Silent Justice (14 page)

He knocked gently on the door. He heard soft footfalls on the carpet on the other side. Joni Singleton answered.

“Hi there, counselor,” she said. “Heard about you on the evening news.”

Ben groaned. “Don’t you know better than to watch that crap? It’ll rot your brain.”

“Too late.” When Ben had first moved into this boarding house, Joni, her twin sister, and their oversized family were already living in the room on the opposite side of the top floor. Back then, she was just a silly teenager with big hair and an equal-sized wild streak. Under Ben’s tutelage, she had matured into one of the most nurturing caregivers he had ever known, first with Ben’s nephew, Joey, and now with Mrs. Marmelstein. “Don’t worry, Ben. Everyone who knows you knows those accusations are, like, total nontruths.”

“That’s swell. But what about the other half a million people in the greater metropolitan area?”

“I’m sure you’ll prove it to them, too. Why is that skank saying all those nasty things?”

“To please his corporate bosses. It’s a tactic. He’s trying to get me to back off.”

“Wow. Harsh.”

“You could say that.”

“But you’re not going to back off, right?”

“Right. I’ve got a few tactics of my own.”

She grinned. “Razor.” She widened the door and motioned for him to come inside. “I’m glad you came by. I called earlier, but you weren’t home yet.”

A worry line creased Ben’s brow. “Is something wrong with Mrs. Marmelstein?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. She got out an old photo album earlier this evening, and she’s been acting strange ever since. She’s sitting in her bedroom, practically in the dark. Every time I try to talk to her, I get no results.”

That was disturbing. It was a shame, really, that Ben principally saw her at night, after work. Mrs. Marmelstein had a tendency to sundown; night was usually her least lucid period.

Gently, he pushed her bedroom door open and stepped inside.

“Paul?” She was sitting in an easy chair. The lamp beside her was the only source of illumination. “Paulie, is that you?”

He recognized her voice, although there was something odd, something different about it.

“It’s Ben. Ben Kincaid.”

“Paulie?” she repeated, her voice strange and breathless. “Paulie? I knew you’d come.”

He took a step toward her. He turned on the overhead light, trying to brighten up the gloom.

“See? It’s me. Ben. I’m sorry to be home so late. I’ve had … a busy day.”

Her eyes lit upon his face and, after several seconds had passed, the light of recognition finally came on. Her shoulders sagged and her whole face seemed to droop. “I thought … I …”

Her voice drifted off into the darkness. Ben saw she was wearing a flannel nightgown, despite the fact that it was quite warm out. A slipper on one foot; nothing on the other. Her face was pale, almost ashen. Her hands trembled noticeably. He had never seen her look so feeble.

The photo album was in her lap. But in her hand, she held a gold-framed photograph he had never seen before.

“Can I look at this?” She didn’t answer, but she didn’t resist, either. He took the photo and held it up to the light.

It was very old; he judged it to date back to the Fifties at least. It had sculpted edges and was black and white, although the years had begun to give it a sepia tone. In the center of the picture a man and woman huddled close together. They were young—early thirties at best.

And between them, they cradled a tiny baby.

Ben had never seen any of the three in the photo as such, but even as old as the picture was, he could tell the woman was a much earlier version of Mrs. Marmelstein. The man, he assumed, was her late husband.

Ben pointed to the baby. “Is this Paulie?”

Her eyes darted away. “Paulie will come back. I’m certain of it. I always was. Paulie will come back.”

“Who’s Paulie?”

“He will come back. You’ll see.”

Ben frowned. “Where is Paulie?”

“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. He’ll come back to me.”

Ben ran his fingers through some of the other photos in her lap. He found another old one with three subjects, the Marmelsteins and a boy with jet-black hair, maybe twelve years of age.

“Is this Paulie?” he asked.

She seemed startled by the name, or perhaps by Ben’s use of it. She glanced at the picture. “That was a long time ago.”

“How long?”

She looked up abruptly. “Paulie’s coming back to me, you know.”

“He is?”

“Oh, yes. He’s coming. I’m certain of it.”

