Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 23

BEN WAS CHEERED BY seeing the TU law school again. Since the class action suit had shifted into high gear, he’d asked a colleague to teach his classes, and he missed it. He had accepted the adjunct position because he wanted the opportunity to do something other than try lawsuits; he wanted the occasional chance to interact with people in a more positive, less adversarial manner. He liked the kids; he tried to extend their enthusiasm and idealism just a bit beyond its natural life span. He hoped to get back to teaching as soon as possible.

But he felt a shiver run down his spine when he approached the large forum classroom. He hadn’t been in there since that horrible day several months ago when a madman had broken in with a shotgun and taken him and all the students hostage. He’d been filling in for another professor that day, Professor Canino, a.k.a. The Tiger, who disappeared soon after and, as far as Ben knew, had never been found. It had been the most frightening experience of his life. He would never forget it.

Especially not the way it ended. That was still a constant source of nightmares. And guilt. It haunted him day and night.

Professor Jack Matthews held court in the forum classroom today. He was one of Ben’s better friends among the faculty; he was also the last professor Ben had seen before he entered the classroom on the fateful day his whole class became hostages. He was renowned as the leading expert on torts, the area of the law relating to personal injuries, in the state. He was also well known (perhaps notorious) among the students for his slightly cockeyed but always engaging slant on tort law.

Today was no exception. As Ben peered through the window glass in the door, he spotted Professor Matthews—riding on a tricycle.

Ben slipped quietly inside so he could see what was happening. All eyes in the classroom were fixed on the professor, whose tall, gangly frame was scrunched down into a child’s three-wheeler. He had a thick, bushy salt-and-pepper beard, very academic-looking, accented by his tweed jacket and bright red bow tie. He was pedaling from one end of the apron to the other. The students were entranced, smiling merrily but completely attentive.

“So,” the professor said, pedaling furiously, “Little Johnny Prosser is pedaling down the street on his tricycle when another kid in the neighborhood, that bully Little Learned Hand, lights a firecracker. We don’t know what he planned to do with it, but just as he lights the thing, his bratty big sister, Little Sandra O"Connor, who thinks they’re still playing tackle football, broadsides him, knocking his feet out from under him. The lit firecracker flies forward, landing just inches from Little Johnny Prosser and his tricycle. It explodes. Although the noise is not such as would normally startle a child, Johnny is preternaturally afraid of loud noises because of a traumatic accident he had as a tot involving a Hoover vacuum cleaner. So Little Johnny is scared out of his wits and falls off the tricycle, injuring himself.”

At that, Professor Matthews threw himself sideways, capsizing the tricycle. The classroom burst into laughter. Matthews lay on his side, wheels spinning in the air.

“So the question, students,” he said, still lying sideways on the floor, “is this. Who was the proximate cause of Little Johnny’s accident? Who’s liable? The bully with the firecracker? The bratty big sister? Johnny himself? Or no one?

Hands shot up into the air. An engaging discussion of proximate cause, one of the most difficult issues in all of torts, ensued. Ben marveled at the professor’s quick wit, his cleverness, his ability to get students engaged in a topic that was dense, difficult, and often esoteric. Ben knew his own lectures, which involved no tricycles or other such theatrics, must seem dull in the extreme by comparison.

After class ended, Ben cornered the professor.

“Ben,” Matthews said warmly. “Good to see you. I heard you were taking a brief sabbatical.”

“That’s true. Someone else is covering my classes. Can I talk with you for a moment?”

“Sure. Just let me park my tricycle.” He pushed the three-wheeler behind the podium. “Care for some coffee?”

Ben didn’t, but he followed the man to the pit outside the library where the vending machines were located. Matthews treated for both of them, then led the way to a nearby table. He started drinking almost immediately. Ben held his in his hands, blew on it, and tried to look as if he might actually drink it at some point in the future.

“What can I do for you, Ben?”

“It relates to a case I’m working on,” he began.

“The class action? I’ve heard about that. And read about it in the paper, of course. How’s that coming?”

“Well, I’ve survived discovery, but the real litigating is just getting started. My worthy opponent is trying to heat things up. Put the pressure on to settle for peanuts.”

“That’s Charlton Colby, right?”

Ben nodded.

“I hear he’s one tough son of a bitch.”

“I would have to concur with that academic evaluation.” Ben grinned. “He’s trying to bury me in motions practice. I got eight in one day.”

