Blind Justice

16

BEN ENTERED THE OFFICE lobby of Swayze & Reynolds on the tenth floor of the Oneok Building at two 6 o’ clock sharp and introduced himself to the receptionist, an attractive young woman seated behind a large word-processing terminal.

“Please have a seat,” she said, smiling. “I’ll tell Mr. Reynolds you’re here.”

Ben sat. He watched the receptionist whisper into her intercom. Then she said aloud, “Mr. Reynolds is in conference at the moment, but he’ll be out as soon as he can.”

Liar, Ben thought. He’s going to make me wait just to show what a bigshot he is. Oh well, it’s not the receptionist’s fault. He smiled back.

He scrutinized the exquisitely color-coordinated office. The walls were covered with an ornate burnished wallpaper, muted red with gold flecks, and waist-high wainscoting. Heavy curtains on the windows. Every little expensive doodad and geegaw seemed to be exactly placed. Against the far wall, Ben saw a cabinet displaying several eye-catching objets d’art. He noticed a particularly striking crystal vase, probably Lalique, beside a Baccarat shell sculpture. No doubt about it—this office reeked of money.

Ben continued scanning the room. After a moment, his eyes alighted on the receptionist. She’s looking at me! Ben suddenly realized.

“Can I get you something?” the receptionist asked, still smiling.

“Uh, no,” Ben said.

“All right. But if there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, just let me know.” She reached forward for a pencil on the far end of her desk, giving Ben a generous view of her generous cleavage.

This woman is coming on to me! Ben thought, with a sudden flash of happiness and horror. He forced himself to his feet and walked to her desk. He felt his face flushing red. “So…have you been working for Mr. Reynolds long?” Ben could have kicked himself. What lame small talk!

“I just started today,” she said. She had a luminous smile. “Mr. Reynolds was kind enough to give me a job when I needed one.”

“I see. Tell me…” He searched her desk for a name plate.

“Marjorie,” she said.

“Marjorie. Of course. Tell me, Marjorie, do you ever…go to movies or anything like that?”

A tiny wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. “Sure.” She giggled. “I love movies. Why?”

“Well, I just…” He cleared his throat. “I thought that perhaps you and I—”

A deep voice interrupted Ben’s badinage. “Mr. Kincaid.”

Ben turned and saw Quinn Reynolds standing in the hallway.

“Mr. Reynolds,” Marjorie said, “he’s your two o’ clock.” She rose to her full height.

Ben almost gasped. Marjorie was pregnant, very pregnant. He would’ve guessed ten months, if he hadn’t known that was biologically impossible. She looked perfectly normal from the cleavage up, but once she stood…

“Is something wrong, Mr. Kincaid?” Reynolds asked.

“No, no, no,” Ben said, trying to bring some coherency to his whalelike sputtering. “I just—it was—” He took a deep breath. “Could we go somewhere and talk?”

“Certainly.” Reynolds gestured for Ben to follow him down the long wainscotted hallway.

“I…assume your visit concerns the Simmons case.” Reynolds spoke in a slow, pained manner. Perhaps it was just too terribly hard for him to commune with the commonfolk. “Was there a…problem with the settlement agreement?”

“No. I came to ask you a few questions.”

Reynolds looked at him expressionlessly. “Questions? Hmm.” Listening to Reynolds was like being stuck in traffic. “What…kind of questions?”

“I was curious why you went to Tony Lombardi’s apartment Monday night.”

Even given his slow-as-molasses delivery, Reynolds’s surprise was evident. “I—mmm.” He folded his arms across his chest, flashing his French cuffs, studded links, and Rolex watch.

“You’re not denying it, are you?”

“No. Why should I? I was just…surprised that you were aware of the fact. My wife suggested that something like this could happen. I should have listened to her; she’s the judge.”

Ben wondered how many times in the course of the average conversation Reynolds managed to mention that his wife sat on the Supreme Court. “You are aware that Mr. Lombardi was killed Monday night, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes.” Reynolds unfolded his arms and pressed a finger against his long, thin face. “But why does that concern you, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Didn’t Marjorie tell you? I’m representing your employee, Christina McCall.”

