Naked Justice (13 page)

Ben frowned. “How did you know?”

“Not hard. It’s written all over you. Plus, everyone knows Nichols Hills has the worst water supply. The best houses and the worst water. I’d drink mineral water, too, if I lived in Nichols Hills. Which I never will.” His eyes lowered. “Will you?”

Ben stuttered. “Th-that’s not my principal goal in life, no.”

Bullock’s head tilted to one side. “You’re not related to that Nichols Hills cardiologist, are you? Edward Kincaid. The Baptist Hospital hotshot. The one I always see in the society pages at some fund-raiser or the other.”

Ben was tempted to lie, but he knew it would be simple for Bullock to learn the truth. “That’s my father.”

“You get along well with dear old dad?”

Ben could feel himself blotching up, as he always did when an uncomfortable subject was broached. “We’ve had our differences.”

“Like?”

Ben shrugged. “He wasn’t too keen on my becoming a lawyer.”

Bullock made a small snorting noise. “Doctors never are. Lawyers frighten them. They consider them a threat to their God-given right to make tubs of money. And they like to tell themselves that all those lawsuits against them are brought by lawyers. It’s easier than acknowledging the reality that those lawsuits are brought by their patients. Maybe if they spent less time hating lawyers and more time caring about their patients, they wouldn’t have that problem.”

Ben didn’t say anything. He really wished Bullock would change the subject.

“I’m looking for an intern,” Bullock said suddenly.

“Oh, well.” Ben’s voice cracked. “That’s no problem. We have ten interns in the office this summer.”

“I need only one.” Bullock pushed himself to his feet. He was taller than Ben would have guessed—lankier, but still imposing. “I need a personal assistant. Someone to work exclusively with me, to help me cope with this mind-numbing caseload the DA has dropped in my lap.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Ben said. “I think any of the interns would be honored to work with you.”

Bullock leaned across his desk. “I was rather thinking you might like the job.”

Ben was flabbergasted, and it showed. “Me?” His hands escaped from under his legs and pressed themselves against his chest. “Why me?”

“Because of this.” Bullock picked up a thick document and tossed it across his desk. It was the trial brief Ben had written for a case styled State of Oklahoma v. Raymond Rogers Browning. Browning was a low-level drug dealer who’d been caught with a stash of junk in his parents’ basement. Ben had written the brief, and it had been filed virtually unchanged. “How long did you spend on that brief, Kincaid?”

Ben wondered whether he should be honest, but he knew he was a pathetic liar. “Two weeks. A little more.” Probably three times as long as most of his fellow interns spent on a single brief. “Mostly nights.”

“So you could keep up with your other work during the day.”

Ben nodded.

“I suspected as much.”

Ben leaned forward. “I’m sorry about this, Mr. Bullock. I’ll be more efficient in the future. I promise. It’s just that, this was a very special case.”

“I quite agree,” Bullock said quietly.

“You …” Ben stopped, surprised. “You do?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been trying to convince everyone in this office of the importance of this case. But no one else can see it. They say, it’s a first offense. Blow it off. Plead it down. Assign the brief to an intern. That’s what they say.”

“I know it’s Browning’s first offense,” Ben said. “At least, the first time he’s been caught. But the man was peddling drugs to schoolchildren.
Grade
school children. And he stashed the stuff in his parents’ house, obviously implicating them. And he lied to his parents about it.” Ben’s face lowered. “That’s just unforgivable.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“You do?”

“I do. A person who would do what this man has done could do anything. The man is a sociopath. He doesn’t care about anyone other than himself; he thinks he is the measure of the whole world. If we had pleaded him down, or let him off with time served, he’d be back in custody within months. The only difference would be that he’d have more time to ruin more children’s lives. I wasn’t willing to let that happen.” He stepped around his desk, closer to Ben. “And judging from this brief, you weren’t either.”

Ben didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say.

“Mr. Kincaid, let me lay it on the line for you. I still believe in good and bad, in black and white, in right and wrong. I believe the guilty should be punished. I believe the law enforcement community has an obligation to make the world a better place, a safer place. And I believe that with dedication and hard work, everyone can make a difference. Even lawyers.”

