Silent Justice Page 5

  “I am saying Pez. Pez. P-E-Z. Pez.”

  “If I may, your honor,” Ben said, reentering the fray. “Pez is the brand name of a candy. Small rectangular sugary treats. Sort of like Sweetarts.”

  “Sweetarts?” the judge replied. “Are we dealing with pastries now?”

  Ben smiled wearily. Just his luck to have a bench trial before a judge whose cultural knowledge ended with the Andrews Sisters. Or wanted people to believe it did, anyway. “Your honor, I’m afraid Sweetarts is also a brand name. For another candy.”

  “Oh. I see,” he said, although the expression on his face suggested that he did not. “And you say this man was selling Pez … dispensers?”

  “Yes, your honor. Little plastic gizmos designed to … well, dispense the candy. They have heads.”

  “The candy?”

  “No. The dispensers. The heads are made to resemble popular culture icons. Comic book characters. Cartoon characters. Santa Claus. That sort of thing.”

  “Oh. I see.” Again the surefire indicator that he was clueless. “Excuse me, counselor, but I’m still confused about something.” The judge rustled through his papers for a moment. “I believe I read somewhere that the sales contract at issue was in the amount of eighteen thousand dollars.”

  “Yes, your honor. You see, as I explained in the pretrial order”—hint, hint—“some of the older Pez dispensers are treasured by collectors and sell for large sums of money. Like baseball cards. Or comic books.”

  “Comic books.” Judge Lemke clapped his hands together. “I used to read those when I was just a boy. I reveled in them.”

  “That’s lovely, your honor.” But what does it have to do with this case?

  “There was one of which I was particularly fond. What was it?—oh, yes. Captain Marvel. He was just a little boy, you see, but when he said the magic word, he became a huge strapping hero.”

  Ben glanced at Christina, but once again, all she offered was a shrug. Was there an objection for the addled judge’s taking an irrelevant stroll down memory lane?

  “I remember there used to be a little worm Captain Marvel fought. What was his name? Why, Mr. Worm, of course. No—Mr. Mind. That was it. Yes. Spoke through a little radio transmitter hung around his neck.” He paused for a moment, then sighed. “Don’t see how those comics could become valuable, though. They only cost a dime.”

  Ben cleared his throat. “Your honor … if I may.”

  Judge Lemke looked up abruptly, shaken from his reverie. “Oh, yes. Of course. Proceed, counselor.”

  Ben turned his attention back to the witness. “Didn’t you agree with my client that eighteen thousand was a fair price for the dispensers?”

  Zyzak shook his head vigorously. “I did not.”

  “You wrote that amount on the contract.”

  “He wrote that amount on the contract. I would never have sold my dispensers that cheaply. Especially not the Wonder Woman.”

  Judge Lemke looked down again from the bench. “Excuse me?”

  “Wonder Woman. The 1965 version, in mint condition. That’s before she lost her eagle.”

  Lemke removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I don’t quite follow.”

  Zyzak was happy to explain. “Everyone knows that, originally, Wonder Woman had the emblem of an eagle across her … um …”—he waved his hand vaguely around his chest area—“you know. On her bodice. But in the Sixties, her corporate masters, DC Comics, now part of the Time-Warner mega-monster, changed the emblem to a stylized double W. They wanted a trademark they could register and market, and you can’t claim dibs to the American eagle. So they changed it. The 1965 dispenser, however, was made before the change; hence its heightened value. Some people think it’s the 1969 Wonder Woman dispenser that’s so hot, but that’s incorrect. The 1969 dispenser was of the short-lived superpowerless karate-chopping Wonder Woman written by the legendary Dennis O"Neil. She was modeled after Diana Rigg’s Emma Peel character on The Avengers, which, by the way, was itself a steal from Frances Gifford in Nyoka and the Tigermen. Of course, the Nyoka character was taken from the serial movie adaptation of Edgar Rice Burroughs’s book Jungle Girl, but the Hollywood slime changed her around so they wouldn’t have to—”

  “Excuse me,” Ben said, coughing into his hand. “This is fascinating, but could we return our focus to this case?”

