Blind Justice (7 page)

“But they were still married?”

“Oh, yeah. They’ve been apart for several months now. I don’t think they’re divorced—just separated or something. I’ve heard Lennie gripe about having to take money over to her. I guess she could be pretty unpleasant about it.”

A wife. Christina had a date with a married man. Ben’s eyes started to glaze over; the hollow feeling inside him increased a thousandfold. Ben expected the prosecution to try to paint Christina as some sort of tramp—the unmarried consort (wink, wink) of the perverted druglord. But this was worse. Now they would be talking (in hushed tones) about…
adultery.
Now they would take every opportunity to remind the jury she went to that penthouse apartment for a (dramatic pause)
liaison
with a married man.

What would the jury think? Ben knew all too well. They would loathe her. Before the government had even finished its opening statement.

The phone rang just seconds after Ben’s Honda pulled out of the parking lot.

“Hello,” Spud said. And a few seconds after that, “Yeah, Kincaid, that was his name. Why?”

Spud glided into the chair behind his station. His brow creased. “Sure, I told him. What, should I have clammed up?”

A burst of static from the phone. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. If that’s the way you want it, from now on, that’s the way it’ll be. Promise.”

The tension in his face intensified. “Sure, whatever you want. No, he didn’t say where he was going. Oh, wait, he did say he was going back to the police station later on. No, he doesn’t know anything. Well, I don’t see any cause for that. Yeah, I know, you’re in charge, not me. Of course I will. You can count on it. I’ll call you first thing. Right.”

Spud wanted to hang up, but the voice on the other end would not release him. Another burst of staccato noise, finally followed by an abrupt disconnection.

Spud hung up the phone.

I
T TOOK BEN OVER
half an hour to return to his office. Most of Tulsa’s law firms, courthouses, government facilities, and business offices were in the central downtown area. The outer border of downtown was First Street, and north of First Street, there was nothing. Nothing reputable, anyway. Bars, junkyards, strip joints. And Ben’s office. Conveniently wedged between Ernie’s Pool Hall and the B & J Pawn Shop, Ben’s office was still within walking distance of the courthouses. It was just in a neighborhood through which no rational person would ever walk.

When Ben finally made it to his office, he found the front doors and windows splattered with dried egg yolks. Enough is enough, he swore silently. First T.P.’d, now egged. It was like high school all over again. He was going to have to put an end to this.

Jones was sitting at his card table in the small front lobby.

“I see you haven’t gotten rid of the chickens yet,” Ben noted. They seemed to be in constant motion, skittering frenetically from one side of the lobby to the other.

“What did you expect me to do?” Jones asked. “Sell them to the Colonel?”

“Not a bad idea, actually. I thought they were only supposed to run around like this when their heads were cut off.”

Jones smiled. “I can tell you’re a city boy.”

“Yeah. Hey, guess what?”

“You’re representing Christina on that murder rap.”

Spoil sport. “How did you know?”

“My friend Didi called. You know, the court clerk. Must’ve gotten your name and phone number off your entry of appearance. Your client’s preliminary hearing has been set for Friday.”

“Friday? Why not sooner?”

“Didi was a little vague on that. Perhaps the magistrate has other plans.”

“That’s unacceptable. The magistrate has already denied bail. Draft an emergency appeal to the district court, Jones, pending the preliminary hearing. I don’t want Christina spending any longer than necessary with the hookers and drug addicts.”

“Derek won’t like it.”

“All the more reason. Call the U.S. Attorney’s Office and get them to consent to the motion. Christina was arrested without a warrant. Under the
Riverside County
case, if the preliminary hearing isn’t held within forty-eight hours, the burden shifts to the government to prove the delay wasn’t unreasonable. Moltke won’t want to risk having his case dismissed on a due process violation. Tell him I won’t challenge the preliminary hearing date if he won’t oppose an emergency bail appeal. He’ll play along. Then Derek won’t have any choice.”

Jones searched the file cabinet beneath his table. “Application for emergency appeal,” he repeated. “Do we have a form for that?”