“Eight? You should complain to the magistrate.”

“Trust me, I’ve already gotten everything I’m ever going to get out of the magistrate. Besides, they’re not frivolous motions. In fact, much as I hate to admit it, some of them look downright scary.”

“You’re afraid he’ll shut your case down before you get to trial.”

“In a nutshell.”

“Sounds grim. What can I do for you?”

Ben cleared his throat. He’d practiced this a hundred times driving over, but he never got it where it sounded halfway persuasive. “I was hoping you might be willing to join the plaintiffs" team. To be our legal scholar.”

Matthews was obviously surprised. “Me? Why me? I’m just a law professor. I haven’t practiced in years.”

“A law professor is exactly what I need. You’re the expert in torts—best in the state, most say. I can handle the courtroom. But I know I’m not the best at these esoteric legal arguments. You are.”

Matthews tugged at his bow tie. “That’s very flattering, Ben. But I’m sure there’s nothing in those motions you couldn’t handle yourself—”

“Given enough time, you’re probably right. But I don’t have enough time. I’ve got a hearing date that’s fast approaching and a million other things to do to get ready for trial. I can’t afford to spend a couple of weeks in the library. Which the opposition knows. Which is exactly why they filed the motions.”

“Kind of dirty pool litigation, isn’t it?”

“It usually is.”

“Still, Ben, I must be honest with you. I think you way overvalue me. I’m an academic, basically. There’s no reason to think that anyone out in the real world is going to listen to a word I say. Or write.”

“I have a reason,” Ben said. He had planned to keep this detail to himself, but he could see now it would be necessary if he was going to win Matthews over. “You wrote an article for the law review. On the nature of causation. Which has been and will be the big bugaboo in this case.”

“So what? No one reads the law review.”

“I know someone who does,” Ben replied. “I saw it on Judge Perry’s desk, last time I was in chambers. And it was open to your article. I have to assume he was consulting your piece to aid him in resolving the issues this case raises. In other words, he already considers you the expert.”

“On the printed page, perhaps—”

“So just imagine what will happen when I walk into the courtroom with you in tow. My credibility will shoot up a thousandfold.”

“Ah.” Matthews fingered his beard. “Now we’re getting to the real reason you want me on the team.”

“They’re all real reasons,” Ben insisted. “These are serious motions. I need someone who can make a serious reply.”

“Sounds like a hell of a lot of work. And on short notice, too.”

There was no point in lying about it. “It will be a major headache.” But he was relieved to see Matthews was at least considering it.

“Probably have to cancel some classes. Forgive me for being so venal, Ben, but—are you planning to compensate me for my time?”

“Of course. I just secured an advance for that express purpose.” More or less …

“Remind me who the defendant is?”

“H. P. Blaylock. Industrial machinery company out in Blackwood.”

“Oh, right, right. I did some work for them, actually. Years ago. Back when I still practiced.”

Ben’s heart clutched. If Matthews had done legal work for Blaylock in the past, he might be barred from taking representation in opposition to them now by the conflict of interest provisions in the Rules of Professional Conduct. “What kind of work?”

“Oh, nothing much. I drafted some documents. It was a million years ago.

Ben slowly exhaled. “Then it didn’t have anything to do with this lawsuit?”

“It didn’t have anything to do with any lawsuit. It was purely pro forma stuff. Don’t worry; there’s no conflict.”

Thank goodness. “Then what do you say?”

“I should say no. I’m carrying a full class load, plus I’m working on a textbook that I’m way behind on.”

“Tell me we’re coming to a "but."”

Matthews smiled. “But it is tempting. I’ve done all right in the academic world, but I have to admit, I’ve always been a bit jealous of the legal eggheads who have really made a name for themselves. Dershowitz. Miller. Those guys became famous—by getting involved in some high-profile lawsuit.”

“This one’s very high profile, Jack. And then some.”

Matthews nodded. “Damn. I’m probably crazy—but I’ll do it.”

“Great!”

Matthews rose to his feet. “So, I’ll want to get copies of those motions as soon as possible.”

“As it happens, I have copies in my car.”

Matthews arched an eyebrow. “Very confident, weren’t you?”

Ben shook his head. “Hopeful.”

Matthews laughed. “Well, I want to get those motions. Let me get my briefcase.”