  Zyzak shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”

  “Mr. Zyzak, you claim that there was never a meeting of minds between you and Mr. Coe?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “But the fact remains—you did sign the contract.”

  “Yeah.…” He adjusted his bulk from one side of the chair to the other. “But I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. I was … uh … what’s the phrase? Not of sound mind.”

  “Are you saying you were temporarily insane?”

  “Nah. Nothing like that.”

  “Are you claiming you signed the contract under duress?”

  “What, like I was threatened by a wimp like Coe? Nah.”

  “I gather you’re not a minor.”

  “Only in the eyes of the cosmos.”

  “Then I’m afraid I don’t understand why—”

  “I was drunk.”

  Ben lowered his chin. “Drunk?”

  “Yeah. Smashed. Blown. Snockered. Get my drift?”

  “I certainly do. You said the same thing at your deposition. You’re claiming you were intoxicated at the time you signed the contract, and therefore didn’t know what you were doing.”

  “Yeah. That’s it exactly. And that guy, Coe”—he pointed across the courtroom—“he knew I was plastered. He took advantage of me.”

  “Mr. Zyzak, that’s about the lamest excuse I’ve—”

  “Now, now, Mr. Kincaid.” Judge Lemke rapped his desk with his water glass. “Let’s remember our manners.”

  “Your honor, this is ridic—”

  “Counsel, we must take this defense seriously.”

  “Why? He’s just trying to weasel out—”

  “I’m afraid I’m in complete agreement with the witness, Mr. Kincaid. If he was drunk, and your client knew he was drunk, I will not enforce the contract.”

  “But your honor, he’s just—”

  “You heard what I said, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Yes, your honor.” He shifted his attention back to the witness. “All right, then. We’ll play it your way, Mr. Zyzak. If you were drunk, what had you been drinking?”

  “Beer. The staff of life.”

  “I assume that was three point two beer. This being Oklahoma, after all.”

  “Well …”

  “You’d have to drink a hell of a lot of three point two to get so drunk you didn’t know what you were signing.”

  “Oh, I did. Put down a whole six-pack and a half in about ten minutes. I was grieving, see. I had just found out the Sci-Fi Channel was removing Earth II from its lineup.”

  “So you had about nine beers, then.”

  “I did. Man, I was reeling. Could barely stand up straight.”

  “Tell me this, then, Mr. Zyzak. After you finished those nine beers … what did you do with them?”

  “What did I do with them? What do you mean? I didn’t do anything with them, "cept maybe when I went to the John.”

  “The cans, Mr. Zyzak. What did you do with the beer cans?”

  “Oh. Why didn’t you say so? I just threw them in the—”

  All at once, Zyzak’s face froze.

  Ben smiled. He held up a typed piece of paper. “I have here a signed and notarized affidavit listing the complete itemized contents of Mr. Zyzak’s trash, on August fifteenth, the next day, and the next two weeks. There were no beer cans, Mr. Zyzak. Not one, much less nine.”

  “Oh.” Zyzak stared down at his hands for a long moment. Finally, he looked up. “Judge, is it too late for me to settle?”

  Judge L
emke smiled beatifically. “I think that would be very wise.” He leaned forward a bit. “Tell me, son. Was there ever a Captain Marvel … uh … um …”

  “Pez dispenser?”

  “Yes. That.”

  Zyzak nodded. “Oh, yeah. But it’ll cost you.”

  Chapter 2

  JONES PASSED THE FILES and documents and photographs back to the woman in the gray coat. “Look, I’m sympathetic. I know this must’ve been horrible for you. But we can’t help you.”

  The woman didn’t budge. “Why not? What happened to us was wrong. Very wrong.”

  “I don’t dispute that. But you have to understand—every wrong does not have a legal remedy. There’s only so much the courts can do.”

  “What these people did was unconscionable. They should be made accountable.” She paused. “I’ve done a lot of reading about this. We could sue for wrongful death.”

  “And you would lose. You’ve got a causation hole big enough to fly a 747 through.”

