William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

The clattering of the demitasse in the saucer made Ben look up. His mother was staring at him.

“How’s your arm?” she asked.

“Oh, fine. Several stitches. I’ll probably have a scar, but”—he shrugged his shoulders—“people rarely admire my upper arm.”

“What do you think you’ll do now?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Ben answered. He was being honest.

“Well, there’s no need to hurry your decision. It’s not unusual for a man to change occupations several times before he’s thirty. Even in Nichols Hills.”

“I like the law,” Ben said. “I like the potential it has for helping people, even if the potential sometimes goes awry.”

“Well, Benjamin, if you’re certain you know what you want to do, you should do it.” She hesitated a moment. “The only concern your father ever had was that you wouldn’t live up to your potential.”

“I’m afraid I can’t agree with that statement.”

“It’s true. You needed your father to push you to try harder.”

“You make him sound very altruistic.”

She sighed. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I think so,” he said slowly. “I don’t know. Something about this whole mess. I believe I’m starting to feel better.” He brushed his hands against his lap and stood up. “Well…”

“Stay in touch this time.”

“I’ll try, Mother.” He walked toward the front door, then stopped. “Mother?” he said.

“Yes?”

“It’s nothing against you. I mean … you know. I love you.”

She picked up a home-decorating magazine from the coffee table. “I know you do, dear.”

42

THE TALL, THIN WOMAN with the stringy blonde hair was not dressed like a nurse or any other identifiable authority figure, but she seemed to be the one in control. Ben told her that he was an attorney, careful to suggest, without actually stating, that he was Tidwell’s attorney. The woman bought it; she was probably used to seeing junior attorneys sent out to do dirty duty like this. The woman gestured toward a chair, and Ben sat down.

The chair faced a wall that, from about four feet above the floor on up, was made of a thick, clear acrylic. A metal speaker in the center allowed communication from one side to the other. Apparently, Tidwell was still considered dangerous. Ben rubbed his arm and decided that he was in no position to disagree.

A door in the room on the opposite side of the glass opened, and a heavyset male guard escorted Tidwell into the room. Tidwell was wearing a loose-fitting orange jump suit. Ben was reminded of the outfits his father used to wear when he was working in the yard. The guard led Tidwell to the chair opposite Ben’s on the other side of the acrylic, then positioned himself against the wall next to the door.

Tidwell stared contemptuously through the acrylic barrier. “Know why lawyers are always buried at least twelve feet underground?”

“Forget it. That’s not why I came.”

“Because deep down, they’re really nice people,” Tidwell growled, obviously disappointed. “What do you want?”

“I came to see for myself.”

“See what?”

“See if you really are crazy.”

Tidwell started to smile, then caught himself. After a moment, apparently deciding there was no harm, he allowed himself a full grin. “Of course I’m crazy,” he said. “I’m in the loony bin, aren’t I?”

“Under observation,” Ben said slowly. “So the shrinks can decide whether you’re capable of comprehending the charges brought against you.”

Tidwell continued to smile. “I must be crazy,” he said. “How else could I do all the horrible things I’ve done? I couldn’t distinguish between right and wrong.”

“Save it for the jury,” Ben muttered.

“I was controlled by an irresistible impulse. I didn’t comprehend the nature and quality of the acts I was committing.”

“Christ!” Ben said, pounding his forehead. “Your lawyers have even briefed you on the M’Naughten test for insanity.”

Tidwell smiled but said nothing.

“And you’re just smart enough to pull it off,” Ben muttered, shaking his head.

Tidwell stared back at Ben. His beady green eyes seemed yellow through the distorting ripple of the acrylic panel.

“Can you tell me one thing?”

Ben waited for a response and got none.

“I’ve almost deciphered this puzzle, but there’s one piece I don’t have. After I was stupid enough to tell you I’d found Catherine, and you ran back to the apartment, what did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Tidwell said, smiling contentedly.

“What did you say , then,” Ben said. “Let me guess. I think you told Catherine that Emily was dead, that you’d killed Emily to punish Catherine for being bad. That would do the trick. That would push her over the edge.”

Tidwell’s grin widened appreciatively.

“You sick son of a bitch,” Ben said. He felt he needed to stand. He began to pace back and forth before the acrylic screen. “You killed Catherine just as surely as if you had crammed the pills down her throat.”

“What’s it to you, anyway?” Tidwell asked.

“I—” Ben started, then stopped. There was no way he was getting into that. “I got to know Catherine, a little bit,” he said simply.

He walked to the door and opened it.

“I hope they fry you, you sick bastard,” Ben said. “I hope they draw and quarter you and drag your entrails through the streets of the city.”

Tidwell’s smile spread from ear to ear. “I do, too,” he said. “Isn’t that crazy?” And he laughed and laughed and laughed.

43

“IF YOU DON’T HAVE any more questions, I’ll leave the two of you alone to read the documents,” Ben said.

Ben was standing beside the long conference room table; Bertha Adams and Emily were seated on the other side. Emily seemed calm and detached. All the tragedy of the past month has centered around her, Ben thought, and what little of it she ever knew she’s entirely forgotten. That’s life in the fixed moment.

“After you read through them, sign each place I indicated and leave the papers with my secretary,” Ben said.

Bertha looked up and nodded. She seemed more at ease than she had at any time since Ben first met her. “Thank you, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Sure.” Ben left the conference room and walked back to his office.

Christina was waiting for him. She was wearing her brown miniskirt and the familiar yellow leotards.

“So you decided to come back to work?” he said, smiling. “How are you?”

“I’m going to be fine. C’est la guerre .” She brushed her golden hair away from her eyes. The thin black scab on her right cheek was still noticeable. “ You’re the one we should be worrying about.”

“Well, this is cozy. Got room for a third?”

Mike was standing in the doorway.

“Come on in,” Ben said. “What have you and your squad of law-and-order zealots turned up?”

“Not a lot,” Mike admitted. “We’ve searched Tidwell’s house and come up with a birth certificate. Catherine was his daughter, all right. And we’ve found a marriage license. Tidwell was married some twenty-eight years ago, when he lived in Flagstaff. Catherine was born soon after. Real soon, if you know what I mean. Catherine’s mother died when Catherine was about six and apparently, sometime not too long after”—he hesitated for a moment—“Tidwell let Catherine take her mother’s place in his affections. Some time after then and before he moved to Tulsa, Emily was born.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Ben muttered quietly. “And I thought I had father problems.”

“We’re talking to former neighbors and tracking down relatives who might have known Tidwell when he lived in Flagstaff,” Mike continued. “He only moved to Tulsa two years ago. Seems he had to leave Flagstaff in a hurry. I think he kept Emily’s existence a secret after he moved to Tulsa. He couldn’t explain her parentage, and he didn’t want to stir up trouble. We’ve interviewed his current neighbors, and they don’t know anything about Emily or Catherine. Tidwell had evidently discovered it was safer to keep Catherine and Emily at a separate residence under lock and key. I expect that was easy enough to do. Emily was a little girl, and Catherine’s mind was disintegrating. I suppose he told poor Catherine she’d be killed if she left the apartment. Or that he would hurt Emily.”