William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

Ben heard a timid knock on the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me. Christina.” She opened the door and poked her head through. “May I come in?”

“I’m preparing for tomorrow.”

“Jones told me you’ve been in here for hours. Maybe you should take a break.” She gave him the once-over. “Boy, do you look wrecked.”

“Thanks bunches.”

“You need a serious pick-me-up, Ben. Something to pull you out of the doldrums.”

“I agree, but I think a trip to Hawaii would be inappropriate at the moment.”

She shook her head. “Nothing that elaborate. Just a little something to remind you what’s important in life. You need some tall, seductive blonde to plant a cool wet smoocher on you. Square on the lips.”

He shivered in mock revulsion. “Brrrr. Don’t you know lawyers never kiss on the lips? It would destroy our image.”

“Maybe that’s your problem.”

Ben averted his eyes to his notes. “I’m afraid I haven’t come up with much for tomorrow.”

“You’ll think of something. I know you will.”

“I’m just trying to be realistic, Christina. Our prospects are bleak.”

“Nonsense. Things could be worse.”

“Now you’re saying it. Why does everyone keep telling me that?”

“Because it’s true. You’ll pull something out of your hat.”

“I’m not a magician, Christina. I’m not even a very good lawyer.”

“I disagree.”

“I feel like I’m trying to be the White Queen. You know, in Through the Looking Glass. She believed six impossible things every day. Before breakfast.”

“I thought you displayed great panache in the courtroom today.” She fidgeted with her hands. “Ben, I told you earlier I wanted to discuss strategy. I think you should put me on the stand.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“As far as I’m concerned, the Fifth Amendment is there for a reason, and it’s a good one. I’m not going to put you through that.”

“Oh, Ben. What’s the use of protecting me from cross-examination if the end result is a life sentence? Or worse?”

“Most criminal attorneys never let the defendant testify. It rarely helps and always hurts.”

“You haven’t any choice!” Christina’s voice trembled. “Look, Ben, I’m an experienced legal assistant. I’ve been down this road before, and I know where we stand. We need an impeccable defense witness, and I’m all we’ve got. So use me.”

“Not a chance.”

“Ben, just this once, don’t try to do everything by yourself. Let me help.”

“Christina, I—”

“Ben!” Her eyes went straight to his heart. “Who’s the client here?”

Ben bit down on his lower lip. “You are.”

“Who calls the shots?”

“Unless he or she is requesting something unethical, the client.”

“Fine. I’m glad we got that settled.” She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress. “Tomorrow morning, I expect to be called to the witness stand. Understand?”

Ben nodded.

“Don’t stay up too late. I don’t want the jury thinking my attorney is a zombie. And don’t forget to feed your cat.”

“I’ll feed her,” Ben said. “But that doesn’t mean she’ll eat.”

Christina left the office. Ben tried to concentrate on his notes, but insistent questions in the back of his mind kept distracting him. Who would bug his phone? The same person who killed Lennie? The same person who’d been following him? Why was DeCarlo in the courtroom today? And a million other enigmas that had little or nothing to do with the trial. Or perhaps they did, and he was just too stupid to realize it.

He forced the questions out of his mind. He had to concentrate. He had to cover everything, and cover it again and again and again, until it made sense. Until he spotted whatever he had been missing.

The moment of truth was less than twelve hours away.

39

THE COURTROOM, AS BEFORE, was packed. The reporters maintained their front-row flank. Ben spotted DeCarlo taking a seat in the back, a few rows behind Margot Lombardi. Spud was still around, too—probably standing by in case the prosecution wanted to recall him on rebuttal. On the same row, Ben saw Quinn Reynolds. What was he doing here? And behind him, Clayton Langdell. Behind Langdell, Stanford and Abshire sat on the back row, far corner. Abshire made eye contact with Ben and winked. Smug son of a bitch. He thought they had it in the bag.

And he was very possibly right. Ben had stayed at the office as long as he could, well past midnight. Even after he went home, he found he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even come close, so he opened his briefcase (to the delight of Giselle, who thought it was great fun to play in) and continued looking for the magic answer. After he awoke that morning he went straight to the courtroom, still mentally searching for the elusive detail he had overlooked, the crucial clue that explained everything and proved Christina’s innocence.

He never found it.

Ben walked down the aisle and planted himself in front of DeCarlo. “Have you got someone following me?”

“Why, Ben! The questions you ask. Have you seen someone following you?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. I think so.”

“Does that necessarily mean I’m responsible?”

“You’re the most likely candidate. So how about it?”

“Would you believe me if I denied your accusation?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, I deny it.”

“You’re a prince.”

The bailiff stepped out of chambers and, a few steps behind him, Judge Derek. Ben felt a helpless, hollow feeling inside. It was happening—the trial was going forward. There was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable course of events, to prevent the conspiracy of circumstances from condemning Christina and destroying her life.

Derek brought the court to order and made his usual opening remarks and instructions to the jury. Preliminaries out of the way, he asked, “Are you ready to proceed, counselor?”

Ben rose slowly to his feet. He could feel his knees wobbling. He felt sick. “Yes, your honor.”

“Call your first witness.”

Ben saw Christina pull herself erect. He tried to speak, but he could not make the name come out.

“Mr. Kincaid?” Derek repeated.

Ben felt a wave of embarrassment cross his face. Here he was, making a fool of himself in the courtroom once again.

“Mr. Kincaid. Please.”

But wait a minute. Derek wasn’t even looking at him; his eyes were focused on the rear of the courtroom. Now that Ben noticed, most of me jurors were looking back that way, too. What in the—?

“Mr. Kincaid. I believe there’s a member of your staff attempting to direct traffic in the back of the courtroom.”

What? Ben whipped around and saw Jones waving his arms wildly in the air, trying to get his attention. And he was holding…a pair of sunglasses?

“Your honor, may I have five minutes to confer with my colleague before calling my first witness?”

“You really like to build up the suspense, don’t you, Kincaid? Very well. Five minutes.”

Ben bolted to the back of the courtroom before the reporters had a chance to block his way.

“Jones, what is going on?”

“I expected you to stop by the office!”

“Sorry. I was running late, so I came straight to the courthouse. So?”

“So? Boss, I’ve been up all night! Guess why.”

Ben was gone almost fifteen minutes, but he had to make sure he understood everything Jones told him and had considered all the ramifications. And he had to grab a magazine from the law library.

“Mr. Kincaid,” Derek said upon his return. “We were afraid you had gotten lost in the hallway.”