Naked Justice Read online

  Naked Justice

  A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense (Book Six)

  William Bernhardt

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media

  Ebook

  Once again, for Kirsten,

  because she deserves it

  When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child, but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

  —SAINT PAUL, 1 CORINTHIANS 13:11

  Contents

  Prologue

  ONE: I’ll Be Judge, I’ll Be Jury

  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

  TWO: They Eyes of the World

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  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

  THREE: The Family Trademark

  Chpater 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chpater 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chpater 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  FOUR: Putting Away Childish Things

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  AS THE BARRETT FAMILY drove from City Hall to the ice-cream parlor, they could scarcely have imagined that soon thousands, if not millions, of people would be scrutinizing, criticizing, and debating what really happened during those final hours.

  “I want chocolate chip!” Alysha shrieked, with the breathless anticipation only an eight-year-old confronted with the prospect of ice cream can muster.

  “Now, honey,” said Caroline Barrett, Alysha’s mother, “you know chocolate stains your clothes. Why don’t you get vanilla?”

  “Want chocolate. Chocolate! Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate!”

  “Me too,” chirped Annabelle, Alysha’s baby sister.

  They both looped their arms over the front seat of the car. “Daddy, we want chocolate! Can we have chocolate?”

  Daddy was a large, broad-shouldered black man who still had essentially the same physique he’d had fifteen years ago when he played college football. “Sure, sweethearts. Whatever you want.”

  Caroline glared at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Honey, it’s just ice cream.”

  “It is not just ice cream. You’re undermining my authority.”

  “Oh, honey…”

  “This is what you always do. You make me play the heavy so you can be the fairy godfather!”

  He glanced at the children in the backseat. “Let’s not do this here.”

  “Don’t tell me when I may or may not talk. This is an important issue. You’re sending all the wrong messages.”

  Daddy’s jaw stiffened. “The only message I’m sending is that they can have whatever kind of ice cream they want.” He pulled into the parking lot across from the Baskin-Robbins.

  “You’re teaching our children that they don’t have to obey me. That they can get whatever they want by running to Daddy.”

  “This is ridiculous.” He popped open the car door and slid out of the driver’s seat. Alysha jumped toward him as he reached across the backseat and released four-year-old Annabelle from her car seat.

  Carrying both girls in his strong arms, he strode across the parking lot to the Baskin-Robbins. Caroline remained several steps behind.

  “Honey,” he said, “why don’t you pop into Novel Idea and check out the new books? I can handle this.”

  She gave him a stony look. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  He sighed, then carried the girls into the ice-cream parlor.

  The man behind the counter, who was wearing a white apron and a white paper cap, rose to attention and saluted. “Afternoon, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Afternoon, Art. How’re you doing?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “How’s Jenny? And that smart little boy of yours?”

  “Oh, they’re fine, sir. Just fine.”

  Alysha and Annabelle approached the front counter, pressed their noses against the glass, and surveyed the rich variety of flavors.

  “All right, little ladies,” the man behind the counter said, “what can I get you?

  The two girls looked at each other, then turned their eyes slowly back toward their parents. There was a pronounced silence. Art, the scoop man, would later testify that he had never felt such tension in the air, particularly when the only question pending was what flavor ice cream to order.

  “Get whatever you want, girls,” Daddy said finally.

  “Except,” Caroline added, laying emphasis on each word, “chocolate.”

  “Honey —”

  “Don’t start with me, Wallace. Don’t start.”

  Wallace Barrett threw up his hands. “Well, I don’t see the point of telling them they can have a special treat and then not letting them get what they want.”

  “I told them they couldn’t have chocolate. We have to be consistent.”

  “This isn’t consistent. This is just mean.”

  “Oh, right. And you, their great hero, are going to ride in and save them from their heartless mother. Is that it?”

  “No, but—”

  “I’m tired of being treated like what I say doesn’t matter!” Her voice was rising; her eyes were red and watery. “You can’t just trample over me like a tight end on the opposing team. I deserve some respect!”

  Wallace Barrett’s eyes moved from the ice-cream man to the four customers standing nearby. “Caroline,” he whispered, “you’re creating a scene.”

  “Do you think I care?” Her voice became thin and shrill. “Do you think I care what people think? This is important to me.”

  “I thought we were talking about the children.”

  “You were wrong. This is about me. But the only way I can get to you is through them! You don’t give a damn about me!”

  His face seemed to solidify. His eyes narrowed to near invisibility and his cheekbones twitched. “Shut up.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, you selfish pig! You’re not mayor over me.”

  “I’m warning you—”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Shut up!”