“So do I,” Ben said, so quietly it was barely audible.

“So what do you say, Kincaid?” He held out his hand. “Wanna work with me?”

“Yes,” Ben answered, clasping his hand. “Very much.”

Bullock shook vigorously and smiled. “Mr. Kincaid, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

And it was. For a while.

O
N HIS WAY TO
the office the next morning, Ben checked the newspapers in the stand at the corner. The Wallace Barrett case took the headline and filled the top half of the page in the Tulsa and Oklahoma City papers. It was respectably featured on page one in
The New York Times
and
The Wall Street Journal
and got a nice blue-lined box in
USA Today
. No doubt about it—the eyes of the world were upon them.

Ben bought one of the local papers and carried it back to his office. The banner headline read:
MAYOR SICK AT HEART ABOUT MURDERS.
Beneath that, a smaller headline read:
DA REP SAYS AIRTIGHT CASE READY FOR TRIAL.
In the center of the page, a photo showed Barrett in his baggy orange coveralls, hands cuffed behind his back, looking away from the camera, out the corner of narrowed eyes. No doubt about it; he looked like a criminal. Correction: they made him look like a criminal. It was clear to Ben that, despite the fact that there must’ve been hundreds of photos of Barrett in their morgue, the paper intentionally chose the one that made him look the most unsavory. The most guilty.

At the office, Jones was dealing with the news reporters that had been calling the office night and day. He was juggling two different phones, one in each ear. He was talking into one with another of his seemingly endless array of accents.

“Kincaid? No one by that name here, mate. No, we’re wallaby breeders. Cute furry things. Can I sign you up? You’re sure? Well, put another shrimp on the barbie for me.”

Ben rolled his eyes. At least as authentic as your average
Crocodile Dundee
movie. Before he could interrupt, Jones had started in on the other phone.

“Ahh, no, no, sahib. No Kincaid here. Pakistani Embassy. Yes, quite, quite certain. Can we perhaps be issuing a visa for your humble self?”

Ben sighed. When did dramatic arts become a secretarial skill?

After Jones hung up the phone, Ben collected Christina and Loving and started his pretrial strategy session and pep talk.

“I think Christina has already told you that I’ve decided to take the Wallace Barrett case. Now I know you might have misgivings about this, but it’s important that we work together as a team—everyone pulling in the same direction. Still, I’m not going to force you to do anything that twists your conscience. So if you want out, I understand, but you need to tell me now.”

Christina, Jones, and Loving remained stone-faced. No one spoke.

“I don’t hear anything,” Ben said. “Jones, what about you?”

Jones tapped the side of his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Boss. This dilemma raises serious moral and ethical issues. Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Is he paying us up front?”

“He’s giving us a sizable retainer, yes.”

Jones nodded. “I’m in.”

“Well, that was easy. Loving, what about you? I know you may not believe Barrett is innocent—”

“I do.”

“You do?”

“Oh, yeah. This whole thing stinks. It’s got government cover-up written all over it.”

“Well …”

“Are you sure Barrett is safe?”

“Safe? He’s in the county jail.”

“That may not be good enough.”

Ben folded his arms across his chest. “I’m … not quite sure I follow you.”

“This is just like what they did to Marilyn.”

“Uh, Marilyn?”

“Sure. First they discredited her, then they bumped her off.”

“I thought Marilyn died of a drug overdose.”

Loving guffawed. “Oh, right. You probably think Jim Morrison died of a heart attack.”

Ben decided not to respond. “Christina?”

“
Oui,
” she chirped.

Ben smiled, pleased and relieved. “All right, then, here’s what I want everyone to do. Jones, get on the Net and start digging up everything you can find on this case. I’d like complete backgrounds on our client, his wife, his kids, his immediate family. See if you can get me a breakdown on the most important political issues he’s supported, proposals, legislation, whatever. And especially anything that relates to his relationship with the city council or any other political enemies. I want to know anyone who might’ve had a motive for killing Barrett’s family, including the possibility that it was done to discredit Barrett himself. Remember, for once we have an actual honest-to-God paying client, so be thorough. Don’t leave any stone unturned.”

