Blind Justice Read online

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE The Chicken Is in the Mail

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  PART TWO Bloind and Deef and Doom

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  PART THREE The Show of Evil

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  PART FOUR Six Impossible Things

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Acknowledgments

  Blind Justice

  A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense (Book Two)

  William Bernhardt

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media

  Ebook

  For Michel, Valerie, and Karis

  They say Justice is bloind: That she is.

  And deef and doom and has a wooden leg, as well.

  Finley Peter Dunne’s “Mister Dooley”

  In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being seasoned with a gracious voice Obscure the show of evil?

  William Shakespeare

  The Merchant of Venice, Act III, scene ii

  Prologue

  HE RETURNED THE GUN to the end table drawer. That would be his last resort, he thought, as he closed the drawer, hands trembling. The absolute last.

  There were all kinds of tricks he could try before it came to that. Options abounded. He strode into the kitchen, trying to buoy his spirits with false optimism. It didn’t work.

  He opened the refrigerator and removed the chilled carafe. He knew which one she would choose; it didn’t take a genius. He removed a small bottle from his pocket, unscrewed the dropper, and carefully let eight drops fall into the carafe. That was the recommended dosage—more than enough, in all likelihood. Then again, he thought, better safe than sorry. He released six more drops into the carafe.

  He returned the carafe to the refrigerator, almost dropping it in the process. He stared at his hands—they were covered with sweat. His whole body was soaked; a cold, clammy sensation radiated from his head to his toes. He wiped his brow, then dried his hands on a dish towel. He couldn’t let this get to him. Options, he reminded himself. Abundant options. Everything would be fine. Well, except for her, of course.

  He walked back into the living room, glancing through the patio windows on the north side. There were two cars parked on the ground level in the driveway, watching, ready to follow at a moment’s notice. They had been there all day.

  What were they waiting for? He felt his knees shaking, his respiration accelerating. Just don’t panic, he told himself. There could be hundreds of reasons why two cars would be parked in the driveway. Perfectly innocent ones. It still wasn’t hopeless. Options, abundant options.

  Yeah, right. He couldn’t just sit here and wait for them to come. He opened the end table drawer and reached for the gun—then stopped. Mother of God!—that wasn’t the answer. At least not yet. He slammed the drawer closed, his heart palpitating violently in his chest.

  He threw himself into an easy chair and tried to think through his plan, its intricate details and contingencies, but his eyes kept diverting to the window. Were they still there? And how much longer until—

  He closed his eyes. This was pointless. He would just proceed according to plan; that was the only solution. Create a diversion, as it were—throw the heat off him. It would buy him sufficient time to get the hell out of town. At any rate, it was better than the alternative.

  He inhaled deeply and felt his heartbeat slowly subside. That was the ticket—just stick to the plan, and watch everything work itself out. Oh!—he would have to call her and leave the appropriate message. But it was too early for that. The less time she had to think about it the better.

  He smiled. This will work, he told himself. It really will. Let the bastards come; he would be ready for them. He fell back into his chair, at last confident that everything would work out, that the end table drawer would not have to be opened.

  Until the phone rang.

  PART ONE

  The Chicken Is in the Mail

  1

  THERE WAS SOMETHING WRONG with Ben’s office, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Maybe it was the dozen or so chickens running amuck on the linoleum floor. Perhaps it was the toilet paper strewn throughout the lobby. Or possibly it was the man pointing a gun at Ben’s face.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Ben asked, trying to appear calm.

  “Not really,” said the large, unshaven man holding the weapon. “I just come in to blow your head off.”

  “Oh,” Ben said. It was hard to know what to say.

  Jones, Ben’s male secretary, stood up behind the small card table he called his secretarial station. “Is there something I should be doing, Boss?”

  “Call 911,” Ben said succinctly.

  “Right away, Boss.” Jones picked up the phone receiver and began to dial.

  The intruder adjusted his aim slightly in Jones’s direction. “You try it and I’ll shoot the phone right out of your hand.”

  Jones hesitated. “Come on. You don’t look like you’re nearly that good a shot.”

  “You’re right,” the man replied, “I’ll probably miss.”

  Jones hung up the phone.

  “Look,” Ben said, “at least tell me what this is all about. You know, grant the last wish of the condemned.”

  The man looked at Ben suspiciously. “Why should I?”

  Ben thought for a moment. “So I can rue my fatal error in the hour of my doom?”

  The man did not seem impressed.

  “So I know what file to put the coroner’s report in,” Jones offered. “I hate it when the filing backs up.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. Thanks, Jones.

  This line of reasoning, however, seemed to engage the man’s attention. “Try the file labeled Loving versus Loving,” he said bitterly.

  Ben remembered the case. The surnames stuck in his mind; they were pretty ironic, given that it was a divorce case. “You must be Mr. Loving.”

