William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

“At least he wasn’t a liar. Did you ever see any of his imported goods?”

“Yeah. Parrots.”

“Parrots?”

“Rare South American parrots. Supposed to be very valuable.”

“South America, huh? That figures.” Ben batted his lips with his pencil. “What happened last night?”

Christina pressed her fingers against her temples. “To be perfectly honest, Ben, I’m a little fuzzy on last night. I got a message telling me to meet Tony at his place. I did, but he wasn’t home yet. I turned on the TV, poured myself a drink, and waited. I must’ve fallen asleep. When I woke up, it was two o’clock in the morning, and Tony was lying on the floor with a huge chunk of his head missing.”

“That must’ve been a shock.”

“It…was.” She laughed softly. “And like the genius I am, I got up to investigate, rubbed my fingerprints all over everything, crouched over the body, and a nanosecond later the FBI showed up.”

“I don’t suppose you saved the message?”

“Nope. Tossed it in the trash. It’s long gone by now.”

“And the message was from Lombardi?”

“That’s what the receptionist said: But anyone could’ve called in and claimed to be him. She wouldn’t know.”

“I suppose they remembered to read you your rights.”

“Alas, yes.” Christina wiped her face with her sleeve. “Thanks for asking.”

“Were they…rough on you? I mean…”

Christina nodded. “They were okay. Under the circumstances. These guys were FBI, after all. They weren’t going to let some loose cannon get their case thrown out.” She paused; her eyes seemed to withdraw. “Didn’t care much for the strip search, though. And the delousing spray definitely did not make me feel minty fresh.”

Ben tried not to wince.

“So, counselor,” Christina said, “are you going to take my case?”

“What, me? You don’t want me to represent you.”

“ Au contraire, mon ami. I do.”

“Christina, this is really… serious. I’m no criminal trial expert. Get Pat Williams. He’s the best.”

“I don’t want Pat Williams. I can’t afford Pat Williams. I want you.” Her voice quieted. “You’re the best. You just don’t know it yet.”

“Christina, I don’t think this is wise.”

“Are you saying you won’t do this one little thing for me?”

“Christina, these accusations—this case could be really…important.”

“If that’s your articulate way of reminding me that the death penalty is a possibility, believe me, Ben, I know.” She looked him square in the eyes. “I think it’s essential that my attorney believe I’m innocent. You know I didn’t kill Tony! I want you , Ben.”

“There are any number of experienced trial attorneys who would realize you’re innocent.”

Christina leaned forward and placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder. “I want more than that, Ben. I want to find out who really killed Tony. I want the SOB who set me up.”

Ben scrutinized her face. “All right,” he said finally. He stood up. “But I reserve the right to affiliate co-counsel if I get in over my head.”

“Fine.” She placed her hands behind her head and stretched out on the bed.

“I’ll try to get you out of this rathole as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’ll go by your apartment and pick up a change of clothes. Have you got a key?”

She looked at him pointedly. “I haven’t changed my locks, Ben.”

“Oh. Well. Fine then. I’ll also talk to Mike and see what he knows.”

“Good plan.”

“If you need anything, just send word through Lester. I’ll stay in touch.”

“Ben?”

“Yes?”

Christina sat up. She opened her mouth, started to say something, then said something else. “Merci beaucoup.”

6

BEN FELT LIKE A laboratory rat trying to find the path to the cheese in a gigantic maze. The plaza was easy enough. Wind your way through the roller bladers, the street preachers, and the panhandlers—and you find Tulsa’s municipal offices. But how long had they been renovating the interior—six, maybe eight months? At least that long. And every day, the barricades and ropes changed, and Ben had to rediscover his way around. Usually, of course, he was only trying to get to traffic court. Today he had an even more difficult chore—plowing through the jumbled, poorly marked offices of the Law Enforcement Division.

Eventually, Ben spotted the glass door marked TULSA POLICE DEPARTMENT-CENTRAL. He walked inside. It was still early; no one was at the reception desk. In the most remote corner of the department HQ, Ben located the cubicle labeled LT. M. MORELLI. Ben and Mike Morelli had been friends since college days, when they were roommates and fellow Liberal Arts majors, reading Faulkner by day and making music in pizza parlors by night. Then Mike married Ben’s younger sister, Julia. Everybody knew it was a bad match—everybody but Mike and Julia. Mike worked his butt off for three years, but still the result was an intensely nasty divorce, which strained Ben and Mike’s friendship to the breaking point. Since Ben moved to Tulsa last year, he’d been trying to revive their friendship. But the effort was slow work—like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle that came together one piece at a time.

Mike’s cubicle was as bland as they come. The only feature Ben could call a decoration was a coat rack bearing a stained overcoat and a loaded gun holster. Mike was on the phone, but as soon as he saw Ben, he said, “I’ll have to get back to you later, Ellie.”

He swiveled his chair around. “It’s Benjamin Kincaid, counselor-at-law.”

“And Lieutenant Michelangelo Morelli, homicide investigator,” Ben replied. “Why do I feel we should now execute the secret handshake?”

“Must be a throwback to our wicked college days.”

“Yeah. So give me the straight scoop, Mike. What are the charges against Christina?”

Mike looked at him gravely. “Murder one, I’m afraid.”

“Why murder one?”

“Well…it doesn’t look very accidental.”

“Maybe it was self-defense.”

“No signs of a struggle.”

“Maybe Lombardi shot himself.”

“Four times? In the head?”

“Oh.” Ben fell into one of Mike’s chairs. “Are you handling the case?”

“Nope. Outside my jurisdiction.”

“Can’t you make it your jurisdiction?”

“No.” Mike fingered a manila folder on his desk. “I’ve got bad news for you. And Christina. What do you know about jurisdiction over crimes committed on tribal lands?”

“I know it’s incredibly complicated. Why?”

Mike opened the file and read an address aloud. “That lodge where Lombardi was killed is on tribal land. Creek Nation. With a name like Lombardi, I would’ve sworn he was all-Italian, but it turns out he was part-Creek.”

“Are we talking about tribal courts?”

Mike shook his head. “Christina was arrested by FBI agents in the course of an ongoing narcotics investigation. They’re planning to charge her with drug-related homicide under the new ‘continuing criminal enterprise’ statute—which, I might remind you, is the only death penalty statute in the entire federal criminal code.”

Ben felt a dryness in his throat. “Give me the bottom line, Mike.”

“This one’s going to be tried in federal court.”

“Oh, great. A murder trial in federal court. With the death penalty.” He pressed his fingers against his temples. “She was in the county jail.”

“That’s where the feds keep their prisoners. They don’t have cells of their own, so they rent space from us.”

“Will the feds push this?”

“They will,” Mike said grimly. “This isn’t a grounder, Ben. It could be a grand slam for them. With all the connections Lombardi had to organized crime and South American drugs, the case takes on a larger significance.”