William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

“Just a lucky guess. Next time, Christina, you might try testing these things first. Or better yet, shop at Wal-Mart.”

“Easy to say in hindsight.”

“Help me pull this monster into the light.” Ben gripped the photocopier. Although the machine was on wheels, it was extremely heavy. After a few moments, it began to budge. Ben and Christina wheeled it out of its niche beside the closet into the faint light.

Ben squinted at the control panel. There were at least a hundred buttons, in different sizes and shapes, some red, some green, some labeled, some not. He didn’t know where to begin.

“Allow a bona fide document handler to assist,” Christina said, pushing him aside. She punched a large green button. The lights came on and a low humming sound emerged. It was alive.

“Look at all these buttons,” Ben exclaimed. “This machine collates, staples, enlarges, reduces, copies on both sides, and copies in color.”

Christina frowned. “Boys and their toys. Stop drooling and get to work.”

Half an hour later, the documents were almost copied. Ben nudged Christina’s shoulder.

“Did you hear something?”

“Oh, please don’t start that again.”

“I’m serious. Listen.”

Christina listened. After a few seconds, they both heard it. The sound of footsteps. And voices. Coming closer.

“Is it the guard from downstairs?”

Ben shook his head no. “Maybe an employee, maybe a real cop, or—it could be Reynolds! Quick, hide!” Ben grabbed the documents, originals and copies, and ran into the supply closet behind the copier. Christina followed.

They closed the door quietly. The closet was pitchblack. There was barely enough room for its top-to-bottom supply shelves, much less two adult bodies. They crouched down and listened.

“I could’ve sworn I heard something, Joe,” said a voice on the other side of the door.

“You’re losing your mind,” a second voice growled. “This Reynolds clown is never here after five-fifteen, much less this late.”

“Which is all the more reason we should check it out. Oooof!”

Ben heard a sharp grunt followed by mild swearing, then the sound of something clattering to the floor. Ben saw the beam of a flashlight, one that worked, crisscross the room.

“Look at this,” the first voice said. “The goddamn Xerox machine is in the middle of the room. I could’ve killed myself.”

“That would be embarrassing,” his companion said. “Imagine the obituary. Frank Kellerman, security guard. Killed by a Xerox machine.”

“Don’t be a jerk. Help me push this back against the wall.”

Ben and Christina held their breath and tried to be as quiet as possible. Two seconds later, Ben felt something bang against the closet door.

“Much better,” the first voice said. “Jesus, isn’t that just like an attorney to turn his office into a goddamn deathtrap? Probably hoping for a slip-and-fall case.”

“Sure, Frank. Now, if you’re done redecorating the supply room, let’s find this intruder of yours.”

Ben listened as the footsteps receded.

“Think they’ll talk to the guard downstairs?” Christina whispered.

“Possibly. And he’ll tell them we’re supposed to be here, and those clowns’ll assume we left by the back door and they just missed us. We’re okay.” Ben released a sigh of relief and tried to open the closet door.

It wouldn’t budge.

“I may have spoken prematurely.”

“That’s not funny, Ben.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” He pressed against the door again; it wouldn’t open, not even a crack. He leaned forward and pressed his shoulder, with all his weight behind it, against the door. He felt a slight give, then the door slipped back into its groove.

“Ohmigod,” Christina said. “They pushed the copy machine back against the closet door, didn’t they?”

“Kind of looks that way.” Ben twisted the doorknob both directions, without results. “What’s more, I think the top of the machine is wedged under the doorknob. Even though it’s on wheels, it’s holding tight. We’re stuck.”

“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod,” Christina said. “What are we going to do?”

“Not a hell of a lot, I think, since we can barely move.”

“What will we do in the morning when everyone comes in and finds us trapped in the closet?”

“I suppose we’ll find that out when it happens.”

“Isn’t there something you can do?”

“Like what? I left my acetylene blowtorch at home, Christina. Ditto on the sonic screwdriver. You might as well try to get comfortable.” He fell back against the side wall, stretching his legs out as much as possible, which wasn’t much.

He heard a muffled sputter from the darkness on the other side of the closet. “Ben, are those your feet?”

“Yeah. Why, do they, smell?”

“Not really. But I still don’t want them in my mouth.”

“Sorry.” He folded his legs back into the cannonball position. “Know any good jokes?”

“Sorry. Haven’t been in much of a joking mood lately.”

“Nor I.” Ben tried to make out her face in the darkness, but it was impossible. “For what it’s worth, Christina, you were a good sport at the Lamaze class. Pretending to be pregnant. That probably wasn’t pleasant.”

“I didn’t mind. I enjoyed it, actually. I once mentioned to you that I…had a chance to be a mother. I let that slip away, for reasons that seem trivial now. The way my life is shaping up, that pillow stuffed under my blouse is probably as close to motherhood as I’ll ever get.” She paused. “Thanks for letting me pretend.”

Ben sat silently on his side of the closet. Christina could still surprise him, it seemed.

“So, since we’re having a little tête-à-tête ,” Christina said, “may I ask a personal question?”

“Such as?”

“Why won’t you take any money from your mother?”

“What makes you think she’s offered any?”

“Common sense. If you can raise fifty grand at the drop of a hat for me, I suspect you could get out there and find yourself a decent office.”

“I prefer to take care of my business on my own.”

“Of course. Ben Kincaid, the eternal lone wolf. He’s not going to let other people intrude in his life. He can do everything by himself.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it’s what you meant. Ben, maybe you’ve been burned a few times, but that’s no reason to isolate yourself from the rest of the world. Let other people help you.”

“Other people confuse me. I’m better off keeping to myself.”

“Is that what your shrink told you?”

Ben fell silent. How did she know these things?

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Christina continued.

“I saw a psychiatrist once. After my divorce. I was pretty strung out. Spent an hour lying on a sofa spilling my guts to this guy with a beard and a steno pad, but it didn’t help. I never went back.”

“That must be rough,” Ben said. “Divorce.”

“Yeah. It was.” She inhaled sharply. “Good grief, Ben, you’re thirty years old. Reasonably attractive. I’m surprised you’ve never been married.”

Ben bit down on his lower lip. Not here. Not in front of. Christina.

“Ben?” She leaned forward and touched him on the shoulder. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry if—”

“It’s all right,” Ben said quickly.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you for taking my case. I realize I’ve kept you from accepting other cases that would be more profitable.”

“Yeah, those corporate giants have been banging down my door.”

“Still, merci .” She settled back into her corner. “Think we’ll ever get out of here?”