Blind Justice (8 page)

A third voice suddenly boomed through the cubicle.
“What the fucking hell is going on here?”

Ben whirled around. There was a man hovering over him—tall, young, dark-haired, and bearing a disgusted expression.

Mike stood up. “Jim, this is—”

“I know goddamn well who this is,” the man shouted. “I want to know what the hell is going on!”

Mike’s face tightened. “We were reviewing some of the preliminary evidence—”

“Shit! This is the goddamn adversary you’re talking to. Adversary, remember that? That’s why they call it an adversarial system.”

Ben watched Mike clench and reclench his fists. “The defense will be entitled to see our evidence—“

“In time—
maybe.
” The man scooped the file off the table and cradled it in his arms, as if to protect it from Ben’s corrupting influence. “After Mr. Defense Attorney files his paperwork, he
may
be entitled to see anything we deem exculpatory or intend to use at trial. Not the whole fucking file!”

“Jim, there’s really no need—”

“Jesus Christ! We’ve got a goddamn slam dunk, and you’re already trying to screw it up!”

“Mike,” Ben said evenly, “who is this asshole?”

Mike stifled a smile. “This is Jim Abshire of the FBI. He’s one of the FBI agents working this case.”

“I’m the man who made this case fucking happen,” Abshire said.

With some reluctance, Ben extended his hand. “I’m Ben Kincaid, the attorn—”

“I know who you are.” He waved Ben’s hand away. “Nothing personal, Kincaid, but my years of experience have taught me that it’s bad policy to get too close to the opposition. Clouds your judgment.”

Ben frowned. Years of experience? “You can’t be much older than I am.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m thirty.”

“Well, I’m thirty-two.”

Ahh, Ben thought. That explains your heightened maturity. “Look, Mike didn’t really want to show me these reports. I sort of twisted his arm—”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Abshire said. “I know all about you two. You’re college buddies formerly related by marriage. And I don’t want any of that nostalgic bullshit polluting my case.”

“
Your
case?”

“Damn straight, my case. I’ve been setting up this sting for over a year. This is going to take us straight to the big boys. And I put it together.”

“Under the supervision of his boss,” Mike said. “Roger Stanford.”

Abshire smirked. “Well, I’m sure you know how that kind of arrangement works, Kincaid, and who ends up doing all the work. I understand you worked as an associate in a big firm. For about fifteen minutes.” Abshire shouted out the door. “Hey, Roger, get in here!”

An older man wearing a white shirt and half glasses on the end of his nose walked into the cubicle. “Yes?”

“Check this out,” Abshire said. “I caught Morelli here opening our files to counsel for the defendant.”

Stanford pursed his lips. “The defense is entitled to review exculpatory evidence.”

“Then, Christ, let him file a motion,” Abshire said. “That’s why we have procedures.”

Stanford gave his protégé a long look. Ben got the impression he had been down this road with Abshire before. “I see little harm in cooperating to the extent of sharing evidence we will probably be required to produce at a later date.”

“Yeah?” Abshire said, a bit stung. “Maybe that’s why you’re still a middle-level paper pusher.”

Ben shook his head back and forth, trying to confirm that his ears were still working properly. This guy really knew how to win friends and influence people.

“FBI directors aren’t interested in cooperation,” Abshire continued. “They’re interested in results. And that’s what I plan to give them. This case is a reputation-maker.”

He took a step toward Ben, poking a finger into his chest. “So watch your step, Kincaid. If you screw up my case, I’ll take you apart like a Tinker Toy. That’s a promise.”

Ben cast his eyes toward Mike. He had hoped, in fact,
expected
Mike to intercede, to tell this pompous FBI twit to back off. But Mike just stood there, stone-faced.

“Well,” Ben said, stepping away from Abshire’s finger, “I think I might as well be going.”

“Agreed,” Abshire said. “And nothing personal, Kincaid, but I don’t want to catch you around here anymore. Cards-on-the-table time? If we have something to give you, we’ll do it in court.”

“Be seeing you,” Ben said. He walked out of the cubicle.

