William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

“You see, Kincaid?” Derek sprang forward from his chair. “That’s exactly what I mean. Most young associates would be chomping at the bit to do a hearing on their own. But not you. You hang back.”

“It’s not that, sir. It’s just that it’s an important matter and I haven’t prepared—”

“So start preparing! You’ve got almost twenty-four hours. How much time do you need?”

Ben didn’t say anything. He and Christina already had plans for the evening, but he could hardly reveal them to Derek.

“This is your big chance, Kincaid,” Derek said, smiling. He propped his hands behind his head and stretched. “Prove me wrong.”

22

BEN AND CHRISTINA STOOD on the front porch and rang the bell. The sun was setting on the other side of the Arkansas, a spectacular pyrotechnic display that Ben barely noticed, much less appreciated. His mind was on the other side of the door, and on the next stop after this one.

No answer. Ben rang the bell again.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked.

“Yes,” Christina said. “Don’t be a wimp.”

“Maybe we should wait a few more days.”

“We’ve waited too long already. We need to go tonight.”

Ben frowned. “We probably won’t learn a thing.”

“Probably. But we have to follow all our leads. Particularly the ones we risked life and limb to get.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Inside the house, Ben could hear music playing at full volume. Something symphonic. Beethoven’s Ninth, unless Ben was mistaken. He rang the bell again.

Someone had to be home. They probably just couldn’t hear the doorbell over the loud music. He tried the door; it wasn’t locked.

No harm in poking my head in, Ben thought. He opened the door and stepped inside. Christina followed.

“Hello,” he said loudly. Still no response.

In the center of the living room Ben saw Emily, sitting on the floor, eyes closed, listening to the music. Listening was an understatement; she was completely absorbed. It wasn’t the pretentious, show-off absorption exhibited by snobs at the Philharmonic, Ben realized. She wasn’t even aware they had come in.

The movement ended. Slowly coming out of her reverie, Emily opened her eyes, looked in Ben’s direction, and screamed. The scream was uncommonly piercing, more than Ben would have thought possible from an eight-year-old girl!

Bertha Adams came running from the back room, her heavy legs thumping against the carpet, her right hand pressed against her chest. “Mr. Kincaid,” she said, flushed and breathless. “I didn’t hear you come in. Afraid I was napping again.”

She saw Emily cowering on the floor. “It’s all right, Emily. I’m here now. Remember me?” Emily responded to her voice by crawling across the carpet and clinging to Bertha’s legs.

Ben crouched down to Emily’s level. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “We’ve met before. I’m Mr. Kincaid. I’m your friend.”

Emily looked pensively from Ben to Bertha. Bertha nodded and stroked the girl along her shoulders.

“You remember Mr. Kincaid, don’t you, child?” She smoothed down the tiny girl’s hair. “It’s always hard when she comes back from the music. She’s at her happiest when the music’s playing. She’s at peace. But when the music’s over, it’s like dragging the poor girl back from another world.”

Emily still clung tightly to Bertha’s leg.

“We came for a specific purpose,” Christina reminded Ben.

“We came,” he said hesitantly, “because I need … a photograph.”

Bertha looked at the floor and said nothing. Poor woman, Ben thought. I bring it all back to her.

“You mean of my husband,” Bertha said quietly after a moment. “You can say it. I won’t turn to mush. You want a picture of my dead husband.”

Ben nodded. “For identification purposes.”

Bertha’s brow wrinkled slightly. “I already gave a snapshot to the police.”

“Yes, I know. I need another one.”

Bertha surveyed the living room. “I’ve always said this is the best picture he ever took.” She removed a sepia-toned photo in a gold frame from a tabletop. In the picture, she stood next to her husband—she in a lace-covered white dress, he in a double-breasted brown suit. The picture was at least thirty-five years old. It was obviously their wedding picture.

Ben cleared his throat. “I think, perhaps, something more contemporary might be appropriate. …” His voice trailed off.

“Well, I have these wallet-size black-and-whites that were taken about a year ago. A photographer came to the office to take pictures for a Sanguine public relations brochure. Took a lot of personal photos while he was there.”

She withdrew a photo from a drawer beneath her china cabinet. “Not very flattering, but you can tell it’s him.” She continued to stare at the photograph and seemed lost in thought. After a moment, she passed it to Ben. “I do miss him,” she said simply.

Ben took the photo and thanked her.

“The hearing is tomorrow morning at ten,” he reminded her, “Even though she probably won’t be called into the courtroom, you need to bring Emily.”

Bertha nodded.

Ben crouched down and smiled at Emily. “Would you like me to turn the record over?”

Emily nodded eagerly. Ben flipped the record on the stereo.

The music swelled. Emily’s eyes closed and once more she was a part of the symphony. Ben’s last sight, as he and Christina walked out the front door, was of Emily, the girl with no past, no future, barely a present, sitting in the middle of the living room, joining the music in a reverential symbiosis.

They walked silently down the sidewalk to Ben’s Honda.

“You’re not saying very much,” Ben said to Christina as he started the car.

“No.”

Ben placed his hand on her shoulder. “She’s quite a girl, isn’t she?”

Christina nodded. “How old is she?”

“Eight, we think.”

Christina stared at the road straight ahead. “Is that right?” She released a soft laugh. “That’s how old my little girl would be.”

“You never told me you had a baby.”

“I didn’t,” she replied. She pressed her fingers against her left temple and stared out the passenger-side window for the remainder of the drive.

23

THE RED PARROT WAS not quite a cowboy bar, but Tulsa was not quite a cowboy town. Tulsa did have equivalents—transient oil rig hands, truckers, bikers, construction workers, miscellaneous unemployed, your basic criminal element—and all of them apparently frequented the Red Parrot.

Ben and Christina stepped into the smoke-filled bar. Ben kept telling himself to be bold, but he knew he wasn’t convincing anybody, including himself.

They had both dressed down for the occasion, in blue jeans, cotton western shirts, and boots. Ben even had a western belt with BEN branded on the back. Something his grandmother had given him that he’d never worn until now. Ben thought Christina looked outrageous in her pink suede cowgirl jacket, but then, he reflected, no more so than she did in her daily work clothes.

Ben observed that the Red Parrot was roughly divided into four quadrants. Quadrant one: the bar, where dirty men and dirtier women stood shoulder to shoulder quaffing longnecks and complaining about the day’s events. Quadrant two: the tables and booths, the intermediate step between picking a woman up at the bar and taking her home for a quick but purposeful encounter. Quadrant three: the two pool tables, each with a trail of quarters on the side and men lined up waiting to play. Finally, quadrant four: the games area, where menacing-looking men tossed menacing-looking steel darts in the general direction of an oversized dart board. In the center of the bar was a multicolored Wurlitzer jukebox wailing some Hank Williamsesque tune about sixteen-wheelers and cowboys and the day “my mama got out of prison.”