“I see.” Now that Reynolds had the key information, that Ben was handling one of those nasty criminal things, he was able to put Ben into perspective.

Ben glanced at the chairs surrounding a round conference table. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“How inhospitable of me,” Reynolds said, without much conviction. “Please.” He gestured toward the table.

Reynolds apparently eschewed the traditional desk, with its hierarchal I’m-behind-the-desk, you’re-not implications. He favored the open forum feel of a large round table. How very modern of him, Ben mused. The table was bare, except for a stained glass-paneled lamp and an art deco clock. As he sat, Ben glanced at the feet of the mahogany chairs. He had read somewhere that clawed feet were the indicia of high-quality antique furniture. These chairs qualified.

“I see you’ve noticed the chairs,” Reynolds said. “They’re Chippendale, nineteenth century.” He sighed. “Many people think they’re Louis the Fourteenths, not that the two are at all alike. I much prefer these. French furniture is so…” He waved his hand limply in the air, then shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you know.”

Ben didn’t, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “Is that a Tiffany lamp?”

“Oh yes,” Reynolds said wearily. “Almost required, isn’t it? The clock is an Erte design. My wife commutes to Oklahoma City on a regular basis…when the Court is in session…and she always takes the opportunity to shop the antique dealers.”

That’s two, Ben thought. “Can you tell me what your relationship with Mr. Lombardi is?”

“Was, don’t you mean?”

“Was,” Ben corrected.

“I acted as his attorney.”

“I know you handled that automobile accident litigation. Did you draft his will?”

Reynolds nodded.

“Care to tell me what’s in it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.”

“Not even a hint?”

“I can tell you this. I’m the executor of his estate.”

“That means you’ll be receiving all his financial and business records.”

“I already have them. I acted as his …business adviser in many respects. When he was alive.”

“What can you tell me about Lombardi’s business?”

“What…would you like to know?”

“Almost anything would be helpful. I understand he imported parrots?”

“Not exclusively parrots. Many exotic birds.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a business.”

“How naïve of you. The retail bird business is worth $300 million in gross sales per year, with a sixty percent profit margin at every level. Tony did handsomely by it. There’s quite a demand for rare birds.”

“Did you ever see any of these alleged parrots?”

Reynolds stared at Ben as if he were utterly brainless. “Did you not notice?”

“Notice what?”

“My bird, of course. Behind you.”

Ben glanced over his shoulder. There were several more antiques in that corner of the office, but even more noticeable was the large blue-and-green parrot in a small cage.

“You have a parrot,” Ben said.

“Obviously. It was a gift from Tony. An Imperial Amazon. A. imperialis. The emperor of parrots. Very rare.” Reynolds almost smiled. “He said that nothing but the rarest of birds could possibly fit in my office.”

Ben took a closer look. The parrot’s head, neck, and abdomen were purplish blue; its crown feathers were dark green with black edges. Its tail was a deep reddish brown; the irises of its eyes were orange. The parrot was at least nineteen or twenty inches in length. “What’s his name?”

Reynolds’s eyes tossed about in their sockets. “It’s a her.”

“Okay, what’s her name?”

“I—” He sighed. “It was my wife’s idea. She insisted. She named her for a fellow member of the court. Polly.” He frowned.

“Polly?”

Reynolds appeared embarrassed. “I’m afraid so.”

Ben smiled, pleased by this breathtaking lack of creativity. “Does Polly speak?”

“Only when spoken to,” Reynolds answered. “The ideal pet.”

“ Make her say something.”

“I prefer not to. We don’t do tricks.”

“Just once?”

“Oh, very well.” He turned toward the parrot. “Polly, introduce me.”

The parrot spoke in a sharp nasal tone. “Quinn Reynolds,” it squawked. “Attorney-at-law.”

How unbearably egocentric. Reynolds had turned his pet into the doorman. “Does she ever get out of the cage?”

“Heavens, no.” Reynolds shuddered. “Letting a bird fly around the office. What a mess. You know, parrots, like all birds…” He cleared his throat. “Are incontinent.”

Lawyers learn the most fascinating things. “You never let her out of the cage?”

Reynolds shifted his weight. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Kincaid, I have several legal matters that require my attention.…”

“Just one more question. What happened at Lombardi’s apartment Monday night?”