Ben felt a bitter taste rising in his mouth. He needed to disappear before he said or did something he would regret, before his frustration overwhelmed him. Everything seemed increasingly hopeless. Everyone seemed determined to sign Christina up for a lethal injection, the sooner the better, and for all the wrong reasons. Abshire was the scariest one yet. He was determined to make his mark. He had to get a conviction, whatever the cost.

Which, in this case, was Christina.

B
EN TAPPED HIMSELF ON
the chest again. “C’mon, Giselle. Listen to me. Jump.”

Giselle was sprawled across the easy chair in the living room, peacefully licking herself clean. She glanced up at him, wriggled her nose, then returned to her bath.

“Giselle, this book Jones gave me says cats can be trained, just like dogs or dolphins or other smart animals. When I tap myself on the chest, I want you to jump into my arms and act like you’re glad to see me. Got it?”

Giselle didn’t even look up.

“C’mon, cat. I don’t have all day. I have to get ready for tomorrow’s hearing. So jump already.”

Giselle shifted herself languorously to the other side of the chair. She stretched, meowed, and otherwise went about her business, totally snubbing him.

“Giselle, pay attention. I’m talking to you. I’d like to see some cooperation.”

Giselle jumped down from her chair, strode into the kitchen, perched herself beside her food bowl, and stared at Ben.

“Forget it, Giselle. It’s not going to work that way.”

Giselle shook in a manner that Ben thought looked much like shoulder shrugging, except of course that cats don’t have shoulders. She plopped down beside her bowl and waited.

“I’m not kidding, Giselle. I’m not going to let some overstuffed feline boss me around.”

Giselle absently resumed her bath.

“All right already! I give in!” Ben threw down the book and stomped into the kitchen. “I’ll get the Feline’s Fancy.”

Giselle followed close on his heels. He opened a can of the gourmet cat food and set it on the floor. Giselle dove in nose first, acting as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Come to think of it, Ben thought, she hadn’t, although she appeared to have sufficient fat reserves to carry her through several lean periods.

“But don’t get the idea that this is your permanent entree,” Ben said, trying to reassert his tenuous role as master of the house. “Once this can is gone, it’s back to the cheap stuff.”

Giselle nibbled happily and ignored him entirely.

Ben heated a Pizza Pocket in the microwave and took it into his living room. There was not much there in the way of furnishings—a TV, an old piano, and pizza delivery boxes stacked practically to the ceiling. His only indulgence was the stereo system: Mitsubishi receiver and CD player, Boston Acoustic speakers. A throwback to his days as a music major, no doubt, and his dreams of glory.

Ben thought about playing the piano, but he knew he couldn’t compete with Joni and Jami’s Guns-N-Roses records reverberating on the other side of the paper-thin walls. He channel-surfed the TV—there was nothing worth watching. He listened to his CD of
Judy Garland—Live at Carnegie Hall.
An amazing recording, but he couldn’t focus.

He decided to turn in early. He would have to get up around six to prepare for the hearing anyway. He performed his nightly ablutions, pulled on some old gym shorts, and crawled into bed. He tried to clear his mind, to drop off to sleep, but found it impossible. Everything was racing through his head at once, demanding his attention. Mike, and Spud, and Abshire, the FBI agent from hell. The chickens. Derek. And Christina, her face smeared with black.

He couldn’t help but worry. Christina’s life was on the line. Even if she managed to avoid the Big Needle, this incident could destroy her life. He had to be thorough, had to consider every angle. If he let anything slip, the results could be tragic, even fatal. He would not let her down. The way he had Ellen.

There was a sharp stinging in his eyes. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t relax, couldn’t let go. His head was throbbing, He closed his eyes and tried to force the demons out of his head. It was no use. He rolled over and pulled the covers close.

He felt something wet and ticklish brush against his nose.

He opened his eyes. It was Giselle.

Ben raised the covers, and she crawled inside. She did her push-paw routine for a little while, then she settled into a nice warm spot in the small of his back and fell asleep.

So did Ben.

W
OLF ALMOST STEPPED INTO
the trap.

He shone his flashlight down toward the ground. There, partially hidden by leaves and brush, was a steel rabbit trap. He would have to be more careful. Even a rabbit trap could take off a toe or paralyze an ankle.