“When is he coming?”

“I don’t know when exactly. But I know he’s coming. I know it.”

Ben gazed into her ashen face, then made a silent prayer that Paulie hurried.

He placed the photos on the end table and quietly left the room. Seeing her like this made his heart ache. For all her foibles, Mrs. Marmelstein had always been such a sweet, gentle person. He hated seeing time rob her of her personality, her sense of self, all the things that made her the special person she was.

And what was this business about Paulie? He’d never heard her mention a Paulie before. And she’d certainly never given the slightest indication that she had any children.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked Joni.

“Since we finished dinner. Normally, she eats and goes straight to sleep. But tonight, for some reason, she was determined to get out that photo album. And she’s been in there muttering to no one ever since.”

“Do you know anything about this Paulie?”

“Sorry. Clueless.”

“Joni …” He was trying to think of a painless way to address this. “Mrs. Marmelstein … doesn’t look so good.”

Joni nodded her head somberly.

“Did you go with her to the doctor this week?”

Again she nodded.

“And?”

Joni gently placed her hand on his shoulder. “She’s failing, Ben.”

His eyes darted down toward the floor. “That’s what I thought.”

C
HRISTINA MET BEN AT
the door the moment he arrived at work.

“It’s official,” she said, waving a thin document in front of his face. “We’re at war.”

Ben snatched the paper from her hands. “As if I didn’t know that already.” He threw his briefcase down on his desk and gave the pleading a quick onceover. “They’ve filed their Answer? Already? Defendants usually let a month pass before they get around to that.”

“It came accompanied by a Motion to Dismiss.”

“That son of a bitch really did it.”

“He did.” She passed him the motion. “It’s a tactic, Ben. That’s all it is.”

He did not appear appeased. “When’s the hearing?”

She drew in her breath. She knew he wasn’t going to like this part. “Three o"clock. This afternoon.”

“This afternoon? What’s the big damn hurry?”

“To read their motion, you’d think all of Western civilization was teetering on the brink.”

“Who’d we draw?”

“Judge Perry.”

“Perry! Jiminy Christmas!” Ben pounded his forehead. “You’re full of good news today, aren’t you?”

Christina held up her hands. “Hey, don’t kill the messenger.”

“I can’t believe we drew Perry. The last thing on earth this case needs is a Reagan appointee. And not one renowned for his big heart, either.” This was a critical blow. They needed a sympathetic ear, someone who would be moved by his clients" plight and perhaps even would cut them some slack occasionally as a result. But they didn’t get it. And like it or not, this judge would be with them till the bitter end of the case. “I’m still surprised they went ahead and filed their Answer.”

“I think they wanted to strike quickly while the story was still fresh and the press was still reporting each new development. Check out the section labeled General Overview.”

Ben did as she instructed. It read:

While the H. P. Blaylock Industrial Machinery Corporation regrets the loss of children’s lives and sympathizes with the grief of their parents, Blaylock nonetheless states that it categorically and without exception is without fault or blame with regard to those deaths. H. E Blaylock has always maintained and rigorously enforced a systematic policy for the disposal of its industrial waste, which has not at any time involved removal of such waste to any place where it could even conceivably contaminate the water supply of Blackwood or of any other community.

“Well, that just about covers it, doesn’t it?”

“I have a question,” Christina said, “as a struggling law student who can’t possibly understand all the nuances of big-time litigation. What exactly is the purpose of a General Overview?”

“There isn’t one,” Ben said. “At least not in terms of the pleading. That section was clearly added for the press. They know the reporters will pick up copies of the Answer at the courthouse. This was designed to give the fifth estate a succinct, quotable quote for the front page.”

He flipped to the second page, where the actual pleading began. The purpose of an Answer was supposed to be a paragraph-by-paragraph response to the allegations contained in the plaintiffs" Complaint. Here, the defendants managed to deny everything without actually saying anything:

“With regard to the allegations contained in Paragraph Four of Plaintiffs" Complaint, Defendant H. P. Blaylock either denies them or is without sufficient information to form a belief as to the truth of the allegations and therefore denies them.”

