William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

Stanford seemed embarrassed. Mike didn’t even grunt.

Ben, however, exploded. “Goddamn it, Abshire, I’m sick and tired of your withholding evidence. I’m calling the judge.”

“Feel free.”

Stanford pushed his half glasses up his nose. “Perhaps we could be more helpful if you would ask specific questions, Mr. Kincaid.”

“All right. I’ll give it a try.” Ben tried to read the notes he had scrawled that morning at breakfast. Unfortunately, there was a large chocolate-milk stain obscuring the top of the page. “What were the results of the blood test you performed on Christina?”

“We didn’t do a blood test,” Abshire said calmly.

Ben’s eyes expanded to saucer-size. “You didn’t—I specifically requested a blood test. In your presence.”

“I don’t feel obligated to do the opposition’s work for them. You should have done it yourself.”

“She was in custody!”

“You could have tested her when she was released.”

“I did. It was too late. The results were inconclusive.”

“Did it ever occur to you that might be because your client is guilty?”

Ben sprang out of his chair. “You son of a—” He gripped the edge of the table. “I’ll take this up with the judge.”

Abshire appeared indifferent. “Cards-on-the-table time? I don’t care what you take up with the judge. He hasn’t ruled in your favor yet, and he’s hardly likely to start doing so now.”

True enough, Ben thought, but he’d be damned if that would stop him from trying. “What about the time of death?”

“What about it?”

“When last I was permitted to discuss these matters, I was told Koregai was having trouble establishing the time of death. Koregai’s too smart to have trouble with a fundamental like that, unless there’s some unusual factor involved.”

“The coroner has had trouble establishing a definite time of death. He says there’s conflicting evidence. But none of it is exculpatory.”

“Says you. Can I talk with Koregai? Alone?”

“Can I talk to your client? Alone?”

“Only if you can get the Fifth Amendment repealed.”

Abshire folded his arms. “Then you’ll see Dr. Koregai in my presence. If he isn’t busy.”

Ben had to keep reminding himself that an assault charge against Christina’s attorney would not help her case. “Did you conduct a paraffin test?”

“Uh…yeah, we may have done that.”

“And the results?”

“Were not necessarily exculpatory.”

Stanford looked at his protégé sternly. “Tell him.”

Abshire’s face tightened. “But it’s not exculpatory,” he hissed.

“I believe I am still your supervisor, Agent Abshire,” Stanford said. “Tell him.”

“We did the test,” he said bitterly, like a child forced to share his candy. “She was clean.” He withdrew a file folder from his stack, then tossed it across the table to Ben.

Ben scanned the report. He knew from his days at the D.A.’s office that the discharge of a firearm automatically released gas and powder residue, including suspended nitrate particles, and that the particles would adhere to any skin touching the gun when fired. As best he could tell, the test had been performed properly—swabs moistened with dilute nitric acid, followed by neutron activation analysis. And they found no nitrate particles on Christina’s hands.

“This is great.” Ben shot Abshire a pointed look. “And you were of the opinion that this wasn’t exculpatory?”

“We’re required to produce exculpatory evidence. The absence of evidence is by definition not evidence.”

“So you weren’t going to produce this? Even though it proves Christina isn’t the killer?”

“I hardly agree,” Abshire said, snatching back the report. “Have you never heard of gloves?”

“I’ve heard of them. Did you find any?”

“Yes. We found three pair.”

“Where?”

“In Lombardi’s bedroom closet.”

“In his closet? What are you saying? That she killed him, then folded the gloves neatly and put them away in the closet?”

“That’s what I’d do,” Abshire replied.

Ben’s teeth ached from the pressure. Abshire obviously didn’t give a damn about evidence. He had a thirst for conviction that was unquenchable. Ben glanced at Mike, but he was still staring at the wall.

“Talked to any witnesses?” Ben asked.

“Scads.”

“Did you learn anything exculpatory?”

“Not by my definition. On the contrary, I think everyone I’ve spoken to is convinced your client offed Lombard.”

“Then what else have you got for me?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Ben put his notes back in his briefcase. “This is just as well, Abshire. It removes some confusion I was having. For a second, I thought I saw a glimmer of decency in you. Now I realize it must have been a trick of the light.”

Stanford turned away and covered his mouth. Even Myra appeared to be suppressing a smile. And Mike—did he look up? Ben couldn’t be sure.

“I’m moving to suppress your testimony at trial, Abshire,” Ben added. “You’re a hopelessly biased witness.”

“You certainly are planning a lot of motions. I guess that’s based on your record of success with the judge.”

Bastard. “If you come up with anything new, I expect to be informed.”

“Of course,” Abshire said, grinning. “If it’s exculpatory.”

Ben hesitated beside his chair. He wanted to give Mike one last chance to say he wasn’t in on this railroad, that he was appalled by Abshire and the way he and Moltke were handling this case.

Or just one last chance to acknowledge that he was listening.

But Mike didn’t move a muscle.

23

BEN’S OFFICE WAS IN chaos. Even more so than usual.

Outside, representatives of the Creek Nation were protest marching, insisting that the McCall case be referred to tribal courts. A large placard read: WHITE MAN’S LAW—WHITE MAN’S JUSTICE.

The protest was senseless; tribal courts don’t have felony jurisdiction. Besides, didn’t they know he tried to get the case out of federal court? Why protest here? Because they weren’t allowed in the courtroom, Ben supposed, and besides, this was where the reporters were.

Inside, the front lobby of Ben’s office was brimming with journalists of every variety. The blue beam of minicams crisscrossed the room. Reporters were huddled around Jones’s table, trying to read the paper in his typewriter.

They spotted Ben before he had a chance to sneak into his private office. A tall, anorexic-looking female he thought he recognized from the Channel 8 news pressed herself in front of him.

“Mr. Kincaid!” the woman shouted, although she was less than a foot away. “Can you give us a statement?”

“No.” He tried unsuccessfully to pass her.

“Can we take your reluctance to speak as an admission that you haven’t got much of a case?” Her microphone was tickling his nose.

“No, you may not. Our case is rock-solid. The Rules of Professional Conduct prohibit me from making substantive comments regarding pending criminal actions.”

“U.S. Attorney Moltke didn’t have any problem talking to us.”

“No comment.”

Another reporter; a tall man with wavy, blond hair, accosted Ben from the other direction.

“Is it true that a radical minority sect of the Creek Nation tribe is protesting your representation and requesting immediate custody of the murderess?”

“Christina McCall is not a murderess! She’s innocent until proven guilty.”

“Can you tell us what, if any, evidence you have uncovered to rebut the prosecutor’s seemingly airtight case?”

Ben clenched his teeth. “No.”