Justice Returns (Ben Kincaid series Book 19)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
For sweet Laurisa
Contents
Start Reading
Prologue
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
Part Two
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
Part Three
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Other Books by William Bernhardt
“We shall never end wars, Mrs. Barham, by blaming it on the ministers and generals, or warmongering imperialists, or all the other banal bogeys. It’s the rest of us who build statues to those generals and name boulevards after those ministers.”
Paddy Chayefsky, The Americanization of Emily
Prologue
His arms were chained to the wall. They had been that way so long he could not move them or feel them. He was naked and dirty, unable to move or scratch or pee. They woke him constantly, deprived him of sleep for days at a time. They blasted heavy metal music into his cell, endlessly, painfully. Time was an erratic stream connecting when they tortured him and when they did not torture him. He did not know what day it was, or if it was morning or night. His windowless room provided no clues.
He thought he’d been here for three weeks.
He told them everything he knew the first day.
They didn’t believe him. Or said they didn’t believe him. Or wanted something more. He didn’t know.
He knew he couldn’t endure this much longer.
Waiting. Dangling. Crushing boredom and crushing pain. And it was so hot. The first week it had been unbearably cold, and they gave him nothing to wear. Now it was searing, as if he were back in the desert, no oasis in sight, melting by inches, the air so thick he couldn’t breathe.
Being crucified on the wall did not help with the breathing.
He heard the creaking of a distant door, followed by the muffled echo of combat boots.
They were coming back.
The cell door opened. Nazir, the worst of the trio, stepped inside, followed by two assistants. He didn’t know their names. The fat one and the young one—the one who seemed to enjoy it.
Nazir did not make eye contact. “Unchain him.”
The two lackeys fulfilled his command. He couldn’t feel the difference, even as his arms slammed to his side.
Nazir pointed to the wooden chair.
They pushed and dragged him to it, the only furniture in the cell, near the stinking toilet bucket that had not been emptied in a week. Someone jabbed the back of his knees. He collapsed into the chair.
Nazir peered down at him. “Does it work?”
Speaking did not come easily. He had done little but scream for so long. His throat was dry and his lips were chapped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Nazir did not blink. “Does it work?”
“I told you before, I don’t know anything. I wasn’t in long and I didn’t do much. I just want to go. Please let me out of here. Please.”
Nazir’s jaw tightened. “Does it work?”
“Don’t keep saying that. Listen to me. I beg you.”
“You beg me.” Nazir curled his lips. “And you call yourself an American.”
“Why are you doing this?” He tried not to whimper. “I don’t know anything that can help you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Tears sprung from his eyes. “How can I make you believe me?”
“You can’t. Because you lie.”
A single, bright overhead light illuminated the small cell. He watched as Nazir pulled it down and pointed it at his face.
“You do not look well. I think it is time you gave up your foolish resistance and talked.”
“About what?”
Nazir spat in his face. “I could kill you now and no one would know. No one could do anything about it if they did know.”
“Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.”
“Then tell me what I want to hear.”
“I don’t know what you want to hear. I don’t.”
“Does it work?”
“What? Does what work?”
Nazir grabbed him by the throat. “Does. It. Work?”
“Yes! Yes, it does. It works magnificently well.”
Nazir’s eyes narrowed. “What does it do?”
He hesitated. “Whatever you want it to do?”
Nazir slapped him hard. “Do you think you will outlast me? Do you think if you are strong enough I will release you?” Nazir shoved him backward, rocking the chair. “I will never let you go. You are my personal fuck toy, now and always, to do with as I choose.”
Nazir kicked the chair leg, making it fall over, sending him crashing downward. His head hit the stone floor, forcing more tears from his eyes.
“I could take you by force,” Nazir said. “I could humiliate and disgrace you. I could humble you before our Creator and every man on this earth.”
“Please don’t. Please don’t. God no. Please.”
“Do you think I will be kind? You are a traitor.”
“I’m not.”
“Did you imagine yourself Snowden? Assange? You stupid, petty cockroach.” Nazir shoved his head down on the stone floor and kept pressing.
One of the lackeys spoke. “Let’s give him the water treatment. We haven’t done that for a while.”
“Not again.” His body shook violently. “Please don’t hurt me again.”
“Who are you working for?”
“I’m not working for anyone.”