Ben removed the proper file folder. “Just fill in the blanks. I’ll review it later and make any necessary changes or additions. I want me hearing tomorrow morning.”

Jones scribbled a note on his desk calendar. “Got it.”

“While you’re at it, Jones, see if you can work up a motion to dismiss for lack of subject matter jurisdiction. Find out whatever you can about this new death penalty statute. Let’s see if we can get this case transferred somewhere else—state court, tribal court, the moon—just so it’s away from Derek.”

“Boss…do you think this is wise?”

“What? Bringing a motion to dismiss?”

“No. Representing Christina.”

“Why does everyone in town think I’m such an incompetent attorney?”

“It’s not that. It’s just…well, I don’t want to be indiscreet.…”

“She let me stay at her apartment for a short period after I got fired at Raven, till I got back on my feet.” Ben placed one hand on his hip. “There was nothing romantic about it. We’re just good friends. Totally platonic.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Boss.”

“Besides, this has nothing to do with personal feelings. This is a murder case, pure and simple. I can be perfectly objective about this.”

“If you say so.”

“You don’t seem convinced.”

Jones pressed his hand against his chest. “Who cares what I think? I am but a secretary, a vassal, a servant. You’re the boss, Boss.”

“Hmmph.”

“By the by, I read the article in the
World.
The feds think they have her dead to rights.”

Ben nodded. “They’re like a terrier with a bone—once they bite into someone, they never let go. If I’m going to convince anybody that Christina didn’t kill Lombardi, I’m going to have to be able to tell them who did.”

“Good luck.”

“Yeah.”

“Anything else I can do?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” He opened his briefcase and tore off a sheet of legal paper. “I have the names of three people other than Christina who were at Lombardi’s apartment last night.”

“All
right
!” Jones said, snatching the paper. “Suspects! You want me to investigate these guys?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “No, I definitely do
not
want you to investigate these guys.”

“Where did you get these names, anyway?”

“From the security guard at the lodge where Lombardi lived.”

“You went to the scene of the crime!”

“So to speak.”

“Without me?”

“Of course I went without you. You’re a secretary, remember? A vassal, a servant. Not Paul Drake. Not Magnum, P.I.”

“I’ve been wanting to expand my horizons,” Jones said, gazing at the list. “Albert DeCarlo! This is the big time.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“You really think one of these guys is the murderer?”

“Assuming the guard is telling the truth, it has to be one of them.”

“And assuming it wasn’t Christina,” Jones added.

Ben looked at him stiffly. “That’s my job. Anyway, if you’ll stop drooling over the list of suspects, I’ll tell you what else I need.”

Properly scolded, Jones put the paper down on his table. “Shoot.”

“I want you to get me appointments to see these three people, sometime in the next day or two. Before the preliminary hearing, if possible.”

“You want an appointment with Albert DeCarlo? Before Friday? How am I going to get you an appointment with the Don Corleone of eastern Oklahoma?”

“You’ll think of something. Try to line up Quinn Reynolds first. There’s no reason why he should deny an appointment to a fellow member of the bar.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Also, I want you to drive over to Christina’s apartment and get her a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and assorted other necessaries.”

“You got a key? From your totally platonic temporary residence there?”

Ben reached inside his jacket pocket and passed Jones the key.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Ben said, scanning the lobby. “Do something with these chickens,” He snapped his briefcase closed and headed out the door.

B
EN MANAGED TO FIND
Mike more quickly this time. Not that he had acquired any knowledge of the Law Enforcement Division floor plan
—
the barriers and detours had all been changed since morning—but at least now there was a receptionist on duty who could tell him whether he was hot or cold.

“I thought you weren’t going to hang around,” Mike said, as Ben entered his cubicle.

“Hey, I haven’t been here since this morning,” Ben replied. “I thought I was showing restraint.”

Mike closed the book he was reading. “Your restraint will probably get me fired.”

“Don’t be a grump. I won’t be long. I just wanted to learn if you had any forensic reports yet.”

“Yeah, some. Remember, this is the feds’ case. They don’t share anything without a reason.”

