Primary Justice (Ben Kincaid series Book 1) (15 page)

Ben’s eyes widened.

“All rise.”

The court bailiff stepped through the door and behind him, in a long black robe, was Judge Schmidt.

“You may be seated,” he intoned solemnly. Schmidt appeared to be in his early fifties. He had an orange-brown mustache the same color that his hair probably was back when he had hair.

“Stone Face is right,” Ben whispered to Christina as the bailiff began calling the docket. “What a humorless character.”

At that instant, Ben saw Derek sliding into the chair next to his at the plaintiff’s table. The hair on the right side of his head was sticking straight out and he wore a day’s growth of stubble. His clothes reeked of smoke. “So where’s the script?” he growled quietly.

“Right here.” Ben patted the papers on the table.

Derek glanced down. “Lots of highbrow literary allusions?”

“You bet.”

Derek quietly grunted his approval. He set his briefcase atop the table and raised the lid so as to cut off the judge’s view of his face.

Ben watched as Derek removed a plastic disposable razor from his briefcase and scraped it across his chin. That must sting, Ben thought, but Derek didn’t seem to notice. Derek licked his fingers, ran them through his hair twice and, after checking that no one was watching, discreetly positioned his toupee. As if by magic, every thing seemed to settle more or less into place. He removed two tablets from a smoked plastic pill bottle and popped them into his mouth. “Hangover remedy,” he murmured.

The bailiff finished calling the docket and formally announcing the appearances of the attorneys. He returned to the first case on the docket.

“Sanguine Enterprises vs. Martin Food Corp., doing business as Eggs ‘N’ Such, case number CJ-92-49235-S, is now called before this court. Are the parties present and ready?”

Attorneys on both sides announced that they were.

“Very well,” Judge Schmidt said in a heavy voice, as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “Opening statements, please. And be brief,” he added wearily.

“Thank you, Your Honor!” Derek rose, buttoned the top button of his jacket, and strode to the podium. He seemed calm and self-assured, not remotely as if he had been up all night, had a hangover, and was about to deliver a speech he’d never seen before.

“Your Honor, the motion for injunctive relief before the court today presents only a single issue, but it is an issue of great importance both to Sanguine Enterprises and to the business world in general. The question presented to this court, simply stated, is this: has Martin Foods, through the Tulsa restaurant known as Eggs ‘N’ Such, so appropriated and infringed upon the trade dress of the national chain of restaurants known as Eggs ‘N’ Stuff as to demand immediate injunctive relief to prevent inevitable irreparable harm?”

The judge stared stonily at Derek, not as if he were an oral advocate, but as if he were an unusual kind of bug.

“In this case, Your Honor, the only possible answer to that question is: yes.”

Ben had to admire Derek. His delivery was very smooth. Although he had never laid eyes on the script before, he did not seem dependent on it or tied to it. He managed to both read and establish eye contact with the judge.

“In every respect, be it color, design, or decor, interior or exterior, Eggs ‘N’ Such has intentionally mimicked Eggs ‘N’ Stuff for the express purpose of creating confusion amongst the Eggs ‘N’ Stuff clientele and unfairly diverting Eggs ‘N’ Stuff business. In the words of the great French existentialist—” He paused.

Ben realized there was a problem.

“—Albert Camus—” Derek got it entirely wrong. He pronounced the
t
in Albert and read Camus as if it were
came us
.

And then a miracle happened. The great Stone Face cracked. Schmidt tossed his head against the back of his chair and began to laugh, a loud, staccato clucking sound that reverberated throughout the keenly acoustic courtroom.

The judge rubbed his hand against his forehead. “Came us,” he murmured quietly, and then he began to laugh again.

Derek tried to continue, but stopped, realizing the futility of proceeding until the court had had its little joke. He turned and stared frigidly at Ben.

Ben received the chilling glance. He noticed Tidwell writing furiously in his notepad. Ben returned his attention to the table, shuffled some papers, and began formulating his future response. Inevitably, this was going to turn out to be all his fault.

“O
KAY, LET’S SEE WHAT
we’ve got here.”

