Blind Justice

5

BEN AWOKE TO AN unusual sensation—scratchy and suffocating and…furry! His eyes opened. And all he could see was a vast expanse of cat hair.

He shot upright in his bed, coughing and sputtering and wiping cat hair out of his mouth. It was Giselle, snuggling against his face. She jumped into his lap and purred, obviously glad he was finally awake.

“Look, Giselle,” Ben said, “we’re going to have a few rules around here. Number one, my bed is off limits.” He picked her up and tossed her out the door. After a quick stop in the bathroom, he went into the kitchen and hunted for the cat food he’d bought the night before. She hadn’t eaten any of it last night, but he figured by now she would be hungry enough to come down off her pedestal and eat ordinary food like the rest of the household.

He poured the food onto a plate on the floor. Giselle scampered up to it, sniffed for a moment, then stalked away with a sour expression on her face.

“Look, cat,” Ben said, “I’m not giving in here. If I start giving you that expensive gourmet food, you’ll want it for the rest of your life.”

She pattered into the living room, not deigning to look back at him.

“You might as well give it up now, Giselle. I’m not going to let some cat run my life. This food is every bit as tasty as that expensive stuff, and much better for you.”

Giselle settled into Ben’s only easy chair without so much as looking back at him. If it was possible to get the cold shoulder treatment from a cat, Ben suspected this was pretty much what it would be like.

Fine. He wasn’t going hungry just because his cat wouldn’t eat. He opened the refrigerator and scanned the contents. Nothing there that would traditionally be called breakfast, but there was an unfinished carton of Vietnamese. Why not? Ri Le’s was the best carryout in Tulsa, even three days after purchase.

Just as he got the double-delight cashew chicken in the microwave, the phone rang. “Yeah?”

“Boss, this is Jones. Have you read the newspaper yet?”

“Not yet. You think I could train Giselle to bring the paper to me in the morning?”

“Boy, do you have a lot to learn about cats. Check out the front page, Boss. The FBI picked up a woman on a murder rap last night.”

“What do you expect me to do? Run over to the jailhouse and give her my business card? Look, Jones, I know you’re anxious to be paid—”

“This isn’t just any woman,” Jones said. “Take a look at the paper.”

Ben felt the short hairs on the back of his neck rise. Surely…

He put the phone down, walked to the front door, and retrieved the morning edition of the Tulsa World. There it was, right on the front page. The woman was arrested at the scene of the crime, crouched beside the corpse, and charged with the murder of a man the paper linked to organized crime and South American drugs.

The photograph accompanying the article removed all doubt. Red hair, freckled face, yellow leotards.

It was Christina.

Ben knew the way from the Federal Courthouse on Fourth and Denver to the holding cells so well he could walk it with his eyes closed. He’d been a frequent visitor during the past year, since he was unceremoniously dismissed from the world of high-tone, blue-chip corporate litigation at Raven, Tucker & Tubb. Unable to find a job with anyone else, Ben opened his own office, but he soon found that building a practice from scratch was hard work, especially since he had no contacts, no connections, and worst of all, no money. Ben refused to advertise; he considered that bad form—low class and lousy lawyering. He’d build his practice the proper way or not at all.

Ben had rented a small office on the North Side of downtown—not a great location, but the best he could afford. He put a listing in the Yellow Pages and opened shop. His practice consisted principally of debt collection, divorce, and penny-ante felonies. His clientele was increasing somewhat—word of mouth was spreading—but customarily one drunk driving case led only to another drunk driving case. His chances of breaking into the big time, of working for rich corporate entities that could be billed out the kazoo, seemed pretty slim.

Ben pushed open the bullet-proof glass door that led to the holding cells. Lester Boggs was standing guard in the outer office. Lester had thinning black hair and was more than a little overweight—too many years at desk jobs like this one. He looked silly in his extra-large sheriff’s uniform, with the slick black leather belt and holster. There really should be restrictions, Ben thought, on the people permitted to pack guns. He wondered if Lester had ever even held it, much less fired it.

Lester looked up from the black-and-white Watchman on his desk. “Morning, Kincaid.”

“Morning, Les.”

“You must be bailing out those two drunks we picked up on Osage territory last night.”

Ben steeled himself and tried to seem convincing. He hated lying, and he wasn’t particularly adept at it. “No. I’m here to see Christina McCall. I’m representing her.”

Lester’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I’m impressed.” He fumbled around in a desk drawer for his keys. “A drug-related homicide. You are coming up in the world.”

“She’s a friend. Any chance they’ll O.R. her? I brought my Bar card.”

“ ’Fraid not. You’ll have to make bail.”

Lester opened the clanging barred gate separating them from the holding cells. He led Ben down a long concrete corridor; his footsteps echoed as Lester brought his considerable weight down on his patent leather shoes. The derelicts and assorted sleazebags in the cells called out to Ben as he passed by; he tried to ignore them. As always, the cells were atrocious, nauseating. They reeked of booze, vomit, and human waste. Ben held his breath and tried not to be sick.