Nazir crouched down. “You will tell me everything you know. You realize that, don’t you? All this suffering is so futile.”
“I already told you everything.”
“They all break eventually. Everyone does, and you will, too.”
“I would help you,” he gasped. “I would. If I could. I d
on’t know what you want. Maybe I could find out. Maybe if you let me go, I could find out what you want to know.”
“Worthless American. Worthless, filthy, traitorous American.”
“I’d do anything you want.”
“Then tell me. Tell me now.”
“I don’t know anything!”
“Then you will be with me forever.”
Nazir walked to the back of the cell. “This is your last chance to avoid a lifetime in hell. Talk to me.”
“I don’t know anything!”
He motioned to his assistants. “Chain him back up.”
He closed his eyes, unable to bear the thought of being strapped to that wall again, maybe all day, maybe for the rest of his life.
“There is no escape for you,” Nazir said, teeth clenched. “I can hold you forever. I have the authority. I can do whatever I want with you. Because you are a person of interest. And I am the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Part One
Suspicion of Evil
1
I watch as the foreman grips the document that will determine the future, life or death, for at least three people in this room: my client, the woman sitting in the gallery, and me.
His fingers twitch, rustling the pages together. I wonder whether this man fully comprehends his power. Perhaps he does. Perhaps that’s why he grips the paper so tightly, and perspiration soaks through the parchment. But how could he fully understand when he knows so little of the truth? Ninety percent of what lawyers do at trial is designed to limit what the jurors know, not to inform them. Could he read between the lines? Could he understand what no one was permitted to say? In his normal quotidian life, he’s the assistant supervisor on a loading dock. But today he’s Solomon and Torquemada and Jack Ketch. Today he has the power to decide who lives and who dies.
This trial—an appropriate term—has dragged on for weeks. The relevant information could probably have been conveyed in an afternoon. But these exercises in amateur theatrics are not about efficiency, nor are they about justice. Today they are about politics and the societal need for retribution—a code word for vengeance, the pettiest of motives. This is bread and circuses, a performance designed to amuse and placate the masses.
The reporters, commenters, and bloggers who have covered this case nonstop are scavengers circling for carrion. My client is the prey, while I and the others wearing blue and gray suits exist somewhere in between. There was a time when I considered us officers of justice. But now I see that we are little better than mechanics oiling the wheels of the machinery. Churning through cases. Through people’s lives. And their deaths.
The only opinions that matter now are the twelve opinions sitting in that box, those twelve random souls chosen not for their wisdom, not for their powers of perspicacity, but because they hold a driver’s license. On those opinions now rest futures, families, perhaps even the fate of nations. The sword of Damocles hangs over our heads, suspended not by a thread, but by a faith in an abstract notion: jury of one’s peers.
I’ve sat in this room and listened to that judge speak the same words on many previous occasions. These words are litany, like the incantations of a religious sect. Presumed innocent. Beyond a reasonable doubt. We brandish these catchphrases as if they actually mean something. But that is not how jurors decide cases. Some will try to do what they think is right. Some will acquiesce to the majority. And some will do whatever gets them out of here the quickest. Words are empty air when confronted with realities of this magnitude.
And sadly, words are the only tools lawyers possess.
My client glances at me nervously, running his finger through his hair, hoping for a sign. He thinks I can read the foreman’s expression and tell him what lies ahead.
And he’s right. I can. But early knowledge will not benefit him in the slightest. Better to let the service reach its own benediction.
The woman in the gallery also stares at me. I know what she’s thinking. That I’ve failed her. Again.
I brace myself. The judge opens the document and nods. The bailiff returns the document to the foreman. The twelve look like pallbearers standing over a grave.
The foreman speaks.
The world erupts in a searing flash of desperation and fury.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
2
Seven Months Earlier
This is the most important case I’ve ever handled, so I’m keeping a detailed record. I want to remember every second of it in the days to come. Some people think my actions were inexplicable. I get that. All that matters to me is that I remember why I did what I did. I’ll never forget how it ended. I don’t want to lose the details that got us there.
I’ve been a trial lawyer for many years, maybe too many. Ben Kincaid, attorney-at-law. Almost twenty years now. And in all those years, I’ve managed to learn only two things. First: being a lawyer is way more complicated than most people realize.
And second: every trial has a critical turning point.
