William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

Ben found it hard to be sympathetic.

“And the drug trade, although lucrative—I’ve heard—has become too competitive. Now there’s the Japanese Yakuza, the Chinese Triad, the Jamaican Posse, the Colombian Cali cartel—all squabbling over the same territory. Soon it will be impossible for anyone to make a profit.”

“Seems like the most logical plan for a Princeton MBA is to work a joint venture with the South American cartels.”

“You are not a stupid person, Ben.” DeCarlo opened a desk drawer and removed several files. “But let me assure you that I intend to engage in entirely legal business activities. Feel free to examine our portfolios. Securities, banking, real estate, entertainment. These have been part of the family business for some time, perhaps more as a mask than a genuine pursuit. But that is changing.”

“Well, if so, I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you.” DeCarlo’s eyes became tiny embers. “Regardless of the nature of the activities in which we are engaged, however, I would take very seriously any threat to my business or to my personal liberty. That, too, is a family tradition.”

Ben felt an involuntary shiver creep down his spine. He saw the bodyguards on either side of DeCarlo twitch, then take the tiniest step forward. Message received and understood.

DeCarlo rose to his feet. “But I like you, Ben, and I’m confident we won’t have any problems.” He walked around his desk. “Tell you what. My sister is getting married soon. Please accept my invitation to the wedding reception.”

“No thanks,” Ben said. “I’ve already seen The Godfather. I’d be bored.”

DeCarlo laughed. “It’s going to be a huge party, Ben. At the Twelve Oaks country club. There’ll be music, dancing, food, drink—after all, it’s not every day my baby sister is married. It might give you a better opportunity to see what Intercontinental Imports, and the new DeCarlo family, are all about.”

“I don’t think—”

“I’ll send you an invitation, just in case.”

He accompanied Ben to the door. “May I also send an invitation to a companion? A lady friend, perhaps?”

“No, I don’t—” Ben thought for a moment. “This gala is going to be at the country club?”

“Oh yes. We’ve reserved it for the entire day.”

“Pretty big bash?”

“The biggest Tulsa has ever seen. Or is ever likely to see.”

“Okay then. Send an invitation to Harriet Marmelstein.” Ben smiled. “I believe you have the address.”

19

JONES LEFT BEN A message on his answering machine: Alexander Moltke requested a meeting before the preliminary hearing, at 8:30 sharp, in the law library at the courthouse.

If Moltke wanted to talk, Ben reasoned, he must be planning to offer a deal. Thank goodness. Even if Ben didn’t like the offer, even if he turned Moltke down cold, the fact that it was proposed indicated the prosecution perceived some weakness in their case, some possibility of failure. That alone would make Ben breathe a lot easier.

At 8:35, Ben pushed open the library door. Before he had a chance to get his bearings, a stark white light blinded him. He could hear Moltke’s voice, reverberating through a microphone somewhere at the front of the room.

“Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, that in this court of law, this ingenious device by which we mortals achieve some measure of earthly justice, the guilty will be punished.”

Ben blinked his eyes, wiped away the tearing caused by the stinging lights. His vision began to clear. He was surrounded by reporters, armed with microphones and minicams and plastic hairdos.

The realization dawned on Ben slowly but certainly. It was a sucker play. This was a press conference, goddamn it. A press conference!

“I see my worthy opponent has arrived,” Moltke said, in his bombastic oratorical voice. “I must say, I sometimes despair of the direction our youth are taking. So much energy is channeled into pursuits of such little moral value. My opponent formerly practiced with one of the most distinguished firms in this city, but after that relationship was terminated, Mr. Kincaid was forced by economic circumstances to take cases such as this one, assisting certain liberal judges in their quest to return the guilty to the streets.”

“I resent that,” Ben said. The reporters parted, letting him move to the front. “The Constitution guarantee every accused person the right to counsel.”

“I’m not challenging the right of your client to counsel, son. I’m just glad I don’t have to be the one to do it. I don’t know how I’d live with myself, much less sleep at night.”

Ben’s face flushed with anger. “How can the court of law be an effective device to achieve justice if cheap politicians like you try to pressure lawyers to not represent the accused?”

The reporters pressed forward, minicams whirring. Someone from Channel 2 shoved a microphone under Ben’s nose. They were loving it—great fodder for the six o’clock news.

Moltke looked calmly into the cameras. “Now don’t get all riled up, son. You do your job, and I’ll do mine.” He leaned forward, his eyes steely and determined. “But rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, that justice will be done in Tulsa. The pernicious taint of South American drugs, destroying our children and poisoning our society, will be eliminated. That’s my promise to you.”

He straightened and smiled. “That’s all for now. I’ll answer questions after the hearing.”

Ben wasn’t normally given to bouts of claustrophobia, but he could swear the walls of the magistrate’s hearing room were closing in on him. The room was small to begin with, and was even more so now, with bailiffs, clerks, court reporters, newspaper reporters, and members of the U.S. Attorney’s office all jockeying for position. Everyone was talking at once; the cacophony was giving Ben a headache. He was queasy, sweaty, and nervous. And Christina was late. Again.

The prosecution team, Moltke and two other men, no Myra, seemed supremely confident. They were whispering among themselves; periodically, one would glance at Ben, smirk, then look away. If that was supposed to be an intimidation tactic, it was working.

To Ben’s surprise, Moltke walked over to his table. “Good morning, Mr. Kincaid.”

“You set me up, you son of a bitch.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You invited me to a plea bargain. Instead, it turned out to be an ambush.”

“My press conference ran a little longer than I anticipated.”

“Bullshit. You planned the whole thing, so you could score a few points at my expense on the six o’clock news.”

“Well…I’m sorry if you were rattled, son. The people have a right to know.”

“The Rules of Professional Conduct restrict press statements on pending criminal matters.”

“Try explaining that to the press.”

“Where’s Myra?”

“Myra?” Moltke grinned. “Myra’s a fine girl. A bit green, but she has potential. She can be an invaluable assistant, at times, if you know what I mean.”

“I hope I don’t.”

“Under my tutelage she’ll expand her talents. She’s already displayed an exceptional flare for…oral argument.”

“You’re disgusting, Moltke. Nothing personal. I wish you had sent Myra.”

“Myra is perfectly adequate for an eight-thirty bail hearing, but this is the big time.”

“You mean, there’s press coverage galore, so you dismissed the acolytes so you could soak up the glory yourself.”

Moltke made a harrumphing noise. “A man learns to take advantage of his opportunities. If he hopes to make anything of himself. I’m sure you’ll learn that in time. If you ever make anything of yourself.”