Ben noticed that the file folder on Mike’s desk labeled
Lombardi
was thicker than it had been this morning. He also noticed the book Mike had just closed. “You’re reading
The Complete Plays of William Shakespeare
?”

“Yeah.
Merchant of Venice.
What of it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ben said. “It’s just not what I expected from a hardboiled guy like you. Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler, maybe. Sherlock Holmes, on the outside. But Shakespeare? What if someone found out? Your whole image could be destroyed.”

“I try to keep it out of sight when I have company.” Mike scooted the book to the side of his desk. “I love that trial scene toward the end of the play when Portia disguises herself as the judge and twists the law around to cheat Shylock out of his pound of flesh, not to mention half his property.”

“A disguised judge? Probably grounds for appeal.”

“No doubt. So, do you want this file, or do you want to give me grief about my literary taste?”

“Tough choice, but let’s have a gander at the file.”

Mike and Ben sat down at the table in the corner of Mike’s cubicle. “This is the preliminary report from the hair and fiber boys. The most relevant discovery was the long curly red hairs they found all over the room. We’ve taken an exemplar from Christina. They match.”

“So what? It’s not as if she’s claiming she wasn’t there.”

“It doesn’t look good.”

“What does? Anything else?”

“Lots of fibers from Lombardi’s clothing. He seemed to favor tweeds and other sheddable fabrics. And a few other fibers we haven’t been able to identify,”

“I assume you’re going to try.”

“We’ll check the carpets and clothes closets of Christina and the three men who came to Lombardi’s place last night, if that’s what you mean. But frankly, even if we find something, so what? All it will prove is that they’ve been to Lombardi’s penthouse at one time or another, something they’re not likely to deny in the first place.”

“You should still make the attempt.”

“We will, Ben, we will.” He turned to another document in the folder. “There’s absolutely no sign of a struggle. Nothing broken or dented, scraped or scratched. No stray bullets. Slight residual indentation in the carpet where the body fell, but that’s to be expected.”

“What about serology?”

“We found no blood or other trace evidence that appears to have come from the murderer. Nothing on Lombardi’s skin or under his fingernails. Which is understandable, since there was apparently no struggle.”

“There must be something in there that’s helpful. What else have you got?”

“We’ve got the gun. A Bulldog .44 Special. The Son of Sam gun. Ballistics confirms that it’s the gun that put four bullets in Lombardi’s head.”

“Trajectory?”

“Lombardi had contact wounds, from the barrel of the gun being pressed against his head. That’s why the entry wound was star-shaped. Expanding gases from the exploding gunpowder tear the skin.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the murderer was very close to Lombardi, which of course suggests that he…or she…was someone Lombardi knew. And trusted.”

“Which could have been any of a number of people.”

“Don’t bother pleading your case to me, counselor. I won’t be on the jury.”

Mike passed another page of the report to Ben. “We searched Lombardi’s suite from top to bottom, but we didn’t find anything else of particular significance. Look for yourself.”

Ben scanned the report. It itemized and detailed everything found in the penthouse. Dirty laundry—hardly unusual for a man living alone. An open carafe of rosé on the end table beside the chair. The TV was on. The phone was off the hook.

“What about the medical examiner’s report?” Ben asked.

Mike rifled through his folder, then retrieved a three-page document. “The preliminary report is pretty much as expected. Lombardi died as a result of bullet wounds to the head. Koregai’s having trouble confirming the time of death from the body heat of the liver. He’s promised a supplemental report. Oh, one other thing. Koregai is absolutely positive about this. He’s a D.R.T.—dead right there.”

“Well, that hardly proves Christina killed him.”

“Ben,” Mike said, “think about it for a minute. Her story is that she fell asleep in that chair, not four feet from the body. Four feet from where Lombardi was killed, where that gun was fired four times. How could she possibly have slept through that?”

“Maybe the killer used a silencer.”

“Not with a revolver.”

Ben snapped his fingers. “She must’ve been drugged.”

“Drugged?”

“Yeah. She said she drank something, almost immediately fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until hours later. It all fits. Mike, I need you to get a lab tech in to do a blood test on Christina.”