“Forget the briefcase,” Ben replied. “You’ll need a dolly.”

Fred the Feeb was running scared. He had tried to pretend otherwise, tried to act like he had everything under control. But he did not have everything under control. Things were spiraling totally out of his control. People were dying. And he might be next.

Since he had spotted his murderous friend out in the woods near the jogging trail behind the office, he had been in a state of abject panic. He had tried to keep his mind on other things—without success.

He had to do something. He didn’t need to see a doctor to know his blood pressure was rising. His hands shook. He sweated spontaneously, for no apparent reason. His heart was doing a tap dance inside his chest. And why shouldn’t it, for God’s sake? That maniac was killing them! All of them! One by one.

Fred pushed away from his workstation. He had to get a grip on himself. He had to stay calm and think rationally and—

“Fred?”

He damn near hit the ceiling. A tiny shrieking sound emerged from his lips and his body bounced into the air.

“I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”

It was Stacey, his personnel supervisor. He hadn’t seen her since she’d turned down his vacation request. And threatened him with sexual harassment charges.

“Oh—no,” Fred mumbled. “I was just thinking about something.”

“No doubt.” She dropped a pink sheet of paper on his desk. “Your request has been denied. Sorry,” she added, although there was not much regret in her voice. She sashayed out of his office.

Fred scooped up the paper and read. He had requested an early withdrawal from his pension fund. He didn’t care if he had to pay a penalty; he needed money and he needed it now. He wanted to get far, far away from this place, even if it did cost him his job. Money wouldn’t matter, not once the merchandise came into play. He just needed to get the merchandise to safety. Most important, he needed to get himself to safety.

But his request was denied, DENIED—that’s what it said, stamped in big red letters. There was only one signature at the bottom of the form—Stacey’s. Goddamn that big-assed bitch, anyway. What was her problem? She was probably still carrying a grudge about their last meeting, still deluding herself into thinking he had propositioned her. She was striking a blow for herself and women everywhere. At his expense.

What could he do now? He twitched onto his feet, ideas rushing through his head like quicksilver. He could just leave, hit the road, travel, go places his former friend wouldn’t think to look. Except how long could he afford to keep that up? Not long enough.

He could at least move, get an apartment somewhere. Yes, he could definitely do that. But how long would it remain secret? Urban reality—if someone really wanted to find you, eventually they would. He could buy alarms and dogs and guards and the whole nine yards. But he would never be safe. He knew that, deep in his heart. Never. Not as long as his friend lived. And Fred had the merchandise.

He stepped outside his cubicle, then froze. George Philby was in the hallway, talking to some executive. He hadn’t seen George since that day out on the jogging trail. He whirled around—and saw someone else. Someone who sent a cold chill racing down his spine.

Fred ducked back into his cubicle, hyperventilating. Was it him? He thought it was; he was almost sure of it. But why was he here? What was he doing?

He continued hyperventilating, gasping for air in short, ineffectual bursts. There were, of course, only two possible answers to that question. He was either looking for George—

Or he was looking for Fred.

One or the other of them was next on that bloodthirsty killer’s hit list.

God—let it be George. It was George, wasn’t it? He’d been sure of it, when he’d seen the hidden figure skulking out in the brush while George was jogging. But now—

He had to do something. He had to do something quick.

But what? What?

On his way up to his apartment, Ben made a preliminary visit at Mrs. Marmelstein’s. Joni answered the door.

“Ben-a-rino. How go the lawyer wars?”

“Poorly. But improving. Thanks again for taking double shifts with Mrs. Marmelstein. This case has been running me ragged.” He nodded toward the living room. “How’s she doing today?”

“Actually, Mrs. Marmelstein’s having a good one. She’s relatively lucid, especially for this late in the day. She’s been in good spirits. Can’t pry her away from those pictures, though.”

“Any improvement … healthwise?”

The gleam faded from Joni’s eyes. “No. We saw the doctor this morning, but … the prognosis has not improved. And her eyes are still failing. Doc says soon she won’t be able to see at all.”

Ben stepped into the living room of the apartment. The television was on. Vanna White was spinning letters, but Mrs. Marmelstein did not appear to be paying much attention. Her eyes were on the photo in her hand—the one of the two parents at the beach. With their son.

“Paulie?” she said as Ben entered the room.

“No.” He walked around in front so she could see him. “It’s just Ben.”