  “Damn straight,” Loving said, pushing the gun closer to Ben’s face. “And you’re the man who took my woman away from me.”

  “I’m the attorney who represented her in the divorce,” Ben corrected. “Why didn’t you show up at the hearing?”

  Loving’s broad, strong shoulders expanded. “Some things is between a man and a woman,” he said. “I don’t hold with airin’ dirty laundry in public.”

  “When you didn’t appear at the hearing or send a lawyer to represent you,” Ben explained, “the matter became uncontested.” He saw in the corner of his eye that Jones had quietly lifted the phone receiver again and was beginning to dial. He tried to keep Loving distracted. “The judge granted the divorce by default. She had no choic
e, really, under the circumstances.”

  Loving took a step closer. “I heard you told some disgusting, filthy lies about me in that courtroom.”

  Ben cleared his throat. “I…merely recited the allegations of my client.”

  “Like sayin’ I liked to dress up in high heels and panty hose?”

  “Uhh…I believe that was one of the reasons your ex wanted a divorce,” Ben said weakly.

  “And what was that stuff about barnyard animals?” Loving growled.

  Ben stared at the ceiling. “Oh, was there something about barnyard animals? I don’t recall exactly.…” He felt a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. Couldn’t Jones dial any faster?

  “You made my life a living hell!” Loving shouted. He was waving the gun wildly back and forth. “You took away the best woman I ever knew. Now you’re going to pay for it.”

  “I don’t suppose it would make any difference if I told you today was my birthday?” Ben asked.

  Loving cocked the hammer. “Consider this your present.”

  “If you really love your wife so much, why don’t you try to win her back?”

  “Win her back?”

  “Yeah. Maybe you two could get remarried.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “Of course it’s not too late,” Ben assured him. “Reconciliations happen all the time. Natalie Wood and Robert Wagner got married three times!”

  Loving appeared to consider this. “I don’t know.…”

  “You’ve got to court her, that’s all. Like when you were first dating. Bring her flowers, candy. Write her a poem. Hold hands in the moonlight.”

  “We never did any of that.”

  Ben frowned. “You must have done something romantic when you were courting.”

  “Courting?” Loving snorted. “I met Babs in a bar downtown. After a few drinks, we did the hokeypokey in the back of my semi. It wasn’t no big deal. Damned if she didn’t turn up pregnant, though. So we had to get married.”

  “Well then,” Ben said, trying to salvage himself, “so much the better. This will all be new to her.” He snapped his fingers. “I bet I have some old love poems I could loan you.”

  “You really think this could work?” Loving asked. He began to smile, however slightly.

  “You’ll never know until you try. But I think you two crazy kids could patch things up, assuming you don’t make a tragic mistake that sends you to the penitentiary for the rest of your life.”

  “Babs might come back to me?”

  “I think it’s entirely possible.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Loving said. The last vestiges of a smile faded from his face. He leveled the gun at Ben’s nose and fired.

  Jones cracked the ice out of the tray. He wrapped the ice in a washcloth and tied it with a rubber band. After struggling with the person-proof bottle cap, he popped a few Tylenol tablets into his pocket. Just in case. He returned to Ben’s tiny office and walked to the ratty sofa on the far wall.

  He brushed Ben’s hand aside and placed the ice pack on his forehead. “How does that feel?”

  “Cold,” Ben answered.

  “Is it having a calming effect?”

  “At the moment I don’t think a hundred winged seraphs strumming Brahms’s Lullaby on their harps would have a calming effect. I just got shot at, remember?”

  “Well, yeah,” Jones said, “by a man with a toy pistol containing a little flag with the word BOOM! on it. We’re not exactly talking Lee Harvey Oswald here.”

  “Easy for you to say. The little flag didn’t poke you in the eye. I nearly lost a contact.” He read the expression on Jones’s face. “I was startled, okay?”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Jones said. “I was there. I saw you swoon.”

  “I did not swoon. I lost my balance.”

  “If you say so.” Jones tried not to smile.

  “I can still hear that man’s maniacal laughter. What was it he said? ‘You put me through hell, Kincaid, so I decided to let you see what it was like.’ What a sicko.”

  “Yeah. It was kind of funny, though.” Jones glanced at Ben’s somber expression. “In a sick sort of way, I mean.”

  “That’s what I thought you meant.” Ben covered his eyes with the ice pack. “Incidentally, Jones, this may be none of my business, but why are there chickens running all over my office?”

  “Frank Brannon finally decided to pay his bill. He didn’t have any money. But he has a surplus of hens.”

  “Great. This is what I get for taking a tractor repossession case.”

  “I wasn’t aware you were in a position to choose.”

  “Yeah, well, nonetheless.” Ben rubbed the ice pack up and down the sides of his face. “Chickens. Jeez, that’ll help pay the rent. And think of the convenience, if a famine should suddenly strike Tulsa.”

