Blind Justice (23 page)

“What now?” Ben swung around and found himself staring at orange hair and a cookie dough nose. Clayton Langdell. That cinches it, Ben thought; I’m going to put a bell on that door.

“Mr. Kincaid,” Langdell said, “may I have a few moments of your time? I want to hire you.”

Ben’s eyebrows floated to his forehead. A client? A client who wasn’t wearing handcuffs? A client dressed in a suit? That hadn’t happened in a good long time. “Step into my office.”

Ben ushered Langdell from the lobby into his office. Ben sat behind his desk and let Langdell take the sofa.

“How can I help you?”

“Mr. Kincaid, I’m inviting you to act as legal counsel for the Society. We’ve needed ongoing representation for some time, but I’ve been stalling, hoping to find a suitable person. I think you’re our man.”

Ben stifled his grin. Acting as legal counsel for a high-profile charitable organization would definitely be a step up in the world. “What would my duties entail?”

“You would advise us on legal matters. Review our publications to keep us out of unnecessary trouble. File lawsuits to enjoin activities that are harmful to our other-than-human brethren. Help organize our lobbying efforts. For instance, I’d like you to be involved in our cockfighting campaign.”

“Cockfighting? Isn’t that illegal?”

“Not in Oklahoma, or five other states, for that matter. And in some states like Texas, it’s illegal, but only a misdemeanor. Oklahoma does have a statute prohibiting animal fights, but in a notorious case,
Lock
versus
Falkenstein
, the Oklahoma Supreme Court ruled that, although the chicken was an animal, people of ordinary intelligence were incapable of understanding that. Since those people wouldn’t know they were breaking the law when they fought chickens, to try them for that offense would be an unconstitutional denial of due process.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I knew you’d be outraged,” Langdell said. “I saw your pet chickens in the lobby.”

“Those aren’t—oh, never mind.” Ben pulled a legal pad out of his desk and started making notes. “Who runs these cockfights?”

“Professionals, mostly. Each season, October through June, breeders bring their birds to game clubs and set up fights. We’re talking about birds that for centuries have been selectively bred for aggression. Plus the owners equip their birds with ice-pick gaffs or razor-sharp knives, just to make the birds tougher and the fight bloodier.”

“That’s grotesque,” Ben said quietly.

“Precisely. And a lawyer like you should be able to turn some heads down at the capitol. I saw you on television the other day. I figure if you can push around reporters like that, you can arrange to be heard by the state legislators, too.”

“I’d be happy to work on this,” Ben said. “As you know, I’m neck-deep in a murder case at present, but as soon as that’s concluded…”

“I understand. Fit us in as soon as you can. Cockfighting is just the tip of the iceberg. After that, we’ll go after the puppy mills.”

Ben felt a hollow in his heart. “Puppy mills?”

“Puppies confined to filthy mesh cages, forced to stand on chicken wire, day in, day out. Bred like rabbits, without regard to congenital defects or disease, then shipped off to pet stores and sold at exorbitant prices. Again, Oklahoma has many of the prime offenders.”

“Clayton, I don’t want to seem rude, but this conversation is depressing the hell out of me.”

“Believe me, I know. I live with it every day.”

“Why don’t I give you a ring as soon as I get free of the McCall case? We can develop a systematic plan of action.”

“Sounds dandy to me.” Langdell rose and shook Ben’s hand. “So, does this mean you’re my lawyer now?”

“Well, it means I’m the Society’s lawyer. Why do you ask?”

Langdell laughed, a bit too heartily. “I just like to know who is and isn’t on my side.” He winked and left the office.

Leaving Ben to wonder exactly what that meant.

“C
OME ON, GISELLE. EAT!”

It was a fair compromise. He’d filled her bowl with one-fourth Feline’s Fancy and three-fourths regular Cat Chow. He figured it would smell enough like what she preferred to get her started, till she developed a taste for the other. Eventually, he would wean her off the expensive brand altogether. He thought.

Apparently, Giselle didn’t see it that way. She circled the food bowl a few times. Her face crinkled; her whiskers shook. She stared at Ben with what he could have sworn were eyes of betrayal. Then she curled up in his easy chair, now covered with black cat hair, and acted as if he didn’t exist.

