William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

“She does, sir. More than ever.”

“Fine. Just fine.” Derek kicked the wall next to his desk. He grimaced, then grabbed his right foot. He hobbled behind his desk and plopped down into his chair. “Sprained my ankle playing squash last night. Meant to stay off the damn thing.”

He took a deep breath and regained his train of thought. “So do the adoption. That’s your assignment. But no private investigators, no bells and whistles, no tickets to the prince’s ball, understand? I’m not even authorizing you to make long-distance phone calls.” He rubbed his ankle tenderly. “Do you have any idea what a private investigator would cost?”

“Not really, sir,” he admitted.

“Well, it’s a bundle. Let me remind you, Kincaid, that this job does not actually benefit our client or his business. It’s a charitable gesture on his part. Lots of mega-rich business types like Sanguine want to provide a little employee-oriented charity every now and then. Good for the image. Makes them feel virtuous. But they don’t like the charity to put a dent in the bottom line. You know what I mean?”

“You see, sir,” Ben started, hesitantly, “Mrs. Adams is unlikely to be permitted to adopt Emily by the Department of Public Welfare or the Department of Human services. She’s elderly, she has no child-rearing experience, and now”—he swallowed hard—“now she’s a widow. Adoption agencies have lists of hundreds of couples who satisfy every condition but who nonetheless have to wait years for a child. The only scenario I see that gives Mrs. Adams a prayer of adopting Emily is if we can tell a judge, acting as parens patriae for Emily, that Emily’s natural parents have consented to the adoption. And for that, we need to find a parent.”

Derek drummed his fingers on the table. “What makes you think you can find the parents? Do you know who they are?”

“Sir, I haven’t the slightest idea who Emily’s parents are. But Mr. Adams seemed convinced he could find out. And a few hours after he sets out to do just that, he’s murdered. Sure, maybe it’s just a hideous coincidence, but I find that hard to swallow. Lieutenant Morelli says we can help—”

“If Lieutenant Morelli wants to hire us as lawyers,” Derek interrupted, “and pay us at our usual rates, we’ll accommodate him. Tell him to give me a call—I get a hundred and eighty-five dollars an hour. Otherwise, forget it.”

Derek gently lowered his right foot to the floor. “Look, kid, I know how you feel. On his first day out of school, every new lawyer wants to be Perry Mason. You watch enough television, you start to think the job of lawyers is to solve mysteries. Well, it isn’t. The job of lawyers is to please their clients.”

Ben started to speak, but Derek stopped him with a raised finger. “If you need to do some investigating, fine. Be a lawyer. Use the traditional discovery methods set forth in the Oklahoma Rules of Civil Procedure. But don’t forget about the number of hours this firm expects you to bill. I think Joseph Sanguine will accept five, maybe eight hours being billed to him for this matter. More than that, he’ll balk. So will I.”

Ben opened his mouth to respond. Again, the upraised finger stopped him.

“That’s it, Kincaid. I’ve had two new files placed on your desk, and I want you to be up-to-snuff on them tomorrow morning. One of them involves a motion for preliminary injunction with a very short fuse. It’s another Sanguine matter. We’ve asked for an expedited schedule because of the so-called looming threat of economic disaster by trade dress infringement. Our reply brief is due Monday. That means I want to see it Friday. Early.”

He waved his hand at Ben in a dismissing gesture. “You’ve got a lot to do, Kincaid. So get to work.” Derek pointed at the door.

Clenching his teeth tightly, Ben walked out of Derek’s office.

8

PERRY MASON INDEED! WHAT a jerk!

Ben shuffled a few papers around on his desk and muttered angrily to himself.

“Well, at least you’ve turned your light on. That’s an improvement.”

Ben looked up and saw a woman of medium height not much older than himself standing outside the doorway.

“The last guy who had this office,” she continued, “never turned his light on. Lance Caldwell. Liked to work in the dark. And that’s not the half of it.” She shook her head from side to side with disapproval. “Weird, weird, weird. He finally left. I don’t know if he got fired or disbarred or taken away by extraterrestrials or what.” She leaned further through the doorway. “Aren’t you going to ask me in? I’m Christina McCall. I’m your designated legal assistant.”

Ben smiled. “I’m sorry, please come in and sit down. I’m Ben Kincaid. Pick a chair. Either chair.”

She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. Although Ben could see several barrettes and rubber bands, her long strawberry-blond hair was not arranged according to any coherent plan that he could detect. Her face was soft and thin and pleasant in a natural way, rather than a Vogue magazine way. Her attire was the real eye-catcher, though. She was wearing a brown leather dress that came perilously close to being a miniskirt. And yellow leotards.

She scrutinized the two orange corduroy options. “I hope come bonus time they compensate you for these chairs.”

“Good idea,” Ben replied. “Why don’t you prepare a memo for upper management?”

“Right.” She settled into the chair on the left and crossed her yellow legs. “So, did you and Dickie have a nice chat? It’s not that often we can hear him through a closed door. You two must have a special relationship.” She grinned. “What was he, kicking the wall or something?”

Great. The word was out. “We were discussing a troublesome problem.”

“Right. The adoption-murder case. I heard.”

Ben stared at her. No secrets in this firm, evidently.

“That must be spooky,” she said. “You meet a nice guy, you talk to him awhile, and the next thing you know, he’s in rigor mortis. Brrrrrr.”

Ben didn’t say anything.

Christina changed the subject abruptly. “Are you going to the Raven, Tucker & Tubb dinner and dance gala Friday night?”

“Do I have any choice?” They laughed. “How about you?” he asked.

“ Faux pas, faux pas . Legal assistants are not invited. Only lawyers and their chosen companions.”

Ben’s face reddened. “Oh. Sorry …”

“It’s all right. It gave me a chance to speak French. Are you impressed that I know French phrases? I love the way they sound. Especially faux pas . It’s my favorite. I can spell it, too. Can you?”

Ben blinked. “I was never very good at spelling.”

“Don’t sweat it. You’ll enjoy the party. I mean, not that I’d know, ’cause I’ve never been. Don’t let that spoil it for you, though. I’m sure I’ll find something else to do. Of course, nothing could compare with the thrill of going to the Excelsior ballroom and mixing with the Tulsa crème de la crème .” She paused. “More French. Crème de la crème .”

“I noticed.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“I think so.”

“Can you spell it?”

“Ahhh … no.”

“Oh, well. C’est la vie .” She uncrossed, then re-crossed her legs. “Now, if I had a boyfriend, I might consider gate-crashing. The party, I mean. On Friday night. But on my own? No, it would never do.”

Information received and catalogued, Ben thought.

Christina reached into her satchel and withdrew a thick pad of printed paper, then passed the pad across the desk to Ben. “These are your time sheets. There are spaces here for the name of the client, the computer code number of the billing matter, the number of hours worked, and a brief, not-very-informative description of the work performed. This is how we bill clients.”