  “Speaking of paying the rent, Boss—I don’t like to be a nag, but my paycheck is overdue.”

  “That’s true. Unfortunately, I’m fresh out of cash. But feel free to take all the chickens you want. By the way, is all that toilet paper still littering the lobby?”

  “No. I cleaned that up right after the police hauled off Mr. Loving for assault with a practical joke.”

  “Jones,” Ben said, pointedly ignoring the jibe, “may I ask who T.P.’d my office?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Right.” Ben stretched out on the sofa. “If you’ll be so kind as to close the door on your way out, Jones, I’m going to lie here quietly for a few hours and see if I can bring my heart rate back down to the three-digit numbers.”

  Jones didn’t move. “Boss?”

  “Yes?”

  “Was that true, what you said?”

  “About my heart rate?”

  “No. About Natalie Wood and Robert Wagner.”

  “Well…they divorced and remarried once.”

  “Oh. You lied.”

  “I did not lie. I…exaggerated.” He touched the reddened skin around his eye gingerly. “Under the circumstances it was the best I could come up with.”

  Jones still hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “Wasn’t the Simmons trial scheduled to continue at ten o’clock today?”

  Ben looked at his watch. “Ohmigosh. It’s already ten till! Jones, you’re supposed to keep me on time for my appointments!”

  “Sorry, Boss. I was distracted by the gunplay.”

  Ben grabbed his briefcase and bolted out the door, still pressing the ice pack to his head. If he ran all the way to the courthouse, he just might make it.

  2

  BEN FOUGHT HIS WAY out of the crowded elevator and scrambled toward Judge Hart’s courtroom on the fifth floor of the Tulsa County Courthouse. Christina was waiting for him just outside.

  “What’s the matter, Ben?” she asked, grinning from ear to ear. “Forget to set the alarm clock?”

  He ran up to her, gasping for breath. “I’ve been awake for hours. It was the gunfight that slowed me down.”

  “Gunfight? What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Where’s Judge Hart?”

  “She hasn’t taken the bench yet. She had some arraignments she had to call before the trial resumes.”

  “Thank God for small miracles.”

  “Yeah. Your planets must be in alignment.” Christina tossed her long strawberry blonde hair behind her shoulders. She was wearing a short leather skirt, hip boots, and yellow leotards. Standard Christina accoutrements. “Incidentally, Ben—happy birthday.”

  Ben gave her a quelling stare. “You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “Chill out already. I haven’t told anyone. But I do have a little something for you. Will you be in your office later?”

  “As soon as the trial ends.”

  “Mind if I drop by?”

  “My door is always open to you, Christina. As long as you don’t start snooping around for information your boss can use against me in court.” He glanced at the c
ourtroom doors. “Is Mrs. Simmons inside?”

  “Yeah. I think you need to comfort her. She looks les miserables.”

  “In what way?”

  “Oh, the usual. Sweaty palms, knocking knees.”

  Ben nodded. “Everybody gets the jitters before they take the stand. But thanks for the tip.” If Christina said talk to the client, Ben talked to the client. She had first-rate instincts, in addition to being the best legal assistant he had ever known. Pity she was on the other side.

  Ben and Christina met and first worked together during Ben’s brief tenure as an associate at Raven, Tucker & Tubb, Tulsa’s largest, swankiest law firm. After he got the boot, she quit in protest and started working for Swayze & Reynolds. The change seemed to be good for her; the managing partner, Quinn Reynolds, was giving her important assignments and access to their most prominent clients. As far as Ben could tell, she was very successful, although success hadn’t improved her wardrobe or her penchant for abusing French clichés.

  As they entered the courtroom together, Ben saw Reynolds shoot Christina a nasty look. She’d probably get chewed out later for fraternizing with the enemy. Although he was the managing partner at Swayze & Reynolds, Reynolds was, as a rule, arrogant, pretentious, and generally unlikable. Worst of all, he was a lousy lawyer—always obstreperous and unwilling to compromise. He liked to promote settlement by way of harassment and delaying tactics, both of which Ben had been fighting throughout this entire case. Reynolds would probably be ostracized by the majority of the legal community, but for one minor detail. His wife sat on the Oklahoma Supreme Court. Ben had heard people complain about Reynolds for months, but the stories always ended the same: “Hell, I’d like to tell the jerk what I really think of him, but what can you do? He sleeps with the judge.”

  Ben found his client, Amy Simmons, sitting at plaintiff’s table by herself. She wore a tense, forlorn expression. Amy had been rear-ended in a car accident several months earlier. She brought a negligence action against the driver of the car that hit her, Tony Lombardi, seeking damages for her injuries. Reynolds was representing Lombardi and the insurance company that carried his policy.