William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

“Not till morning.”

“Without getting caught?”

“Seems unlikely.”

“You’ll think of something. You always do.” Ben felt her reposition herself. “I suppose we ought to try to sleep.”

“I haven’t been sleeping very well lately at home. My chances for a good night’s sleep in a closet are not good.”

She yawned. “I’m sleepy already. Mind if I catch forty winks?”

“Be my guest.”

“Thanks. Feel free to sing me a lullaby.”

“The only song I know the words to is ‘Oklahoma.’ ”

“Maybe in the morning.” She snuggled in closer.

Ben listened to the sound of her breathing, inhaling, exhaling, gradually falling into a slow, easy rhythm. In a few minutes, she was asleep.

“Christina?”

She didn’t stir. He nudged her gently. “Christina? Christina, wake up. I hear movement outside.”

“What—where— Ben ?” After a moment, she regained her bearings. “We’re still in this closet, aren’t we?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Was I asleep?”

“Yes. Very soundly. All night.”

“Oh, God. I didn’t snore, did I?”

Ben smiled. He wasn’t about to tell. “You were fine.”

“Ugh.” She tried to straighten herself out. “My legs feel like lead.” She reached down and yanked off her shoes.

“Yeah, I’m pretty stiff, too.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Not really, but I tried not to move too much. Didn’t want to wake you.”

“You sweetie.”

“Shhhh! Footsteps.”

They listened to the clicking of little heels down the hallway. The footsteps turned into the supply room, then they heard a woman’s voice: “What in the—” The footsteps returned to the hallway. “Cliff, can you come here?”

Another pair of footsteps, softer and squeakier (sneakers, Ben guessed) bounded down the hallway. “What’s up, Marjorie?”

“Would you look at the copy machine? How did it get out in the middle of the room?”

“Beats me.”

“Were you and the other clerks playing around last night?”

“No way, Marjorie. Honest.”

“Making goofy faces? Xeroxing your hairy buns?”

“I promise, no.”

“Well, help me get it back where it belongs. Mr. Reynolds will pitch a fit.”

Ben listened to the grunting on the other side of the door. “Look, it’s wedged under the doorknob,” Marjorie said. He heard some more heaving and straining, then the door popped free. Ben could see it slacken in the jamb. “Got it. Now let’s wheel this behemoth back where it belongs.”

A minute later, the squeaking of wheels came to an end. “That about right?” Cliff asked.

“Close enough,” Marjorie said. “Thanks. Now go back to sorting the mail. Mr. Reynolds gets grumpy if it’s not set out neatly on his desk when he arrives.”

Ben waited until they both left the room. Slowly, he opened the door, just a crack. The coast was clear.

Ben and Christina crawled out of the closet. Their joints cracked and popped as they pulled themselves erect for the first time in hours.

“My legs are asleep,” Christina whispered.

“Mine, too.”

“I hate this. Tingles and pinpricks.” She shook her legs until the sensation subsided. “How do we get out of here? Marjorie’s probably sitting by the front door. Even assuming we could explain our presence here, I can’t let Marjorie see me without my pillow.”

“I know.” Ben spotted a telephone on the other side of the room. “I have an idea.” He glanced at the extension numbers on the card beside the phone, then dialed the operator.

“Hello, operator, can you help me? I can’t seem to get an outside line. Thanks.” He covered the receiver and whispered to Christina. “I don’t want Marjorie to be able to tell the call is coming from inside the office.” After he heard the dial tone, he punched in the front desk number.

“Hello?” Marjorie said.

Ben affected a fake nasal tone. “Lady, we got a package down here for you.”

“Are you the one who left all these document boxes on the dolly outside the front door?”

“Uhh, yeah. That’s right, ma’m. Any problems?”

“The boxes are all filled with blank paper.”

“Really. The things people do. Look, lady, we just ship ’em. But you need to get this package.”

“Send it up.”

“No can do. You have to come down and sign for it.”

“Mister, I’m eight months pregnant. I don’t make trips for no good reason.”

“Sorry, lady. Regulations. Must be really confidential information.”

“Very well; I’ll be there in a few minutes. Assuming I don’t give birth on the way.”

As soon as they heard her leave, Ben and Christina tiptoed out of the supply room. Ben dropped the originals of the financial documents back into Reynolds’s credenza, more or less as he found them. Careful to avoid the clerk, they sidled out the front door. They had rounded the corner and almost made it to the stairwell…when Quinn Reynolds stepped out of the elevator.

“Mr. Kincaid,” he said, aghast.

Ben realized he must look awful. He ran his lingers through his oily, matted hair and felt his stubbled chin. “Decided to grow a beard,” he mumbled.

“I see.” Reynolds glanced briefly at Christina, then returned his attention to Ben. “I thought I made it clear to you we had nothing further to discuss.”

“We didn’t come here to see you.”

“Oh?”

Ben saw Reynolds’s eyes roam to the documents he was cradling. He held them upright so Reynolds couldn’t see what they were. He hoped. “We were visiting my broker in another office.”

“Indeed,” Reynolds said dryly. “Rather early to be checking your investments. Your financial status must have improved markedly.”

“As a matter of fact, it has,” Ben said.

“No doubt. Well…if you’ll excuse me.”

Ben stepped aside and let him pass. As soon as Reynolds was out of sight, they ducked into the stairwell. Ben closed the door behind him just as he saw Marjorie step out of the elevator, an extremely irritated expression on her face.

“We made it,” Ben whispered, wiping his forehead. “Assuming Reynolds didn’t suspect.”

“I think he suspected you were a king-size slob.” Christina started down the stairwell. “Now his suspicions are confirmed.”

28

BEN STROLLED TOWARD HIS office feeling renewed and invigorated. It was amazing what a difference a shower and a shave could make. Especially when you’ve spent the night in a closet.

He grabbed a copy of the World on his way in. Naturally, the impending trial of the so-called Drug Princess was the page-one story. How could any juror claim to be unbiased, he wondered, after reading a daily deluge of articles characterizing this case as “instrumental to the federal government’s quest to shut down the Cali drug cartel”?

He stepped into his office and stared at the floor. “Jones,” he asked, “what is this?” He pointed at several plastic margarine tubs filled with gray pellets.

“That’s Barbara’s feed bowl.”

“Okay, I’ll play along. Who’s Barbara, and why are we feeding her?”

“Barbara is the chicken you just scared away.”

“I suspected as much.”

“And we’re feeding her because she was hungry. And because you told me to.”

“I did not—” But why bother? He tried a different tack. “Why do you call her Barbara?”

“Because that’s her name.”

“Barbara is a name for a human being, Jones, not a chicken.”

“Is that a rule? What would you call her, Chicken Little? Foghorn Leghorn?”

“I told you to get rid of the chickens, Jones, not adopt them. I thought you were going to build a coop out back.”