“Look, Giselle. I just can’t afford to feed you that ridiculously overpriced gourmet cat food every single day!”

She licked her paws idly, entirely oblivious to him.

“I repeat—”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. He opened it to find Mrs. Marmelstein standing in the hallway.

“Is something wrong?” Ben asked.

“I didn’t want you to take this case in the first place,” she said emphatically. “I knew what would happen. Policemen waving their guns around, chasing crazed drug pushers, tramping, through my garden.…”

Ben’s eyebrows rose. “There was a police officer here?”

“Yes.” She gave him an accusatory look. “Looking for you, of course.”

“Did you get a name?”

“No. But he left a note.”

Ben took the note from Mrs. Marmelstein and unfolded it. It said:
Third base
—
8:00.
He checked his watch. It was already 8:30.

“Gotta go,” Ben murmured. “I may be late tonight.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Socializing with police hooligans. You’ll probably go to the pool halls. Visit some ladies of loose morals.”

Ben smiled. “I’ll leave before the loose morals get out of control. Did he really tramp through your garden?”

Mrs. Marmelstein sniffed. “Well, no. But only because I stopped him.”

Ben hadn’t been to a Tulsa Drillers game in years.

Not that he was a jock, but he did enjoy watching the Drillers play when he could. Actually, his favorite part was the hot dogs. They were awful, but that was part of the charm. He’d bought two at the stand downstairs and was carrying them, the foil wrappings sweating in his hands.

The game was already into the top of the sixth inning when he arrived. The Shreveport Captains were four runs ahead of the Drillers. A Shreveport victory seemed inevitable, and the crowd was thinning. It didn’t take Ben long to find Mike up in the cheap seats on the third baseline.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Mike said.

“I didn’t get home till late.” Ben took the empty seat beside Mike and handed him a hot dog. “Got your note and came straight out here.”

Mike nodded. “I didn’t want to leave a message on your machine. I wanted to meet somewhere we could talk. Freely. Privately.”

“So you set up a meeting at a baseball stadium?”

“Sure. Buried in a crowd. Didn’t you ever read
The Purloined Letter
? The best hiding place is out in the open.” He paused to watch the shortstop trigger a magnificent double play. “Besides, I wanted to see the ball game.”

“What if Abshire sees you out here with me?”

“No chance. He’s back at FBI headquarters burning the midnight oil. He works on this case night and day.”

That was reassuring. “What did you want?”

Mike’s eyes didn’t waver from the ball game, “Ben, I don’t like what’s happening any more than you do. There’s nothing I can do about it, but I am…sorry.”

“Got any specifics?”

“Well, I find it tough to believe Christina stuffed a cache of drugs in a Betty Boop doll.”

“Then who did?”

“That’s the problem. I know both of the investigating officers who accompanied me to her apartment, and I’d swear they’re clean. No way they’d plant false evidence.”

“Someone did.”

Mike shrugged.

“What about the other evidence? What’s Abshire holding back?”

“As far as exculpatory evidence goes, nothing. I would’ve raised holy hell if he hadn’t shown you that paraffin report, though.”

Ben hoped that was right. But as he recalled, Mike was pretty tranquil at the time.

“Virtually all the evidence they’ve found goes against Christina. I gotta tell you, Ben, they’re building an airtight case. If this were in my jurisdiction, I’d ask the D. A. to press charges, too.”

“Even though you know Christina wouldn’t shoot anyone? Much less four times in the head?”

Mike didn’t say anything.

“Is there anything you can do to loosen up Abshire? Make him more reasonable?”

Mike laughed. “He doesn’t listen to me. He doesn’t listen to anyone, except maybe Stanford. Officially, he can’t go to the bathroom without Stanford’s okay. But a mere local cop like me he can blow off with impunity. Hell, I tried to get him to have the goddamn drug test done on Christina the day they brought her in. But he didn’t. He didn’t have to, so he didn’t.”

There was a sudden burst of shouting and applause. The Drillers batter had knocked the ball high and far. It flew into the outfield, soared and…
yes
! Over the fence for a grand slam. The crowd leaped to its feet, yelling, tooting horns, ringing cowbells. The batter nonchalantly floated around the bases. In the space of seconds, a hopeless defeat became a tie game. Things weren’t always what they seemed.