Reynolds shrugged listlessly. “Absolutely nothing. The doorman let me in; I rode the elevator to Tony’s apartment; I knocked on the door. After a few moments, I surmised that he was not in. So I left.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Why did you go?”

“I had a business matter to discuss.”

“What kind of business matter?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

“The police will ask you the same question.”

“Then I shall answer it,” Reynolds replied. “But you are not the police, are you?”

Ben felt his fists tighten. Reynolds’s air of passive serenity was making his skin crawl. “I’d like to look at Lombardi’s business records.”

“I’m afraid that is impossible.”

“Mr. Reynolds, it may be very important to Christina’s case.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Mr. Reynolds, I have a responsibility to my client—”

“As do I, Mr. Kincaid.” For the first time, Reynolds’s voice increased minutely, both in volume and speed. “Those documents are strictly confidential. At least until we’ve completed probate. Then you may take the matter up with Tony’s heirs.”

“That could take months!”

“I’m afraid that will likely be the case. I’m sorry.”

His voice, Ben thought, gave little indication of either fear or sorrow. “Mr. Reynolds, think about Christina, your own legal assistant. This could be a matter of life or death for her.”

“Mr. Kincaid,” Reynolds said, “there’s nothing you can do to change my mind.”

“I can subpoena those records.”

“You can try. But you will have to convince the judge that the business records are somehow relevant to your murder case, and that may be rather difficult.”

Yeah. Especially with the judge I drew.

“And of course,” Reynolds continued, “your subpoena will put the federal district court judge in conflict with the state probate court judge. Those interjudicial disputes are always messy…and extremely time consuming.”

I get the message, jerk. I might as well lay off, because I don’t have that much time. The government has already filed a complaint and the date for the preliminary hearing was set; under the Speedy Trial Act, the countdown to Christina’s trial had already begun. A lawyer of Reynolds’s ilk could file motions and countersuits and cause all manner of delays for a good deal longer than it would take Moltke to get Christina into the courtroom. While Reynolds sat around playing lawyer games, Christina would go to trial, on schedule.

Whether she had any defense or not.

Christina sat in her office staring at the walls. The cardboard boxes had multiplied while she was gone—whether by spontaneous generation or inbreeding, she wasn’t sure. But they totally covered all four walls now; there wasn’t even a space where she could pretend there was a window. She had never liked this claustrophobic decor, but now it provided a distinct reminder of a certain six by-eight-foot cell she had no desire to ever see again in her life.

She was distracted from her interior decorating reverie by a timid knock. Alf Robins was standing in the doorway. “What’s up, Alf? Come by to see if the slammer changed me?”

Alf stepped cautiously into the office. “I…er…need to discuss something with you.”

“Well, don’t be shy. I live to serve. Have a seat.”

Alf sat in the chair opposite her desk. He was one of five attorneys in the firm for whom Christina worked. Alf was the youngest of them by far; he had just graduated from TU law school the previous May. “I’ve been asked to…well, to deliver a message.”

“Oh?”

Alf fiddled with his fingers. “I want you to know this isn’t my idea. I’m just the messenger.”

Christina definitely didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s it all about, Alfie? Are you here to tell me the firm isn’t going to pay me for the time I was in jail? If so, don’t sweat it—I think that’s fair. The firm’s disability policy probably doesn’t cover incarceration.”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit…more than that,” Alf said. He was beginning to stutter, and he looked as if he sincerely wished he was anywhere other than where he was. “It seems the firm has decided to let you go.”

Christina stared back at him. “Me? You’re kidding.”

“I wouldn’t kid about something like that.”

“But why? I’ve kept my billable hours up. I’m the most experienced legal assistant in the firm. Every litigator here has been trying to get me on his team.”

“I know,” Alf said, hugging his knees. “I know.”

“Then why the hell am I being fired?”

“I believe the firm feels there could be adverse publicity resulting from having—” He looked down at the floor. “—an accused murderess on the payroll.”

Christina leaped out of her chair. “But I didn’t do it!”

