Blind Justice

15

CHRISTINA ADMIRED THE LATEST additions to Ben’s office decor. “Are these eating chickens or laying chickens?”

“Is there a difference?” Ben asked.

“He’s a city boy,” Jones explained.

“Obviously.”

The three of them sat in Ben’s tiny private office, Ben and Christina on the sofa, Jones in the chair behind the desk. Jones held his steno pad at the ready, just in case something important was said.

Ben passed Christina his list of suspects. “Tell me everything you know about these three men.”

Christina examined the list. “Do you really think the murderer is one of these three?”

“Has to be. If Spud is telling the truth.”

“Spud?”

“Lombardi’s dipsomaniacal doorman.”

Christina appeared puzzled. “His desk plate says Holden Hatfield. How does he get—”

“Don’t ask.” He redirected her attention to the list.

“Well, of course I know Reynolds. And I’ve heard of DeCarlo—never met him though. Tony mentioned him a few times. They had some kind of business arrangement.”

“Did Lombardi like him?”

“Far from it. He was scared to death of him. Normally, Tony thought he was king of the world—serious folie de grandeur. But when it came to DeCarlo, Tony became a Nervous Nellie. DeCarlo sent him into fits of abject apoplexy.”

A not altogether unreasonable response, Ben thought. “But you don’t know what their business activities were?”

“Something to do with parrots, I assumed.”

“What about Clayton Langdell?”

“That’s the animal guy, right? I’ve seen him on television.” She searched her memory. “I know he was hassling Tony about the parrots. Thought Tony’s employees were trapping endangered species. Tony wasn’t too worried about it. ‘A bird is a bird is a bird.’ That’s what Tony used to say.”

“Very literary,” Ben replied. “I can see what attracted you to him.”

“So he wasn’t a philosophy major. Tony was a courteous, harmless man.”

“So you thought, anyway. I’m going to interview your boss and the other two as soon as possible.”

“What about Mrs. Lombardi, Tony’s widow?”

“What about her?”

“You need to check her out, too.”

“Why?”

“Just a hunch. Cherchez la femme.”

“Yeah—as long as you’re not the femme.”

The phone rang. Jones picked it up. “It’s the lab.”

Ben took the call. After a few minutes, he thanked the person on the other end and hung up. “Totally inconclusive,” he announced. “We waited too long to have the blood sample taken. Damn. Now I’m going to have to try to get access to the government’s test results.”

“The lab found nothing at all?”

“There were strong residual traces of alcohol in your bloodstream that could indicate you were drugged, perhaps with chloral hydrate, a sedative-hypnotic. It has an elimination half-life of four to twelve hours, depending upon the dosage, so it could easily put you out for six hours. On the other hand, the residual alcohol could just indicate that you were drinking. Which you were.”

“Not that much,” Christina insisted. “I hadn’t had more than a few sips before I was out.”

“But how do we prove that to the jury?” Ben glanced at his notes. “Chloral hydrate is a relatively common drug, something anyone with criminal connections could lay their hands on. It has a sickening sweet taste, but that would probably be masked by the rosé you were drinking. Oh, and it smells like perfume.”

Christina blinked. An errant thought skipped through her head, but it was gone before she could capture it.

“They did a urine test with a barbiturate screen, but it was inconclusive. Again, it came too late.”

“I know I didn’t drink enough to have alcohol show up in my blood almost forty-eight hours later,” Christina said.

“You know it and I know it, but so what? The bottom line is: the test doesn’t prove anything. We have no evidence.” He threw himself back on the sofa. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything else that happened Monday night?”

“My memory’s fuzzy. I went over to see Tony. He wasn’t home. I waited for him.”

“Spud says you seemed upset with Tony.”

“Well, I was a little put out about having to meet him at his apartment. It’s not even within the Tulsa city limits.”

“I see. Did you eat or drink anything in his apartment? Other than the rosé?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Jones, draft another motion. I want that rosé and the carafe tested.”

“Got it, Boss.”

“What else can you remember, Christina?”

“That’s about it. I watched TV awhile, drank, then conked out. I mean totally. And I had the weirdest dream. Really bizarro. Something about swimming and…Frosty the Snowman.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. Frosty the Snowman. You know”—she began to sing—“with a corncob pipe and two eyes made out of coal.”

“You’re lucky I’m a lawyer, not a psychiatrist.”

“Yeah. Anyway, you know the rest. I woke up and poked around like an idiot. The FBI goons came in, roughed me up, and hauled me off to the slammer.”

“Got all that, Jones?”

Jones nodded.

“If you think of anything else, write it down immediately, or tell Jones or me.”

“Okay.”

“I need some hard evidence before the hearing on Friday. With any luck, we can shut down this dog-and-pony show before it goes to trial.”

“Sounds good to me,” Christina said. “What should I do in the meantime?”

Ben considered her question. “I think you should either fry them, or collect their eggs, depending on which they are. Jones will know. He’s a country boy.”