  His voice boomed through the small store like a thunderbolt from Olympus. The other c
ustomers jumped away, startled. Witnesses would later say that time seemed suspended for the next several seconds, as if everything was happening in a horrifying slow motion. His voice reverberated along the walls and the ceiling, and as it did, Wallace Barrett reared his thick, muscled arm back, then jerked it forward with a practiced quarterback snap. His fist hurtled around, splitting the air like a knife, moving with impossible speed toward his wife’s beautiful ebony face. Her eyes widened in sudden, paralyzing fear, a fear so vivid and immediate that everyone agreed she must have experienced it many times before. She was terrified, but there was no time to move, no time even to scream, before …

  His fist stopped barely an inch from her face.

  They stared at one another, their eyes locked together. The large woman eating the brownie sundae would later describe the sentiment conveyed as pure, undisguised hatred.

  “You’ll regret this,” Wallace Barrett said in the barest of whispers. His arm was still suspended in the air. It began to tremble, and the trembling spread up his neck to his face, then throughout the rest of his body.

  At last his arm dropped to his side. “C’mon, girls,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  They scampered toward him. “But, Daddy—”

  “No whining. Let’s go.”

  “But, Daddy—” Annabelle insisted.

  Barrett’s hand swept around in a wide arc and popped her once on the backside. She quieted immediately.

  “We’ll come back later, Art,” Wallace Barrett said. “I’m sorry.”

  He carried his girls out of the ice-cream parlor. A few awkward moments later, Caroline Barrett followed.

  As soon as she was gone, everyone in the store released a communal sigh of relief. Art went on about his business and tried to forget the incident—until later, when the hordes descended on his little store, prying and probing and offering him large sums of money to remember.

  The girls did not return later. Not Alysha or Annabelle, or for that matter, Caroline. Because only a few hours later, they were all dead.

  One

  I’ll Be Judge, I’ll Be Jury

  Chapter 1

  BEN KINCAID STARED BLANKLY at the woman in the black robe, not quite certain he had heard her correctly.

  Judge Sarah L. Hart cleared her throat. “I repeat: What else would she be doing with a frozen fish?”

  “Oh,” Ben murmured. “That’s what I thought you said.”

  The judge smiled. “Can’t you help me out here?”

  Of course, Ben mused silently, if he could have, he would have. Some time ago. Judge Hart had an unerring knack for cutting to the heart of the matter. That, he knew, was why she was one of the best judges in Tulsa County. Of course there were times when you didn’t necessarily want the best judge in Tulsa County …

  “Your honor,” Ben said, coughing into his hand, “the fish was not actually frozen. It was … preserved.”

  “I’m not sure I understand the difference.”

  “These are freshwater fish. Bass. Trout. They’re kept in a freshwater tank.”

  “Ah. How ignorant of me. Why didn’t they cover this in judge school?” She removed her eyeglasses and massaged the brim of her nose.

  “Ben?” He felt a tugging at his jacket. It was his client, Fannie Fenneman, the fisherwoman under discussion. Ben tried to ignore her.

  She tugged harder. “Ben. Psst, Ben!”

  “Still here, Fannie.” Realizing it was futile, he asked the judge for a moment to confer with his client. “What’s the problem?”

  She leaned close to his ear. “I don’t think this is going so well.”

  “Really. What was your first clue?”

  Fannie tugged uncomfortably at the dress Ben had made her wear rather than her customary overalls and waders. “The judge seems very confused.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Hart said, “if I might have your attention again …”

  “Yes, your honor. Of course, your honor.”

  “I thought perhaps you could help me sort this all out.”

  “I’d be delighted to try.”

  “Good. Let me pose a few questions.”

  Ben was mentally posing a few questions of his own. Such as: Why am I here? Why do I always get these cases? Why did I go to law school?

  “Your client has obtained some renown as a … er … fisherperson. Is that correct?”

  “World-famous,” Fannie said emphatically.

  “World-famous,” the judge echoed. “In fishing circles, presumably. Your client has won numerous tournaments during the past several years, right?”

  “All of them,” Fannie answered.

  “Ms. Fenneman,” Judge Hart said, “are you sure you need counsel? You seem so able to defend yourself, your counsel can barely get a word in edgewise.”

  Fannie lowered her eyes and buttoned her lip.

  “Now,” the judge continued, “the tournament officials say Ms. Fenneman cheated, and they’ve brought criminal charges. Am I still on track?”

  The assistant district attorney, Martin Edwards, rose to his feet. “That’s right, your honor. She’s wrongfully taken over six thousand dollars in tournament prize money. It’s fraud. Deceit.”