A quick scan told Ben that most of the Answer repeated this unenlightening language. Only the number of the paragraph referenced changed.

“Not very helpful, is it?” Christina said.

“Answers rarely are,” Ben replied. “I wonder why courts require us to go through these hoops anymore, since they almost never convey any useful information.”

“You mean this isn’t unusual?”

“Unfortunately, no. Typical. This is time-tested language.”

“Because defendants like to play it safe?”

“Actually, I think it’s mostly laziness. You can draft this kind of response without doing the least bit of investigation. A lawyer can draft an Answer like this without even calling his client up on the phone. Heck, his secretary could probably draft this, without knowing a thing about the case. Just plug the names into the word processor and recopy it over and over.” He rifled through the pages. “Is there anything useful in here?”

“Check out the last page.”

Ben found one lone paragraph that broke the pattern. Christina had marked it with yellow highlighter:

H. P. Blaylock admits that the land behind its plant in the Blackwood area consists in part of forests and marshlands. Although this land has occasionally been used for the temporary storage of industrial equipment and drums, the contents of the drums have never been permitted to escape and no industrial waste materials have ever come into contact with the ground, ravine, or any groundwater stream.

Ben looked up. “Now that’s interesting.”

“I thought so. Why did they suddenly become so verbose?”

“Well, they had to say something. They could hardly claim that they "lacked information sufficient" to know what was going on in their own backyard. Did we say anything in our Complaint about a ravine?” Christina shook her head. “I didn’t know there was one.”

“And why single out drums? That’s hardly the only way to transport waste.”

“It must be the one they used.”

“And they must think we know that. They’re trying to suggest that the mere presence of drums on the land—to which there are probably witnesses—doesn’t prove contamination. They’re drawing the line at the point they think we can’t prove—that the drums leaked.”

“And what does that tell you?”

Ben placed a finger thoughtfully against his lips. “That they probably did.”

Something about being in the presence of an ungodly attractive woman wearing a bikini put a man at an immediate disadvantage, Mike reflected, as Helen Grace stepped out of the pool, beads of water cascading down the sleek curves of her nearly naked body. Didn’t matter how tough the man was. Didn’t matter how attractive the man was. Didn’t matter who he was or what he was doing. When a woman built like that stood there in as little as the law would allow, exuding sexuality from every exposed pore, she had the upper hand. And anything else she wanted.

Which made Mike more than a little uncomfortable. When he conducted witness examinations, he was accustomed to running the show. It wasn’t ego; it was necessity. He almost never got to talk to anyone who actually wanted to talk to him. If he wasn’t in a position to put on a little pressure, he would probably come up with a great big goose egg.

He handed the woman a towel, careful to keep his eyes up where they belonged. “Ms. Grace?”

“That’s me. Are you the detective?”

“Guilty as charged.”

She dabbed the towel against her body, drying herself. “It’s such a nice day, I thought I’d take a little swim while I waited for you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” And you wouldn’t mind if I took a few pictures, would you? Just to show the boys back at the office?

“Did you have any trouble getting in?”

“Not to speak of.” Which was a bit of an understatement. Southern Hills was one of the most exclusive country clubs in Tulsa. Visits from cops were neither frequent nor welcome. He’d had to bellow and bluster for ten minutes before he got in.

“I’m glad. Personally, I find all the elitism and exclusivity most annoying.”

Really. Then why did you ask me to meet you here? “Is there someplace we could talk?”

“Sure.” She led him to a small cabana near the north end of the pool. It was air-conditioned and, as he soon saw, equipped with a television, stereo system, and a stocked bar. Well, he supposed, it was important to have a nice place to change into your swim trunks.

She started to close the door, but he stopped her. “Leave it open a crack. If you don’t mind.”

“I … thought you’d want some privacy.”

“This is private enough. We’ll talk quietly.” He didn’t want to be paranoid, but with a woman like this, you couldn’t be too careful. If the interview didn’t go well, he didn’t want any wild stories starting up about what went on while the two of them were alone in the cabana. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about Harvey Pendergast.”