Lester stopped in front of the last cell on the left and opened the door. “Fifteen minutes.”

“I know the drill,” Ben replied.

“Hey, I’m not supposed to do this, but if you want, I could slip your card to those two drunks.”

“Thanks just the same. I’m kind of busy right now.” Ben stepped into the cell. The iron door clanged shut behind him.

She was lying on the bottom level of the metal bunk bed in the tiny six-by-eight-foot cell, beside the exposed sink and lidless toilet, the only decorative fixtures. Her eyes were shut; Ben couldn’t tell if she was asleep.

Gradually, her eyes opened. “Ben?” She sat upright and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “That you?”

“It’s me,” he said softly.

“Thank heaven.” She stood slowly, hobbled unevenly to the sink and splashed water onto her face.

She looked awful. She was still wearing the clothes she had been picked up in. Her yellow leotards had a huge run. Her long red hair was sticking out in every direction at once. Mascara was smeared all over the side of her face.

Ben sat on the edge of the lower bunk. “So, what have you been up to?”

Christina sat down on the opposite end of the bed. “Well, I haven’t killed anybody, if that’s what you want to know.”

“I assumed that much. How did you get into this mess?”

“It’s hard to explain. I told you I was going to meet Tony Lombardi. He was delayed by a business meeting.”

“And his business was running drugs.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Did you ever see anything suspicious?”

“No. Never. Tony told me he was in the import-export business.”

“At least he wasn’t a liar. Did you ever see any of his imported goods?”

“Yeah. Parrots.”

“Parrots?”

“Rare South American parrots. Supposed to be very valuable.”

“South America, huh? That figures.” Ben batted his lips with his pencil. “What happened last night?”

Christina pressed her fingers against her temples. “To be perfectly honest, Ben, I’m a little fuzzy on last night. I got a message telling me to meet Tony at his place. I did, but he wasn’t home yet. I turned on the TV, poured myself a drink, and waited. I must’ve fallen asleep. When I woke up, it was two o’clock in the morning, and Tony was lying on the floor with a huge chunk of his head missing.”

“That must’ve been a shock.”

“It…was.” She laughed softly. “And like the genius I am, I got up to investigate, rubbed my fingerprints all over everything, crouched over the body, and a nanosecond later the FBI showed up.”

“I don’t suppose you saved the message?”

“Nope. Tossed it in the trash. It’s long gone by now.”

“And the message was from Lombardi?”

“That’s what the receptionist said: But anyone could’ve called in and claimed to be him. She wouldn’t know.”

“I suppose they remembered to read you your rights.”

“Alas, yes.” Christina wiped her face with her sleeve. “Thanks for asking.”

“Were they…rough on you? I mean…”

Christina nodded. “They were okay. Under the circumstances. These guys were FBI, after all. They weren’t going to let some loose cannon get their case thrown out.” She paused; her eyes seemed to withdraw. “Didn’t care much for the strip search, though. And the delousing spray definitely did not make me feel minty fresh.”

Ben tried not to wince.

“So, counselor,” Christina said, “are you going to take my case?”

“What, me? You don’t want me to represent you.”

“Au contraire, mon ami. I do.”

“Christina, this is really…serious. I’m no criminal trial expert. Get Pat Williams. He’s the best.”

“I don’t want Pat Williams. I can’t afford Pat Williams. I want you.” Her voice quieted. “You’re the best. You just don’t know it yet.”

“Christina, I don’t think this is wise.”

“Are you saying you won’t do this one little thing for me?”

“Christina, these accusations—this case could be really…important.”

“If that’s your articulate way of reminding me that the death penalty is a possibility, believe me, Ben, I know.” She looked him square in the eyes. “I think it’s essential that my attorney believe I’m innocent. You know I didn’t kill Tony! I want you, Ben.”

“There are any number of experienced trial attorneys who would realize you’re innocent.”

Christina leaned forward and placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder. “I want more than that, Ben. I want to find out who really killed Tony. I want the SOB who set me up.”

Ben scrutinized her face. “All right,” he said finally. He stood up. “But I reserve the right to affiliate co-counsel if I get in over my head.”

“Fine.” She placed her hands behind her head and stretched out on the bed.

“I’ll try to get you out of this rathole as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’ll go by your apartment and pick up a change of clothes. Have you got a key?”

She looked at him pointedly. “I haven’t changed my locks, Ben.”

“Oh. Well. Fine then. I’ll also talk to Mike and see what he knows.”

“Good plan.”

“If you need anything, just send word through Lester. I’ll stay in touch.”

“Ben?”

“Yes?”

Christina sat up. She opened her mouth, started to say something, then said something else. “Merci beaucoup.”