Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 44

“A DEAD MAN ENTERED your lives?” Mike asked.

“Yeah,” Fred answered. He walked to the north side of the fishing cabin and fidgeted with the shabby drapes over the window. “A dead man named Tony Montague. A few of us, myself included, had known him before, but remember—we all thought he was dead. Even after Blaylock’s goons finally managed to track him down, they kept their discovery to themselves. One of the advantages of not reporting the theft to the police was that they had no need to make a report when they found him. Believe me, when I walked into this cabin and saw him, I just about lost it.”

“What was he doing here?”

“I think he just came to get away. He had to go somewhere, right? And there aren’t that many places for a man who’s officially dead to hang out. Didn’t have much money, either. Maybe Blaylock made this place available to him. At any rate, we didn’t know he’d be here—till we saw him.”

“So you found him after the Blaylock boys had recovered their money?”

“Ye-eah …” For some reason, the question seemed to make Fred uncomfortable.

“What kind of shape was he in?”

“Bad. He was dying. And he knew it.”

“Dying?”

“Yeah.” Fred pushed aside the drapes and gazed absently onto the placid waters of the gulf. “Heart attack. Not his first. He’d been under some major strain—and I don’t think he really wanted to live anymore. He could’ve called 911; he didn’t. When our little crew arrived, he was almost gone. He barely had enough time to tell us about the money.”

“The money? I thought Blaylock got it all back.”

A slow smile spread across Fred’s face. “That’s what he wanted them to think.”

After he finished feeding his cat, Ben crawled into bed and tried to pretend that he was interested in something on the television. It was hard work. He channel surfed for more than ten minutes, but nothing caught his attention. Xena was a rerun; Lifetime had Markie Post in yet another life-affirming drama as a struggling something-or-other. Was it possible Pamela Anderson Lee had another series?

He switched the box off. It wouldn’t have distracted him, anyway. No matter what he did, his mind kept coming back to the same thing. The Elkins trial. Which he’d lost.

The sad thing was, it really was his fault. This wasn’t just errant martyrdom; he knew this with absolute certainty. After all the time, money, and effort he’d expended trying to win over the jury, he’d forgotten one important detail—you also have to win over the judge. He tried to teach that to his law students; he forgot to teach it to himself. And that was why his clients went down in flames.

He’d forced himself to go out to Blackwood, even though it was the last thing on earth he wanted to do. Could any experience of his life have been more unpleasant than facing that sea of bereaved, stricken faces? What happened? they kept asking, over and over. How could this happen? Can the judge do that? They feigned indignation, but in truth, Ben knew they were wounded, each and every one of them, wounded to the core by the suggestion that the smartest, most educated man in the courtroom did not believe in them. That he would interfere and interrupt the whole process rather than let them prevail.

Ben tried to calm their fears and assuage their insecurities. We’ll appeal, he said—the eternal battle cry of the vanquished. That’s what they all say, right? Never mind that their chances of success were virtually nil. Never mind that he couldn’t afford a new trial even if he won it. He had to maintain some glimmer of hope. Even if his clients didn’t really believe it.

Even if he didn’t really believe it himself.

Ben’s cat, Giselle, padded into his bedroom. Apparently she’d finished her Feline’s Fancy; she had that slightly fishy cat food smell that initially had made Ben nearly vomit, but over time he’d sort of learned to like.

“C’mere, sweetie,” he said, patting the sheets.

She thought it over carefully for a few moments, then consented to join him. She snuggled up close, pressing her head against his hand.

“You’re easy enough, aren’t you?” Ben said as he stroked her head. “I feed you grossly overpriced cat food twice a day, put out water, wash you on occasion, and take you in twice a year for your shots. And you’re happy. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do for you.”

Giselle made a pleasant mewling sound.

“Thank goodness for you, anyway,” Ben said as he pulled her close. “You’re the only one I haven’t let down.”

Mark Austin sat alone on the veranda outside his room at the Riverside Apartments. It was a nice place, as apartments go. The view of the river was spectacular; he had to pay extra for it. The breeze was cool and the air was clean. No traces of carbon monoxide or refinery reek or other spoilers. He was nursing a tumbler of Courvoisier, his favorite overpriced indulgence. There had been a time when he couldn’t afford things like Courvoisier. But now he could, at least occasionally. Because now he was an all-important associate at the all-important firm of Raven, Tucker & Tubb. He was a litigator. He worked with Charlton Colby, the best trial lawyer in the state. It was the job he’d always dreamed of having.

So why was he so miserable?

He was glad they’d won, of course. Sympathetic as he was for those poor parents, he was still a litigator, and litigators like to win.

It was how they won that bothered him.…

From the outset, the interaction between Colby and Blaylock had given him the creeps. He didn’t know why, exactly. There was always a sense that there was more to their conversations than was immediately apparent, that there was a subtle subtext he didn’t comprehend, unspoken knowledge hidden just beneath the surface. And he hadn’t entirely approved of some of the tactics they’d used during the discovery period—threatening employees if they spoke out, rewarding them if they toed the company line. But they hadn’t actually done anything improper, hadn’t done anything hundreds of other lawyers haven’t done on a regular basis.

What was troubling him, then? Was it just wanton guilt? An inability to experience pleasure? Some childish sense that justice—whatever the hell that was—was being silenced?

He had tried to balance the equities once before, when he anonymously told that cop to “follow the money.” He didn’t know what Colby and Blaylock had been hinting about, but he figured if it had any relevance to the investigation, the cop would figure it out.

So hadn’t he done enough? Hadn’t he proved he was on the side of the angels, albeit somewhat secretly? What was it that kept gnawing away at his conscience?

Whatever it was, it was all summed up for him by that damned blue report. It had been Blaylock’s principal concern since the case began. Mark suspected he was more worried about the report getting out than he was about losing the case. What was in the thing? What evil truths lurked between those blue covers?

Mark had to know. It had been too hard to get to the thing without being caught while the trial was still going and their security measures were all in place. Too risky. But now that he had a copy …

Now that he had a copy, he’d read the whole thing, cover to cover. Twice.

And what he read made him sick. Made him want to vomit. Made him want to drop a bomb on top of Blaylock and Colby and his stinking law firm and send them all to oblivion.

But what could he do? If he leaked the report, it would be the end of his career. Undoubtedly. Even if he did it secretly, it would eventually be traced back to him. He’d lose his job. Probably lose his license. After all, he would be betraying a client trust. Never mind that the client didn’t deserve his trust and the report hadn’t been properly subject to privilege in the first place. He could be disbarred for this.

All his dreams, all his promise. Up in smoke. No dining at the Tulsa Club. No hobnobbing with society debs. No majestic estate near Philbrook. Everything he had wanted, everything he had dreamt about—gone.

He couldn’t do that to himself. Could he?

He remembered what the other lawyer, Kincaid, had said that day in chambers when Colby taunted him, telling Kincaid he was going to bankrupt himself for nothing. Kincaid had said, “I’d rather go broke doing the right thing than get rich doing the wrong.”

You had to admire a guy like that.

Slowly, Mark reached for the Yellow Pages and started looking up courier services. He was probably making a tremendous mistake.

But he was feeling good about it. The best he’d felt in a long time.