maybe some of that expensive scientific food the veterinarians used. Maybe he could even afford to take his birds to the veterinarian regularly, as soon as they were hurt, instead of having to make do on his own.

If the money was good enough. And if not, who knows? Maybe the men would come to the clearing again.

It was possible.

He would watch for them.

12

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you can’t find her?”

The young officer from the federal marshal’s office wiped his brow. He looked miserable. “We got the paperwork confused. They weren’t sure whether to file McCall with the MCs or the MAs. Without the paperwork we couldn’t find her.”

Ben’s neck muscles tightened. “It’s not as if she could have gone out for a stroll. She’s been behind bars, for God’s sake.”

“She’s not in her cell. She must’ve been moved.”

“Ask Lester. He’ll know where she is.”

“We can’t. He doesn’t come in till noon on Wednesdays.”

“Call him at home.”

“Can’t. He doesn’t have a phone.”

Ben could feel his blood pressure rising. “This is the twentieth century. Everyone has a phone.”

“Not Lester.”

“The judge can’t set bail unless the defendant is present.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ben placed his hands firmly on the officer’s shoulders. “Look. Judge Derek didn’t want to have this hearing in the first place; he’s not going to be amused when he learns the defendant is absent.”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“You can search every holding cell personally. One at a time.”

“I’ve already done that. She isn’t there. She must’ve gotten lost somewhere in the processing—”

“All rise.”

Ben whirled around. Derek was entering the courtroom. He hadn’t changed much in the past year. Same blond hair (which Ben knew for unfortunate reasons to be largely toupee), same trim build, same generally handsome face. He wore the black robe well.

Derek sat down in his large burgundy chair. “Be seated. Counsel, approach the bench.”

Like a convict on a forced march, Ben approached the bench. A woman from the prosecution table did the same.

“Well, Mr. Kincaid,” Derek said, “it’s been a while.”

“So it has, your honor.”

“Don’t think for a moment you’ll get any special treatment because we used to work together. You won’t.”

“Really? This upsets my entire case strategy.”

Derek grimaced. “I am in great agony this morning. Wrenched my back last night during a…conversation with my wife. Threw it out completely.” He touched the small of his back. “I would appreciate your keeping this as brief as possible.”

“Understood, your honor.”

“I had intended to spend the day lying in bed, attempting to heal my withered self, but Mr. Kincaid here thought it necessary we have this emergency hearing.”

“My client has never been in jail before, your honor. And she’s not enjoying it.”

Derek ignored him. “Enter your appearances.”

“Myra Mandell for the United States of America.”

Ben examined Myra Mandell unobtrusively out of the corner of his eye. He thought he’d met most of the lawyers at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, but he’d never seen Myra before. She was young and obviously nervous. Blonde, anorexically thin, with large wire-frame glasses. A bit of a squid. Must be tough to be so low on the totem pole you get sent to 8:30 bail hearings. Obviously this hearing wasn’t of sufficient import to merit the personal attention of Alexander Moltke himself.

“Benjamin Kincaid for the defendant.”

“Speaking of whom,” Derek said, “where is she?”

Ben cleared his throat. “Ms. McCall seems to have been…misplaced.”