Ben held the small brown package about a foot away from him. Although it was somewhat heavy, he preferred not to brace the weight against his body. The further away, the better.

He walked next door to the B & J Pawn Shop and peered through the iron bars. Excellent. Burris was in.

He pushed open the door, ringing the cowbell. The proprietor, Burris Judd (he was both the B and the J), was standing behind the counter.

Burris looked up. His face seemed to contract; his eyes became narrow slits. “What do you want?” The hostility was unmistakable.

Ben plopped his package down on the counter. “You’ll never guess what I got in the mail today, Burris.”

Burris scratched his stubbled chin. “How the hell would I know what you got in the mail?”

“Like I said, you’ll never guess.” Ben started to open the box.

Burris’s eyes lit up. “Now wait just a cotton pickin’ minute. What do you think you’re doin’?”

“You don’t want me to open this in your shop, do you? Kind of odd, since you don’t know what’s in it.”

“I’ve got customers to attend to, shyster. If you’ll excuse me.”

Ben scanned the small, otherwise empty pawn shop. “Looks like it’s just you and me from where I’m standing, Burris.” He pointed at the box and whispered. “It’s a gopher.”

“That a fact.”

“Yup. What’s worse, it’s a dead gopher.”

“Do tell.”

“Yup. Somebody shot it dead. With a Smith and Wesson .44. Can you imagine?”

“Nope.”

“What I really liked, Burris, was that it was sent Fourth Class—Book Rate, so it could decompose for at least two weeks before it arrived.”

“Don’t know what you’re botherin’ me for, Kincaid. Probably a gift from one of your low-life clients.”

“I have some strange clients, Burris, but I’m not aware of one with a gopher fetish. And I can’t imagine why a client would want to kill a gopher, much less send it to me.”

Burris rolled his tongue around in his mouth. “Them gophers is a pernicious breed. They’ve been raisin’ hell in my backyard.”

“So I’ve been informed. And that, coupled with your access to about five hundred or so Smith and Wessons right here in your shop and your predilection for juvenile terrorism, made me think it was just possible you were my mystery correspondent.”

“And what if I am?”

“Transporting dead gophers through the U.S. Mail is against federal law.”

“What law?”

“I don’t exactly know, but I’m confident that if I spent an hour or so in the library I could find one.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if you did take me to court. You ain’t shown much judgment about selecting your cases in the past.”

Ah, the truth at last. About three months earlier Ben had represented a deadbeat named Hal Utley who was being sued by Burris. Utley bought a used black-and-white television from Burris on credit, sold it, then stopped making his payments. Burris sued in Small Claims to collect the debt. Ben managed to salvage Utley’s case, principally because Burris had lost the paperwork and was charging a legally unconscionable rate of interest. It was his own fault, but of course Burris didn’t see it that way.

Ever since the day of the trial, Ben had been the victim of Burris’s adolescent assaults. Toilet paper, eggs. Shoe polish on Ben’s car. One day a confused handyman showed up to install a Jacuzzi in Ben’s office; another day eighteen pizzas were delivered within half an hour. The gopher gambit was the most creative stroke yet.

“Tell you what, Burris,” Ben said. “You answer some questions for me, and I’ll forget about this incident.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.”

“Ah, but this question falls squarely within your field of expertise.”

“And what might that be?”

“Smuggling.”

Burris pointed toward the door. “Git out of here, Kincaid.”

“Now calm down, Burris. I’m not suggesting that you’d be involved in anything illegal yourself. It’s just that a man in your profession, a man who deals in…valuable goods, is bound to hear about certain nefarious activities. Even if he doesn’t want to.”

“Like what?”

“Like Tony Lombardi’s smuggling pipeline.”

Burris didn’t reply.

“And Albert DeCarlo’s connection to Lombardi’s connection, whatever that was. What do you know about Lombardi?”

Burris gave him a long, stony stare. “And if I help you, you’ll forget about the gopher?” He paused. “Whoever did it.”

“Scout’s honor.”

Burris took a step back from the counter. “I do know that a lot of the boys who worked for Lombardi from time to time used to head out for Creek territory every other Monday night or so. Some of ’em’d come by here beforehand to gun up.”

“And you never asked what they needed guns for?”

Burris examined his fingernails. “Figgered they was goin’ rabbit huntin’.”

I’ll just bet you did. “When you say Creek territory, do you mean the tribal lands where Lombardi was killed?”

“No. Further north.” He unfolded a map of Oklahoma and pointed. “Out in the wild country. No roads, no houses. No witnesses.”

“Have any idea what they were doing out there?”

“Nope. Nor would I care to speculate.”

Ben realized he had extracted as much information as he was likely to get. “Burris, I appreciate your assistance. It was right neighborly of you.” He turned toward the door.

“Wait a goldarned minute,” Burris shouted behind him. “You forgot your package.”

Ben didn’t stop. “Gophers are like pigeons, Burris. They always come home to roost.”