Blind Justice

31

“HERE’S YOUR FOURTEENTH MOTION for a continuance,” Jones said, as he tossed the pleading to Ben. “Shall I draft the judge’s denial also?”

“What a wisenheimer.” Ben scanned the brief, then passed it back to Jones. “What about our petition to the Tenth Circuit for emergency relief?”

“Denied. Premature.”

Ben sighed. It was hardly surprising news, but he couldn’t help but hope. “I’m about at the end of my rope. Is there anything else we can try that I haven’t thought of yet?”

“I don’t think so, Boss. That trial is gonna start Tuesday morning whether you want it to or not. What about hiring a shadow jury?”

“Shadow juries are for big firms with lots of money to spend and a client to impress. No shadow jury could ever duplicate the thought processes of a real jury, no matter how many demographic studies are conducted. You just have to pay attention during the trial and do the best you can with the jury you draw.” He ticked through his mental checklist. “Have you made any progress with the business records we got from Reynolds’s office?”

“Yeah.” Jones pointed to a tall stack of papers. “These are my notes and work papers. I’ve been backward and forward over these records a dozen times. I can tell you what they say, but not what they mean. I need something to compare and contrast these figures with.”

“Something like Albert DeCarlo’s business records of the same transactions.”

“Exactly. Then I could put the two together, see what matches and what doesn’t. And if there were discrepancies, say, large infusions of cash that appeared in one set of records but not in the other—”

“We’d be onto something. I know. Have you heard from Loving by any chance?”

“Not since he took off the other day.”

“I was afraid of that. I hope he’s not in trouble. Why don’t you see if you can find him?”

“Why me? You’re the Skipper.”

“Yeah, yeah, just do it. Seen Christina this morning yet?”

“She called.”

“Did you tell her about the pretrial hearing?”

Jones nodded.

“How did she take it?”

“Very calmly. But Boss,” he added, “you know she’s scared to death.”

“I know,” Ben said quietly.

The phone rang; Jones picked it up. He appeared puzzled for a moment, then he passed the receiver to Ben. “I think this is for you.”

Ben took the phone. “Ben Kincaid here.”

“Yeah? This is Lennie. We gotta talk. Fast.”

“When I needed to talk to you, you ran me off with a gun.”

“You was buttin’ in where you had no business, but screw that anyhow.”

“Is this about the Lombardi case?”

“Of course it’s about the fuckin’ Lombardi case,” Lennie shouted. “Why the hell else would I be callin’ you?”

“Look, I’m very busy—”

“No, you look, you little shit. This is life and death I’m talking about here.” Despite his belligerence, his voice was trembling. “We’re all in danger. Including that bimbo client of yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re all dead men, you asshole! Fuckin’ dead men!”

“Lennie, calm down and tell me what you’re babbling about. Why is Christina in danger?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone, man. It’s too dangerous.”

“Are you still at the Cowpoke Motor Inn? Room 13?”

“You got it.”

“Fine. I’m leaving now.”

The motel hadn’t changed, except perhaps that it seemed even more deserted than before. The occupancy level was down; business wouldn’t pick up again until nightfall, Ben supposed, when the hourly clients started dropping in.

Ben swerved into the parking lot. He was grateful to have made it; his Accord stalled twice on the drive over. He jumped out of his car, rushed to room 13, and pounded on the door. “Lennie! It’s Ben Kincaid!”

There was no answer. Dead silence.

Ben pounded and yelled, but there was no response. Oh God—please don’t let anything bad happen. Don’t let it be my fault again. Let him be out for coffee, or Twinkies, or the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Anything but—

He smelled something. Even through the door. Something disturbingly familiar.

He considered running for the front desk clerk, but he knew that would take too long—the clerk wouldn’t want to come and wouldn’t open the door for a stranger if he did. Motel owners couldn’t legally force their way into leased premises without a compelling reason, and an officer of the court such as Ben couldn’t incite someone to break the law. Not in front of witnesses, anyway.

He ran back to his car and took the pocket knife out of his glove compartment. He extended the blade and wedged it into the space between the door and the jamb, just beneath the bolt of the lock. The lock was old, and not much of a lock in the first place. After a few moments, the door sprung free.

Ben pushed the door open. The smell hit him like a wall. He inhaled deeply, clearing his lungs, then scanned the room. The decor was much as before—dirty clothes, fast food, porn magazines. And as before, Lennie was lying on the bed. But this time, Lennie wasn’t moving. His body was contorted in a painfully unnatural position; there was an ice blue pallor about his skin.

And a huge, bleeding, star-shaped hole where the left side of his head should have been.

Ben held the handkerchief over his nose and mouth, trying to keep the odor out and his lunch in. This was a smell he would never get used to. Never.

“Well,” Mike said, “the plot thickens. The cemetery plot, that is.”

“Spare me the Halloween humor,” Ben replied. “What killed him?”

“Four bullets to the head. Just like before.”

Four bullets. To the head. What was left of it.

“Look at the blood color,” Mike added. “This happened recently. Couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before you arrived.”

Ten minutes. Ten goddamned minutes. If only his stupid car hadn’t stalled. If only he hadn’t gotten caught in traffic on the Beeline. If only he had been smarter.

“Any idea what he wanted?”

“Not really. He said he had some important information. He said we were all in danger.”

“It seems he was right. At least about himself.”

“Yeah.”

“And if he was right about himself…”

“Thanks. I grasped your point.”

Ben tried not to watch as the paramedics lifted Lennie onto the stretcher. The body sagged; bloodied brain tissue fell out of the exposed cranium. “You think this was a mob killing?”

Mike considered the question, “A possibility. Given this chump’s occupation. But there’s nothing about this murder that screams out gangland execution.”

“What about the four shots to the head? Surely one would have been sufficient for any normal murderer.”

“Well…” Mike said hesitantly. “Of course, that factor doesn’t make the killing resemble a mob execution. That factor makes the killing resemble the murder your client is going on trial for Tuesday.”

Ben’s face and neck muscles tightened. “What are you saying, Mike?”

“Where was Christina twenty, thirty minutes ago, Ben?”

“How should I know?”

“I think you’d better find out.”

“Are you telling me she needs an alibi?”

“You’re the one who told me Lennie was snitching to the FBI. That he might have been planning to testify against her.” He fumbled through his coat pockets for his pipe. “You could hardly blame her for becoming desperate, under the circumstances.”

“Just spit it out, Mike. What’s your goddamn point?”

Mike matched his volume. “I’m saying your case just got about one hundred thousand times worse, Ben. And it wasn’t great in the first place.”

“I can’t believe you would even consider bringing charges against Christina for this weasel’s murder!”

“I’m a cop, Ben! I catch bad guys; I don’t bring charges. But I can sure as hell tell you what’s going to happen. Moltke and his buddies will view this development as proof of the pudding.”

“And let me guess,” Ben said bitterly. “There’s nothing you can do to help.”

Mike jammed the pipe stem between his teeth and turned away.

“As I suspected. Thanks for nothing.”

Ben stormed out of the room. The blood was racing to his head. And the words, the words kept racing through his brain, filling him with dread.

Your case just got about one hundred thousand times worse, said Mike, a man in a position to know.

And it wasn’t great in the first place.