“Got it, Boss. Does Barrett have an e-mail address?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I know the Tulsa city offices have computers and are wired for e-mail. If I could read all the messages Barrett has received over the last few months, I might find some clues.”

Christina frowned. “But wouldn’t they be deleted by now?”

Jones raised a finger. “Actually, no. See, this is the mistake everyone makes. They think that once they’ve deleted an e-mail message from their computer, it’s gone. But it isn’t. The central computer system makes backup copies of all messages, and the copies remain in the system until they are physically erased and written over.”

“But could we use that?”

“Federal law allows employers to monitor employees’ e-mail, and e-mail can be used as evidence in civil lawsuits. I don’t see why this should be any different.”

“All right, see what you can do.” Ben turned toward his investigator. “Loving, I’d like you to focus on the city council angle. Get members’ names and run them by all your friends with connections to, um, not necessarily legal activities. If you get my drift.”

“Loud and clear.”

“And see if anybody knows anything about the possibility of a hit man coming to town. Someone who might’ve been hired to kill Barrett or his family or both, or who might’ve been lurking around Barrett’s neighborhood.”

“If it was a hit man, someone in town would know. The trick is findin’ the one who knows.”

“I have faith in you, Loving. If he’s out there, you’ll find him. And while you’re at it, check on Barrett’s wife. I understand she was originally from Crescent, Oklahoma. Do you know where that is?”

Loving smirked. “Of course I do, Skipper. What do you think, I live in a cave? Crescent is where Karen Silkwood lived. Before the Feds ran her off the road.”

“Ri-ight.”

“And what about me?” Christina asked. “I assume you have an assignment that will make full use of my numerous and varied talents.”

“Christina, I need you to help me get ready for trial. The preliminary hearing is a foregone conclusion; we know perfectly well Barrett will be bound over for trial. There’s more than sufficient evidence, and even if there wasn’t, given the current atmosphere in this town, a judge would have to be crazy to set him free. So we gear ourselves toward the trial.”

Ben stepped back and addressed all three of them. “We have to be ready for anything and everything. We’re going to be scrutinized like never before. We’re going to be under a gigantic media magnifying glass, with millions of people watching every move we make. I want you to hassle the prosecution mercilessly till they turn over all their files, all their evidence, all the potentially exculpatory evidence. Don’t let them get away with anything. I know this is going to be hard. We’re going to be under constant pressure. We’ve got to ignore all that and pull together and win this case. All right?”

Loving thrust his fist in the air. “All right! Let’s go, team!”

Christina and Jones followed his lead. “Go, team, go! Win, team, win!”

“Wait a minute,” Ben said. “This is serious.”

They didn’t stop. “Go, go, go! Win, win, win!”

“Hey!”

Christina laid a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “It’s no use. You know how stirred up Loving gets when you do these Knute Rocknesque pep talks.” Jones and Loving continued chanting in the background.

Ben grabbed his briefcase. “While you clowns finish your pep rally, I’m going to visit Mike.”

They continued unabated. “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate?
Be-e-e-e-n!
”

By the time they got to “Rah-rah, sish-boom-bah,” Ben was halfway to police headquarters.

B
EN PUSHED OPEN THE
door bearing the M. MORELLI nameplate and found his friend barking commands into the phone. “And I want it now, which means you’re already late!”

Ben took a seat and waited for Mike to complete his latest effort to increase efficiency through intimidation. At last Mike threw the receiver into the cradle with disgust. “Incompetents!” Mike bellowed. “Be glad you got out of government work, Ben. It doesn’t matter what department you’re in. It’s all just one big miasma of bureaucrats and bullshit. You know what Balzac said.”

“I do?”

“Bureaucracy is a giant mechanism operated by pygmies.”

“Right. I knew that.” Ben took the nearest seat. “You don’t seem very jolly this morning. Barrett case giving you headaches?”

“Like you wouldn’t—” Mike paused. “You’re taking his case, aren’t you?”

“Yup. Filed my entry of appearance and everything. How did you guess?”