Just like a good novel, a trial always reaches a place where the story line veers suddenly in an unexpected or decisive direction. Sometimes it is a moment of clarity. Sometimes it is a moment of despair. It may not be immediately apparent to others. But when you’ve done this as long as I have, you can feel it in your veins.
I had just reached such a turning point in the Overnight Express trial, the one I handled immediately before Oz came back into my life. It was a dull affair about mismanaged phone orders for package deliveries. Judge Perkins knew this was tedious. I could see the weary haze in her eyes. She’s a heavyset woman, never married, never so far as I know even close to it, and that worried me initially. I represented the plaintiff, Powers Leone, who had a reputation for being a would-be playboy—exactly the type of man a serious single woman of indefinite sexuality might dislike. My ace in the hole was supposed to be the current witness, Leone’s mistress, who for the purposes of this trial we were calling his fiancée. She was supposed to verify Leone’s testimony and clinch the case.
She did an admirable job. Three days of witness prep reaped benefits. I asked the right questions, and she responded appropriately, never going on too long, never speaking so evasively that jurors had any reason to doubt her veracity. I’ve always rehearsed my witnesses extensively. We review everything: how to dress, how to sit, whether to cross your legs, whether to look at the jurors, whether to hide emotion or show it, whether to speak loudly or softly or somewhere in between.
Kyra Kubrick had little to do with the order-fulfillment business. She was present during a conversation during which the defendant allegedly admitted that his company mishandled calls, resulting in a large loss of income over the Christmas holidays. Kyra was a tall woman, slender, pale and brittle as bone china, just attractive enough to potentially arouse resentment from female jurors. I cautioned her to go easy on the makeup and to let her hair fall naturally. She’d had an accident in the bath the day before and wore a bandage on the right side of her face—which I considered a blessing. I didn’t want her to look glamorous. I wanted her to look like an honest woman caught in a feud between well-heeled power brokers.
“Any further questions, Mr. Kincaid?” the judge asked.
“Just a few.” I addressed Kyra. “Was this the first time you met the defendant, Brian Wagner?”
She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“Probably heard your fiancé mention his name before, though?”
“Oh yes.”
“Why were you at the Roundhouse?” As the jurors would know, the Roundhouse was one of the nicest restaurants in Oklahoma City.
“We were celebrating. It was our anniversary.” She looked down and smiled. “We’d been together two years.”
By modern standards, a millennium. Very good. “So this was a special occasion?”
“Powers is a very special man. No one ever treated me the way he does.”
Wonderful. If a client starts talking about how terrific he is,
jurors are likely to think he’s a blowhard. But if it comes from someone else, particularly an adoring woman, that’s different. If she likes him, they subconsciously surmise that he must be a likeable person.
“Were you expecting Mr. Wagner?”
“No. He just appeared suddenly.”
“What was his demeanor?”
“At first he seemed angry. He said he knew Powers had been talking to attorneys. He said Powers should think carefully before he tried to—” Her voice dropped a notch. “Do I have to use the same word he did?”
Adorable. Couldn’t play better here in the reddest of the red states, Bible Belt Oklahoma. “I’m afraid you do, Kyra.”
She swallowed. “He said . . . that Powers should think carefully before he tried to screw with him.”
Such language. I hope his mother washed his mouth out with soap. “What happened next?”
“They argued. For two or three minutes. I was afraid the manager would throw us out of the restaurant. And then, all at once, Wagner started crying.”
Several eyebrows rose in the jury box. They were paying attention. “Did you understand why he was crying?”
“Not at first. It seemed like . . . a strange mood swing.”
“What did you do?”
“I offered him a napkin. He was crying all over himself.”
“What did Mr. Wagner say?”
She hesitated, only for a second, but in that second, everything changed. I mentioned that every trial had a turning point? This was it. This testimony, coming from a likeable witness, could save the day for my client.
“He said four things,” she replied, and just after she did, she glanced at my client. Then her hand brushed against the side of her face, the bandaged side.
And that’s when I understood everything.
Something about the way she replied, the way she gave me a topic sentence instead of an answer seemed wrong. As if she had memorized a list. And that hadn’t happened during our practice sessions. This was something I hadn’t heard before. Something new.
Something that wasn’t true.
Why perjure herself? Of course, she loved Leone and wanted to please him, but most people would draw the line at lying in court. Unless… .