“Oh.” Not that she was unhappy to see him, exactly. But it clearly wasn’t what she’d been hoping for. “Good to see you, Benjamin.”

“Good to see you.” He stepped closer and crouched down beside her chair. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh … about the same, I suppose.” The lines in her creased face seemed to sag. “I saw that doctor again today. I don’t much like the man, though. So many tests. Always something new. So tiring. And he wants to take me away from my home.”

Ben was surprised—but delighted—to see how cogent she was. He was always thrown by the irrationality of Alzheimer’s—addlepated one day, lucid the next. “He does?”

She made a sniffing sound, then drew her afghan closer. “Wants to put me in some kind of house.”

“House? You’re already in a house.”

Joni was standing behind them in the doorway. “In a home.”

“Ah.” Ben laid his hand gently on her arm. “I don’t see any need for that.”

“That’s what I keep telling the man. I like it here. This is my home. It’s all I—I—” Her eyes drifted down again to the photo.

Ben seized his chance. “Mrs. Marmelstein, a friend of mine has been looking for your Paulie, but so far, he hasn’t had any luck. Is there anything else you could tell me about him?”

Her eyes wandered from side to side. “He was always a good boy. Not like some of those little monsters. Always tried to do the right thing.”

No doubt, Ben thought, but that wasn’t going to help them track him down. “What’s his full name?”

“His name?” She tilted her head to one side, as if she hadn’t heard properly. “His name is Paulie.”

“Is that a nickname? Is his real name Paul? Does he have a middle name?”

“We called him Paulie. Always did. Even as an adult. I don’t think he minded.”

Ben sighed. “When was he born?”

“Oh, my, that was a happy day. We had worried that … well, that the Good Lord wasn’t going to bless us with any children. And just about the time we had resigned ourselves to that—here comes Paulie. He was a miracle, that’s all. A miracle boy.”

Ben glanced again at the photo. Judging by the clothing styles and haircuts, Paulie was a little boy in the Fifties. Was he born, then, in the late Forties? “Do you have any idea where he is now?”

Her head trembled a bit. “Hasn’t … really … kept up with us the way he used to. He was a great letter writer. But not anymore.”

Ben became concerned. “Mrs. Marmelstein … did something happen to Paulie?”

“Happen? No. Not like that. It happened to … all of us.”

Ben pushed himself to his feet. He was getting nowhere fast.

He leaned close to Joni. “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”

Joni shook her head. “Clueless. Except that she seems certain this boy—former boy—is alive. And she’s desperate to see him.”

“Why now? When she hasn’t seen him for years?”

“I think you know the answer to that, Ben.”

He did, of course. She was desperate to see him now because, even in her troubled mind, she realized that her time was growing short.

“Mrs. Marmelstein,” he said quietly, “did something happen? Between you and Paulie?”

“It all seems so foolish now. So much fuss about so little. But you know how men are. Always butting antlers. Paulie never got along with his father. Never, never. They were both good men. Just very different.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Paulie had disagreements with your late husband?”

“All the time. You can’t imagine what it’s like when a father and son are so … angry with one another.”

“I can imagine,” Ben said quietly. “What did they argue about?”

“They didn’t see eye to eye on anything. Clothes, hair, lifestyle. Nothing. Albert wanted Paulie to follow him into business. Paulie had his own plans. That was bad. But the worst came when he brought home that woman. That shiksa.”

Ben blinked. “She … she wasn’t Jewish?”

“She wasn’t anything. Except pretty. Very, very pretty. Had what they called "It," in my day. Lots of It. Totally turned his head.”

“You didn’t approve of the relationship?”

“Oh, I didn’t care so much. Let the boy make his own mistakes. He’ll learn, that’s what I said. But Albert didn’t see it that way. He was a very … controlling person. He threatened …”

Ben was beginning to get the drift, even if he did have to piece the story together like letters in a cryptogram. “Did you try to intervene?”

Her head fell. “No. I supported my husband. That’s the way I was raised. What I thought I was supposed to do. It all seemed very important at the time. But now …”

Ben could see her eyes filling. He took her hand and squeezed it.

“Now …” she continued, “I just want to see my Paulie.”

“I’ll find him,” Ben said. “I promise. I’ll find him and bring him back here.”

Wordlessly, Mrs. Marmelstein threw her arms around Ben and hugged him tighter than he thought he had ever been hugged before.