William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

“Mr. Kincaid, with the scheduled trial date close at hand, the evidence against Christina McCall appears to be overwhelming—”

Ben grabbed the microphone and shoved it back in the man’s face. He grabbed the reporter by the lapels of his double-breasted jacket. “Don’t you have any sense of decency , you acerebral twit?”

The minicam operators scrambled, butting heads for the best angle.

“Don’t you realize what you’re doing?” Ben continued. “You’re tainting the jury pool!”

“Can you explain that?” someone shouted.

“Those aren’t just Neilson ratings sitting out there in television land. Those are prospective jurors! And if you tell your viewers the evidence against Christina McCall is overwhelming, most of them will believe you!”

Ben shoved the blond man away with disgust but found he had nowhere to go. The reporters pressed even closer. The bright white lights were everywhere, disorienting him. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow, his face, under his collar. He was trapped. And the cameras were rolling.

Suddenly a new voice emerged from the crowd. “Yo! Armed robbery at the pawn shop next door. They’ve got automatic weapons!”

As one body, the reporters scrambled toward the front door. After an unseemly scuffle, they managed to plunge through the narrow opening—leaving Jones standing just outside.

He smiled. “Hiya, Boss. Giving an interview?”

“Not very well,” Ben replied. “I don’t suppose there really is a robbery at the pawn shop.”

“Nope,” Jones said, locking the door behind him. “But wouldn’t you like to see the look on Burris’s face when he sees twenty or so reporters bashing their way into his shop? He’s gonna think he’s on Sixty Minutes. ”

Ben pictured the tableau next door. He would like to see it, at that.

“You got off easy,” Jones continued. “I’ve been dealing with those news fiends all week. What vultures.”

“They’re not vultures. They’re just doing their job.”

“Easy for you to say. You haven’t been around them, day in, day out, in addition to the hostile Native American protesters. It’s making this place a pressure cooker. I feel like someone’s watching every move I make.”

“You and me both.” Ben sighed. “We have the regrettable pleasure of being Tulsa’s current headline news.”

“Actually, we’re the top story throughout the state,” Jones said. He showed Ben the headline on the day’s Daily Oklahoman. The bold black letters covered nearly half the front page: DRUG PRINCESS TRIAL NEARS.

“That’s just great,” Ben groaned.

“The shooting death of a linchpin in the Cali cartel—that’s big news. The Texas papers are starting to pick up the story, too.”

“Much as I’ve needed publicity, this wasn’t what I had in mind. Pray for a natural disaster to divert everyone’s attention. Or maybe a small war. By the way, heard anything from Mike?”

“No. He’s dodging me. I keep calling, but he won’t take my calls and he doesn’t call back.”

Ben shook his head. He couldn’t believe Mike was avoiding him, that he was so determined to toe the line he’d let Christina fall through the cracks. Permanently.

“Keep trying,” Ben said quietly. “Anything else we need to catch up on?”

“Yeah. How ’bout I run over and check out the crime scene?”

“How ’bout you stay here and man the telephone?”

“Boss, I want to do some legwork.”

“I’ve been to the crime scene already. Trust me—it wasn’t that enlightening.”

“Easy for you to say. You get all the fun assignments. I have to stay here all day fending off creditors and drunks and reporters.”

“Life is tough.”

“Aw, c’mon, let me go. I can handle myself.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“I can. How can I prove myself to you?”

Ben glanced down at the floor, where he saw two chickens, each pecking a shoe. “Well,” he said, “for starters…”

24

THE WHITE LIGHTS THROBBED on and off at the Cowpoke Motor Inn on I-44, just before the Turner Turnpike tailgates. The marquee informed Ben that there were vacancies (no great surprise) and that a room could be obtained for twelve dollars. He wondered if that was for the night or the hour.

Two muscular men stood in the parking lot, leaning against the tailgate of a pickup truck. Looked like an illicit transaction was going down, but Ben didn’t have time to investigate. He knocked on the door—room 13. How ironic.

The door parted, just the length of the chain. All Ben could see was a beak nose poking through the gap.

“Who izzit?” said the voice behind the door.

“My name is Ben Kincaid. I’m an attorney.”

“I already got an attorney.” He started to close the door.

“I didn’t come here to solicit business.” Ben wedged his foot into the door. “I’m representing Christina McCall.”

“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

“How can I prove it through a closed door? Look, if you won’t talk to me voluntarily, I’ll be forced to get a subpoena. Then the marshal will come out and drag you down to the courthouse, where all the cops hang out, and we’ll all hear what you have to say.”

The pressure on the door eased.

“Of course, while the marshal is here, he might want to take a look around your room. Just to see if he can turn up anything interesting.”

With that, the man unfastened the chain and opened the door. “Ten minutes,” he said. “I got an appointment”

I’ll just bet you do, Ben thought. He walked inside. The room was a sewer. Dirty clothes, newspapers, and fast food containers were strewn across the floor and the unmade bed. The mirror over the dresser was cracked in several places. Ben didn’t know if it was the clothes, the food, the bathroom, or some other horror, but the room stank abominably.

“Swell place,” Ben said, sitting down in the chair closest to the door.

“It ain’t great,” the man said, “but it’s the only motel room under fifteen bucks that gets the Playboy Channel. Just a buck extra.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“You know it, pal.”

“My secretary had a hell of a time finding you.”

“Good. I’ll give you a little clue, chump. You oughta make yourself scarce, too.”

“Why is that?”

He leaned forward, spitting as he spoke. “ ’Cause there’s certain people, man, who do not want Lombardi’s murder investigated. The kind of people who’d blow your brains out just to relieve a hangnail. And they know who you are.”

Ben tried not to react. “Is that a fact?”

“Yeah, that’s a fuckin’ fact. The only thing worse than a fuckin’ killer is a fuckin’ scared killer. And these guys are scared.”

“I take it you’re referring to your former employers?”

He didn’t answer.

“Can I call you Lennie? That’s what people call you, isn’t it?”

“My friends, yeah. Which you ain’t.”

Ben had heard of people being described as weasely before, but Lennie must’ve been the prototype. He had a pencil-thin mustache and long sideburns. There was something pervasively oily about his complexion and his manner.

“About your late employer, Tony Lombardi. I understand you acted as a…runner for him. On both personal and business matters.”

“That’s true,” Lennie said, stretching. His sleeves were rolled up; Ben could see the tracks on his arms.

“Looks like you occasionally dipped into the inventory.”

Lennie jerked his arms back. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Never mind. What can you tell me about Tony’s business?”

“Which one?”