Sally Zacharias removed the documents from their envelope, extracted a pocket calculator from her purse, and began to scrutinize the five columns of letters and numbers.

Ben, Christina, and Sally, Christina’s friend from the bookkeeping department, sat around a table at Angelo’s. Christina had suggested that since Sally wasn’t going to get paid for her services, she was at least entitled to a decent meal. Ben had given Sally the papers they found in Adams’s office without telling her the name of the corporation to which he believed they referred. She stared at the mysterious documents for about ten minutes while Ben and Christina chitchatted over wine and garlic bread.

Eventually Sally announced her conclusions. “These appear to be summarizations of the annual financial reports of your unnamed, but apparently very rich, corporation over a number of years.” She continued to scribble on her napkin and punch the buttons on her calculator. “I say
appear
because all the identifying labels in the left-hand column are either coded or abbreviated so that only an insider can read them. I can tell what the numbers are, but I can’t tell what categories they represent.”

“Why would anyone code their financial report?” Ben asked.

“It’s not that unusual, especially with major corporations. They’re always afraid of a hostile takeover or a shareholders’ derivative suit or the fall of civilization as we know it. They’re required to disclose some things to some people, but not all things to all people. Not unless the IRS or the SEC or the Justice Department forces them.” She flipped through the papers. “This compilation was clearly not intended for public perusal.”

“Is there anything in the report that anyone would want to hide?” Christina asked.

Sally reached for a slice of garlic bread and dipped it in marinara sauce. “Hard to say. There is something unusual about the way this is formatted. See for yourself.”

Ben leaned forward in an attempt to feign understanding. He hadn’t the slightest idea what she was talking about.

“There seem to be three separate sources of income, or perhaps types of income, calculated independently. Then, on the final pages, the totals from each of the three sections are combined. And down here is the grand total. Over thirty-two million bucks.”

Ben whistled. “Not bad.”

Sally continued. “Now I can’t be certain, but I’d be willing to bet that the figures in the middle right column represent the year’s expenditures, and that this lower number reflects what’s left over. In other words, how much money your mystery company made. Logically, this final page should indicate how those profits were distributed, but the numbers don’t jibe. I haven’t added it up but, oh, twenty thou and forty, fiftyish thou is about seventy, carry the five … let’s call it twenty. Twenty million in expenses.”

“That’s a lot of expenses,” Ben said.

Sally nodded. “We’ll make a typical deduction for the inevitable tax losses, although this company probably has shelters built into the corporate structure to take care of a lot of that. We’ll assume the impossible and suppose that no capital gains or depreciation skullduggery is going on. Subtract what appear to be line-item distributions and, oh, I’d say the difference is at least three million bucks. Just to give a ball-park figure.”

Ben was totally confused. “Three million what?”

“Three million dollars made but unaccounted for in expenditures or profits.”

“How could a mistake like that be made?” Ben asked. “Surely someone would notice.”

“So it would seem,” Christina said quietly.

“No one could divert three million dollars and get away with it.”

“That depends on how many people had access to this summary,” Sally said. “A lot can be hidden in annual reports and financial statements, especially if you keep your base financial data secret and can afford the cleverest accountants.”

She tossed the papers on the table. “To most people, an annual report is just fifty pages of financial gobbledy-gook. Everyone looks at the bottom line and assumes the rest is accurate. Someone
else
has checked it, right?” She took another bite of garlic bread;

“Can you tell if anyone did anything … improper?”

“Not unless you can break the code in the left-hand column. Now, if I knew what company we were talking about … well, sometimes I hear things. So come clean. Who are you doing this for?”

Ben took the papers and placed them in his briefcase. “For a little girl with a lousy memory.”

Sally’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t understand. What’s this all about?”

“I wish I knew,” Ben replied.

After lunch, Ben returned to his office and found a hand-delivered envelope waiting for him. Mike had sent over a copy of the MUD sheets from the phone company. The sheets listed every phone call made to and from Jonathan Adams’s home and office phones during the seventy-two hours preceding his death. Next to the numbers, some staff person had written the name of each caller or callee and, frequently, a brief identification of the person named. There were no surprises. Several calls to other Sanguine executives and employees. Two calls to his wife. Four calls to franchisees in Michigan and Illinois.

