William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

Ben’s mother nodded slightly. “I have to do something to pass the time. It’s not as if I’m inundated with the attentions of my children.”

So soon? He had hoped for at least a minute or two of guilt-free small talk. “I’ve been swamped the last few weeks.”

Mrs. Kincaid smoothed the lines of her pleated skirt. “And for the six months before that?”

“Now wait a minute, Mother. We talked…not too long ago. I remember. I phoned you.”

“You telephoned on Christmas Day, if that’s what you’re referring to. I hardly think that qualifies you for Offspring of the Year.”

“Mother, it takes constant effort to get a solo practice off the ground.”

“I’m sure. Undoubtedly you had some holiday tipplers or gift snatchers who prevented you from appearing in person. It does, after all, take two entire hours to drive from Tulsa to Nichols Hills.”

“It’s a difficult drive—”

“I’ve driven it.”

“You’ve driven to Tulsa?”

“Oh yes.” She poured a cup of herbal tea from her porcelain oriental teapot. “Just after New Year’s. When it became apparent you were not planning to visit at any time during the holiday season. I decided to see for myself what so occupied your time.”

“Where did you go?”

“You had never given me the address of your apartment, and, of course, I had no letters bearing a return address, I was able to find your office address in the Yellow Pages.”

Ben contemplated the carpet.

“It took me over an hour to locate your office. Actually, I kept driving past it, assuming I must be on the wrong street. At last, I realized that really was your office, right there between the pool hall and the arms dealer.”

“That’s a pawn shop.”

“Whatever. I just remember the enormous neon sign flashing GUNS—AMMO in large red letters.”

“Why didn’t you come in?”

“I did plan to, but there was a skirmish of sorts outside your front door. Two bleached blondes in short leather skirts and pumps were clawing at one another.”

That would be Honey Chile and Lamb Chop, engaged in their never-ending battle for territory, Ben realized. Unfortunate timing.

“Even then, I steeled myself and parked my car, determined to see your place of business.” She hesitated. “I have nothing against the occasional well-tempered indulgence in alcohol, but when that man in the dirty raincoat vomited all over the parking meter…” She lifted her teacup and gently blew away the steam. “Well, I thought perhaps a visit at another time would be best.”

“It’s just as well,” Ben said. “Your Mercedes would have been stripped clean sixty seconds after you got out.”

“The thought did occur to me,” she said. “Really, Benjamin, there must be a less disagreeable neighborhood somewhere in Tulsa. It is a large city.”

“You don’t start your practice working for the major corporations, Mother. At least not when you’re on your own. You have to start on the ground floor. Build a strong client base overtime.”

“Being a solo practioner must be difficult.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Big firms use their large staff and resources for leverage. Bury their opposition with motions and discovery requests, then stand back and watch the solo guy crumble. They don’t return your phone calls; in fact, they won’t talk to you at all, unless it’s to refer some scumbag client who’s too dirty for them to touch. Judges don’t trust you—they know you can’t choose your clients. You never have anyone to cover for you when you have conflicting court dates. It’s tough.”

“It doesn’t have to be. I could accelerate your progress.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I’ve talked to Jim Gregory. He’s interested in bringing you into his firm.”

“The only reason he’s interested is because you’re a longtime client and major source of income for him. No.”

Mrs. Kincaid leaned forward. “At least let me assist you financially.”

“No. Never.”

“It’s not as if I have any shortage of money.”

“If that money had been intended for me…” Ben shook his head, eyes closed. He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Please don’t start misinterpreting your father’s wishes again, Benjamin. Your father wanted his entire family to be well provided for.”

“Bull.”

“It’s true, Benjamin. He—”

“Don’t waste your breath, Mother. I’ve seen the will.”

“You—” She stopped, obviously surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do. So don’t bother.”

Mrs. Kincaid fell back against the sofa. “Very well then. What is it you want?”

Ben suddenly wished he could shrink to the size of a microbe. “I…need to borrow some money.”

“Is that all?” She reached into her purse and withdrew her checkbook. “It’s about time you saw the light of day. How much do you want?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“Fifty—” She closed her checkbook. “Benjamin, what have you done?”

“It’s not for me.”

“Is this something to do with a woman?”

“Mother, I’m thirty years old. I think my private life is my own business.”

“That’s what you said before. And you haven’t been the same since that horrible business in Toronto—”

“Mother!” He inhaled deeply, then lowered his voice. “It’s for…a client.”

“You’re covering a client’s gambling debts?”

“No. Helping my client make bail.”

“Make bail? Is it…traditional for an attorney to advance bail money to a client?”

Well, you can’t lie to your own mother. “No.”

“Then I don’t see why—”

“Mother, please. It’s important.”

Mrs. Kincaid gazed at her son for a long time. “Very well. I’ll have Jim Gregory transfer the funds.”

“Thank you. I…appreciate it.” He took a piece of paper out of his wallet and scribbled a few lines. “Here’s my home address. Next time you’re in Tulsa, don’t stay in your car the whole time. Okay?”

Mrs. Kincaid accepted the scrap of paper. “How delightful,” she said. “This is a first. I trust your apartment is in a more respectable neighborhood than your office. Right?”

Ben smiled. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

14

CHRISTINA CLOSED THE CAR door. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Ben turned the ignition. “There’s no hurry, Christina. You’re out on bail; you’re not on the lam.”

“The more distance between that jail cell and me, the better. Go.”

Ben pulled out of the parking lot onto Denver. “I’m taking you to the Health Department for a blood test.”

“Wrong. You’re taking me to my apartment.”

“This will only take a few minutes.”

“Home, Ben.”

“It’s vital that we have the test done as soon as possible—”

“Ben, look at me. I’m a wreck. Physically, mentally, hygienically. I’ve spent the last day and a half with the sleaziest people I’ve ever met in my life. I’m talking total human refuse.”

“Christina—”

“I haven’t showered in days, unless you count being sprayed with that sticky disinfectant foam. I reek of lice spray. I have a deep and overpowering tristesse that reaches to the core of my being.” She leaned forward, practically nose to nose. “I want to go home. Now. ”

“Well, if you put it that way…”

“I do.”

“Home it is.” He changed lanes and turned onto Southwest Boulevard, then glanced at his rear-view mirror.

“Christina, did you see a black four-door sedan—a Cutlass, I think, with smoked glass windows—when I picked you up?”

“No.”

“Well, I did.”