  “I see. And so you decided to crack down on this dangerous … fish faker. Stop her before she fishes again. Is that it?”

  Edwards adjusted his tie. “I … probably wouldn’t have used exactly those words.”

  “I suppose all the triple homicides and depraved sex crimes on your docket pale in comparison with this fish fraud?”

  “Your honor, a crime is a crime.”

  “Of course, of course,” Judge Hart said, holding up her hands. “We can’t be making exceptions.” She shuffled a few papers. “Next thing you know, we’ll have people telling fish stories all over the place. Why, the very phrase fish story could come to mean a tale that is exaggerated and not to be believed.”

  “Your honor, we have this woman dead to rights. We found a freshwater tank in the back of her truck. The scheme was, she would wait until after the tournament began and the other anglers had shipped out, then sneak back to her car, pull a fish she bought beforehand out of the tank, and claim she caught it.”

  Fannie leaped to her feet. “That’s a filthy rotten lie! I never saw that tank before in my life!”

  Ben pushed her back into her chair. “It’s not our turn.”

  “But he said—”

  “Sit down.”

  Fannie grudgingly obeyed.

  Edwards continued. “Realistically, your honor, how could the same woman win all these tournaments year after year? I mean, it’s not as if there’s a lot of strategy involved. You sit in a boat and wait for a fish.”

  “Says you,” Fannie muttered.

  “Perhaps,” Judge Hart speculated, “the secret lies in her wrist action as she casts the line.”

  “Right,” Edwards replied. “Or maybe she charms them with her good looks.”

  Fannie could contain herself no longer. “It’s the bait.”

  All heads in the courtroom turned to Fannie.

  “I beg your pardon?” Judge Hart said, peering down through her glasses.

  “Bait,” Fannie repeated. “I make my own. The fish can’t resist it.”

  “Well, there you have it,” Judge Hart said, falling back into her chair. “I’m convinced.”

  Fannie folded her arms angrily across her chest. “I don’t like this judge,” she whispered to Ben. “I think she’s trying to be sarcastic.”

  Trying? Ben thought.

  Ben listened carefully as the prosecution brought forth a series of experts from the glamorous world of professional fishing. The court learned about sonar fish detection, fiberglass rods, and chemically enhanced aphrodisiacal bait. All the experts agreed, however, that an unbroken string of tournament successes such as Fannie’s was unprecedented and rather unlikely. On cross, Ben dutifully required each witness to admit that winning forty-seven consec
utive tournaments was not, strictly speaking, totally and utterly impossible. Somehow, though, he doubted this “admission” was helping her case much.

  For their final witness, the prosecution called a man named Ernest Samson Hemingway. (“No relation,” he said as he was sworn in.) Mr. Hemingway was a frequent tournament participant and the organizer of the last competition in which Fannie participated. He was also the man who disqualified her and restricted her from further league competitions. He had instigated the investigation against her and ultimately found the chief piece of evidence being used to establish Fannie’s guilt.

  Edwards conducted the direct examination, delivering every question in somber tones suggesting the matter at hand was as momentous as the quest for world peace. “Mr. Hemingway, what did you do after the tournament began?”

  “I followed the defendant. Miss Fenneman.”

  “Ms. Fenneman,” Fannie muttered.

  “And why would you do that?”

  “Well, me and the boys’ve been suspicious of her for some time.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know, her winning all those tournaments, one right after another. T’ain’t natural. Hell, I’ve been fishin’ all my life, and I ain’t never come up with a fish like the ones she showed up with every dadburned time.”

  “You couldn’t catch a fish in an aquarium,” Fannie whispered. Ben jabbed her in the side.

  “So,” Edwards asked, “you suspected skulduggery?”

  Hemingway straightened his shoulders. “I suspected she was cheatin’, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Indeed it is.” Edwards turned a page in his outline. “So what did you see when you followed her?”

  “Well, you hafta understand, we was in the water, each in our own boat, and I hadta keep a distance so’s she wouldn’t know she was bein’ watched. Still, I managed to keep an eye on her. Got me a souped-up pair of binoculars. Canon 540s.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “At first she sailed out with everyone else. She found her spot, tossed in her line—all natural-like.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Well, I hadta wait about thirty, forty minutes, while she did nothin’ in particular but sit there and fish.”

  “Yes. And then?”

  “Well, I saw her pull in her reel and look all around to make sure no one was watchin’, real suspicious-like. Then she revs up the boat and heads for shore. But not fast, you see. She goes real slow and quiet, so’s not to make any noise. Then she gets out of her boat and disappears.”