“You’re not exactly a fount of information tonight, Mike.”

“If you expected me to slide you some secret file that would break the case wide open—sorry. I couldn’t do that, even if such a file existed. Which it doesn’t.”

“If some new evidence comes to light, will you give me another call?”

“You know I can’t, Ben. I’ve got to play this by the book.”

Ben could not mask his disappointment.

“I took an oath to serve and protect the City of Tulsa and the United States of America. I’m on the prosecution side, and any act in opposition to them would be a betrayal of my oath.”

“Oh,” Ben said, blinking rapidly.

“Ben, you remember what I said about watching your backside? Well, it goes double now. There’s some serious trouble getting ready to go down—involving the mob, the South Americans, the FBI, everybody. And you’re right in the middle of it.”

“Thanks for the warning. It was good of you to meet me like this. I know you’re running some…career risks.”

Mike shrugged again. He was still looking away, but not at the ball game. His gaze seemed to be much further. “It was the least I could do.”

Ben had to agree. The least.

They sat together in silence. Ben felt almost invisible. Incorporeal. He snarfed down his hot dog and tried to focus on the game, without success. He just wasn’t interested; his attention kept drifting back to the gray void beside him that used to be his friend.

He slipped away during the seventh inning stretch.

B
EN SURVEYED THE COURTROOM
with disgust. You’d think they were trying Lizzie Borden again.

The courtroom was loud, crowded, and chaotic. Reporters flanked the aisle; spectators packed every available seat. Everyone was talking at once, pointing out the players, shouting questions at Ben or Moltke, demanding answers. And this was just a pretrial hearing.

A camera bulb flashed in Ben’s face, momentarily blinding him. Derek had issued a minute order permitting photography in the courtroom prior to and after the actual proceedings; the reporters were busily getting their money’s worth while they could. They were turning the courtroom into a carnival, and Moltke was playing it to the hilt—smiling, posing, pontificating about law and order and his personal crusade for justice. It was exactly what Moltke wanted: maximum exposure, minimum attention to detail.

Early that morning, Ben had received a phone message from Myra. Moltke was offering what he called his first and final offer to plea bargain: Christina pleads guilty and the government promises not to ask for the death penalty. Christina would most likely get a life sentence—long enough that no one could be critical of Moltke, but Moltke didn’t run whatever tiny risk he perceived that he might actually lose the case. And Christina? Well, of course, a huge chunk of her life would be wasted in prison. But she would live.

Ben turned it down. “No deals,” he had said.

He watched Moltke now, sitting at the other table with his flunkies. Moltke seemed supremely confident. He hadn’t mentioned the rejected plea bargain; he just kept babbling in his TV anchorman voice about “liberal criminal-coddling judges who care more about supposed civil rights than human beings.” Ben wondered if he had done the right thing. What did Moltke know that made him so damned self-assured?

After the bailiff intoned his
oyez oyez
routine, Derek strode into the courtroom. “Approach the bench,” he grumbled.

Ben and Moltke hurried to the judge’s platform.

Derek pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his nose and eyes. His face seemed red and puffy. “Damned hay fever,” he said. “Pollen count in Tulsa must be over a hundred today. I’m miserable.” He looked down from the bench, directly into Ben’s eyes. “So let’s not make this too unpleasant, shall we?”

Ben tried to nod reassuringly, with little success.

“I assume you have some motions to present, Mr. Kincaid, although God knows I can’t imagine what motion you haven’t already made three or four times.”

“I have new ones, your honor.”

“Oh goody.” Derek rubbed his hands together in an exaggerated expression of delight. “Can you give me a hint as to the general nature?”

“Trying to thwart the government’s effort to cover their own butt by railroading my client.”

“God.” Derek pressed his fingers against his temples. “This isn’t going to be another of your grand conspiracy theories, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“We both know exactly what I mean. I’m referring to your tendency to take a simple litigation matter and turn it into an episode of
Perry Mason.
”

“If I may proceed with my motions, your honor…”

Derek wheezed heavily. “Very well, counsel. You can make them at the bench.”

Ben hesitated. “I would prefer to make them in open court.”