Ben studied the names identified as Sanguine personnel. He pulled the Sanguine personnel directory out of the Eggs ‘N’ Such file and matched names to positions. Two of the interoffice calls, one on the day of the murder and the other on the day before, caught Ben’s eye. The recipient of the calls was Harry Brancusci, a member of the Sanguine Enterprises accounting department.

Ben dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Harry Brancusci?”

A pause. “Who’s this?”

Ben told him who he was. “I wondered if you could answer some questions for me regarding some Sanguine financial documents.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Sanguine accounting records are confidential.” Did Brancusci’s voice seem to quiver, or was it just a bad connection? “As a public corporation, we have to be very careful about revealing financial information. The SEC regulations are very complex—”

“I understand that,” Ben interrupted. “I’m a lawyer. What’s more, I’m
your
lawyer. At Raven, Tucker & Tubb. We represent Sanguine Enterprises. Anything you tell me is protected by the attorney-client privilege.”

“Nonetheless,” Brancusci insisted, “I’m afraid I can’t provide that information unless I have express authorization from Mr. Sanguine himself. Shall I connect you with his office?”

Ben felt his blood pressure rising. “Can you explain why Sanguine’s annual expenditures and distributions don’t equal the total amount of gross profits?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brancusci snapped. “Sanguine has over a dozen accountants here in Tulsa alone, and I can assure you that every record is checked and double-checked—”

“Why were you talking to Jonathan Adams just before he was murdered?”

The voice on the other end broke. Brancusci sputtered for a moment, then said, “It was business. Ours. And none of yours.” The receiver on the other end of the line slammed down.

Ben sat motionless in his chair, listening to the dial tone. I blew it, he realized. I should have gone over there in person, so he couldn’t blow me off so easily. Now he knows everything I know. He’ll find some way to explain it away. And I’ll be right back where I was before.

Nowhere.

D
EREK STRODE INTO HIS
office and hung his jacket on the brass hanger behind the door.

“Sorry I’m late, everyone. I’ve been at the clinic playing Stump the Surgeons. Damned idiots haven’t the slightest idea what’s wrong with me.”

Ben and Christina sat in the chairs opposite Derek’s desk. Maggie was sitting on the sofa parallel to both.

“Let me get straight to the point.” Derek threw himself into the chair behind the desk. “I suppose you’ve all heard that we won the trade dress motion before Judge Schmidt.”

There was a general chorus of congratulation.

“We’ve already received a written order of judgment. Receiving a written order from Judge Schmidt so soon after oral argument is truly amazing. I thought to myself, Schmidt must have really taken my arguments to heart. So I decided to reexamine our brief, to see what might’ve persuaded Schmidt so effectively.”

Derek took a copy of the brief from his desk and began thumbing through the pages. “Upon rereading this brief, I found two misspelled words. One on page fourteen and another on page thirty-two.” Derek ripped out the offending pages and slid them across the desk and under Ben’s nose.

“It’s a forty-page brief, sir.”

“Yes, Kincaid,” Derek said, his voice rising, “and it has two typos in it! This brief has
my name
on it! This brief is now part of the
public record
! And it’s a public embarrassment. In the eyes of my peers—and, moreover, in the eyes of Judge Schmidt.” The tone of his voice became increasingly nasty. “What is Judge Schmidt going to think when he looks at this brief and sees—” He pointed at the word
interim
, misspelled with a
u
between the
i
and the
m
.

“Inter-ee-um?” Ben offered.

Derek glared at him. “This isn’t a joke, Kincaid. I hope you understand just how serious this is.” Derek sunk back in his chair. “You wrote this mess, Kincaid. When was the last time you proofread it?”

Ben thought back. “On the Monday before the hearing. Then I gave it to Christina for cite checking.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Passing the buck, Kincaid?”

“N-no, I was—I was just answering your question, sir.”

Derek turned his attention to Christina. “What’s your story, McCall?”