He poked a stick between the teethed blades and disarmed the mechanism. The drag chain was tied to a loose log—so the trapped animal couldn’t get any leverage and escape. Wolf untied the chain and slipped the trap free. He noted the number engraved on the upper blade indicating its tensile strength, a matter of great importance to trappers. If the trap was too strong, it would snap off the animal’s leg, or cut so deeply that the animal could (and would) chew his own leg off. Either way, the animal would escape, maimed but free. Until the next trapper came along.

Wolf tossed the disarmed trap info his backpack. Trapping wasn’t allowed, at least not in his forest. He realized that some people were poor and hungry, especially around here. It didn’t matter. They would have to think of something else. He managed to get by without killing anything. They could, too.

He completed his rounds, then headed back to the shack. The shack was probably originally built as a blind for hunters, but no hunter had used it for years, and none was likely to now. Wolf had posted a fake notice on the door alleging that the shack was the
PRIVATE PROPERTY OF THE BUREAU OF ALCOHOL, TOBACCO, AND FIREARMS—KEEP OUT!
He had designed the notice on the computer at the Creek Nation bingo parlor, and it looked pretty official, if he did say so himself. Not bad for a twelve-year-old.

He dialed the combination on the bicycle lock he used to secure the door, then stepped inside. The birds were still there. He kept them in cages he had fashioned from cardboard box lids and straightened coat hangers, both of which he found in the Dumpster behind Phoenix Cleaners. The birds beat their wings upon his arrival—glad to see him. Such excellent birds, he thought. Did you miss me?

The hawk, whom he called Katar, pressed his beak against the coat hanger barrier. If you really wanted to, you could get out of there. But why would you want to? It’s too soon. When it’s time, I’ll let you out. You know I will.

Gently, Wolf examined the bird’s bandage. The wound seemed to be healing nicely. He’d be well in no time, and back sailing the skies, hunting his prey.

The raven, whom he called Edgar, seemed equally pleased to see him. His makeshift splint was still in place, and he seemed stronger than he had during Wolf’s last visit. They said there was nothing they could do for a bird your size, Wolf remembered. They said you couldn’t take a splint. Said even if they put one on, you’d pick at it till it was useless. They were wrong. As they and people like them had been wrong on so many other occasions.

He peered through a small slit between two warped wall-boards. It was late, he realized, much later than he was supposed to be out. His mother would be furious. Assuming she noticed. Assuming she hadn’t stayed late at the bingo parlor, or gone home with that Cherokee badass from Tahlequah again. Still, he couldn’t risk one of her infrequent blasts of parental discipline. He had to remain free; the birds depended upon him.

He checked the other birds, made sure everyone had plenty to eat and drink, and locked the door behind him. He jogged toward the main road where he could pick up a ride. After a few minutes, though, he heard something—something that shouldn’t be there. The same noise he had heard a week ago last Tuesday. It was the sound of an engine, but not a car or a truck or a motorcycle.

The noise grew louder. It was coming closer. Wolf saw a moonshadow swoop across the ground and realized what it was and where it must be going. He ran as fast as he could, through the trees, kicking up leaves in every direction. He reached the main clearing, a large area where the trees had been burned away. It was the only place in the forest a plane could land.

He watched as a small black plane positioned itself for final descent. Wolf knew about planes. He knew almost everything about anything that flew. Even as dark as it was, he recognized the aircraft as a Cessna 210—small, light, quick, quiet—perfect for long-range flights. It was painted black for invisibility and for flying at a low altitude (under radar) with its navigation and identification lights turned off.

He watched as the plane soared into the clearing and eased itself to the ground. After a few moments, the pilot hopped out of the cockpit, a thick, well-muscled man in jeans and a windbreaker. He was packing; Wolf could tell. A few seconds later, another man rode up on a dirt bike, his long blond hair streaming behind him. There were rifles strapped to both sides of the bike, just below the seat. The two men spoke briefly. Wolf saw a sudden glint of light, then packages changed hands. He couldn’t tell what was being exchanged. To tell the truth, he didn’t care. As long as they weren’t hunters, they were outside his jurisdiction.

Wolf watched and waited. The man on the dirt bike rode away, and the pilot climbed back into his cockpit and took to the skies. After he was sure both were gone, Wolf jogged out to the place where the plane had landed. He thought he’d seen the pilot drop something.