Alf held his hands in front of himself, as if to hold her back. “I’m sure…I mean, I know—”

Christina slapped his hands away. “Don’t be such a wimp, Alf. I’m not going to hurt you.” She widened her eyes and held her hands like claws. “We murderesses only strike at night, when the moon is full.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” Alf said hastily. “The decision was made by the Executive Committee by consensus.”

“And they sent you, the lowest man on the totem pole, to give me the bad news. What a bunch of cowards.”

“Believe me, Christina, I didn’t want to do this.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But you didn’t want to lose your job either, huh? Who gave the order? Reynolds?”

Alf cleared his throat. “I’m…er, not altogether sure I should say.”

“As I thought. Reynolds.” She strode toward the door. “Well, by God, I’m not leaving without giving him a piece of my mind!”

“Christina, wait!”

It was too late. Christina was already down the hall and around the corridor. She arrived at Reynolds’s office just as he was escorting Ben out.

“Ben!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Reynolds and I were having a little chat,” Ben said succinctly.

“Yeah?” She glared at Reynolds. “Well, I’m going to have a little chat with you too, you miserable pantywaist.”

Reynolds fingered his shirt collar. “I believe you should, uh, be speaking to Mr. Robins.”

“I’m not going to waste my time with your toadies, Reynolds. I’m going straight to the horse’s butt!”

“What’s this all about?” Ben asked.

“This miserable SOB fired me! Can you believe it?”

Ben faced Reynolds. “Is this true?”

Reynolds shrugged uncomfortably. “The economy being what it is…Cutbacks became necessary.…”

“Bull,” Christina said. “He’s cutting me loose because he’s afraid of adverse publicity. He’s convicting me before the trial begins!”

“I assure you the firm will provide a full two-week severance package—”

“I ought to sever you from your head!” Christina shouted. “I’m the best legal assistant you ever had!”

Reynolds glanced up and down the hallway. A crowd was beginning to gather. “Perhaps we should step into my office—”

“I’d sooner die, you miserable worm,” Christina said. “How can you live with yourself, anyway?”

Ben grabbed Christina’s arm. “Christina, perhaps you should calm down.…”

“Why should I? I’ve never been fired in my entire life. And now this cretin puts a permanent stain on my record!”

Ben stepped between Christina and Reynolds. “Mr. Reynolds, I would ask you, as one attorney to another, to reconsider your decision. The prosecuting attorney will almost certainly use this against us. He’ll make sure the jury knows Christina is unemployed and will either suggest that she is a shiftless loser or that the people who know her best believe she is guilty.”

“The decision is out of my hands.”

“Perhaps you could retain her temporarily on a contract basis. After all, this incident did arise to some degree as a result of Christina’s work for your firm.”

“That’s just the difficulty,” Reynolds said. “She’s been accused of killing a client, someone the firm owes a duty of zealous loyalty. It was an unpleasant decision, but the members of the Executive Committee have spoken.”

“The members of the Executive Committee are puppets,” Christina said. “They do what you tell them to do.”

Reynolds stiffened. “I’m going to have to ask you both to leave.”

Christina grabbed his lapel. “Not until you explain to me—”

“If you don’t,” Reynolds continued, “I will call security. Would you like charges for trespassing and assault to add to your collection?”

“Come on, Christina,” Ben said, tugging her arm. “This isn’t doing you any good. Let’s get out of here.”

“Fine.” Christina stomped toward the lobby. “Make sure my check gets sent to my home address,” she shouted back at Reynolds. “If it isn’t, I’ll come back for one of your Louis the Fourteenths!”

Happily, Ben managed to prevent her from kicking any priceless antiques on her way out.

Shortly after Ben and Christina left, Reynolds punched the button on his intercom phone.

“Marjorie?”

“Yes, Mr. Reynolds.”

“Can you requisition some office equipment from Central Supply? Without filling out the usual dreary forms?”

“Well…” She thought for a moment. “I can try.”

“I would appreciate it. I don’t wish to leave a written record if I can avoid it. It might, um, be accidentally produced during discovery.”

“I can probably bring it off,” she said cheerily. “Those guys in Central Supply can’t resist a pregnant woman. What do you need?”

“A paper shredder,” he said, slowly and carefully. “A large one. Industrial strength.”