  The woman did not relent. Obviously, this was important to her. “We could get some experts—”

  “Do you have any idea how much it costs to hire an expert witness, ma’am? Because I do. As the office manager for this firm, I have to. They’re expensive. You Wouldn’t believe how expensive. And that would just be the tip of the iceberg. A case like this would cost thousands to try. Hundreds of thousands. Do you have that kind of money?”

  For the first time, the woman hesitated. “No. But I thought perhaps some sort of contingency fee arrangement—”

  “Meaning we would have to pay all the bills up front. Let me tell you something, ma’am, speaking as the man most intimately aware of this firm’s feeble financial status. We can’t afford your case. Perhaps some other firm.”

  “I’ve tried other firms. They all say the same thing. They won’t take the case because they don’t think they can make any money off it. The reason I came here is that I heard Mr. Kincaid was a lawyer who actually cared about something other than the thickness of his wallet.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jones said insistently. “It’s simply impossible.”

  “How can you know that? At least let me talk to him.”

  “Mr. Kincaid is very busy. As the office manager, it’s my job to screen potential clients.”

  “All I need is ten minutes of his time.”

  “I’m sorry, no.” Jones rose, obviously suggesting that she should do the same.

  The woman in gray gathered her materials and grudgingly prepared to leave. “Could you at least explain why you’re hustling me out the door like this? Are you so certain Mr. Kincaid wouldn’t be interested?”

  Jones shook his head. “I’m certain he would.”

  Jones almost had the woman out of the office when Fate intervened to spoil his plan. Ben Kincaid walked through the front door.

  Ben glanced at the woman he didn’t know, then over to Jones. “Well, we’re back.”

  Christina came in a few steps behind him. “And back triumphant, I might add.”

  Jones beamed. “You won? Excellent.”

  “We were fortunate,” Ben said. “Had a good day. The client was very happy.”

  “So happy he paid you on the spot?”

  Ben tilted his head to one side. “Well … no. Actually, there’s a bit of a problem with that.”

  Jones slapped his hand against his forehead. “Dear God,” he murmured, “don’t let this mean what I think it means.”

  “Seems our friend Mr. Coe has had a turn of bad business luck.…”

  Jones pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew it. I just knew it.”

  “His profits are way down,” Christina explained. “His store hasn’t recovered from the loss of those Pez dispensers.”

  “Let me guess,” Jones said. “He can’t pay you.”

  “Not in cash,” Ben said. “But he did give me a lovely near-mint-condition copy of Aquaman #18.”

  “Why would we want that?”

  “Are you kidding? That’s the one where Aquaman marries Mera the merwoman.”

  Jones shook his head. “I can’t take it. I just can’t take it anymore.”

  The woman in gray stepped forward. She had large doe eyes, vivid blue and unblinking. “Are you Ben Kincaid?”

  Ben extended his hand. “Guilty as charged.”

  “I’m Cecily Elkins. I’d like to talk to you about a possible lawsuit.”

  “Would you be the plaintiff?”

  “One of them. I believe it would be a class action suit.”

  “Really?” Ben raised his eyebrows. “Cool. Did you talk to my office manager?”

  A tiny frown spoiled her face. “Yes. He assured me you wouldn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Nonsense. Of course I want to talk to you.”

  Jones tried to step between them. “Boss—if I may—I think this is a mistake—”

  “Don’t be such a wet blanket, Jones. We’re just going to chat. Why don’t you put on some coffee?”

  Jones drew himself up indignantly. “I do not do coffee. I’m the office manager.”

  “Fine. Then go manage something.” He pointed toward his private office at the end of the hallway. “Ms. Elkins, would you join me?”

  Ben escorted the woman down the hall. Christina started after them, but Jones grabbed her arm. “I want it recorded for posterity that I tried to prevent her from talking to him. That I was against this from the get-go.”

  Christina shrugged off his hand. “Jones, why are you getting so worked up? It’s just another case.”

  “Yeah, just another case,” he echoed grimly. “But it could well be our last.”

  Half an hour later, Ben had scanned all the papers the woman had brought with her, and worse, had seen all the photographs. He’d heard the woman’s story, at least in miniature. It had been one of the most emotionally wrenching half-hours of his life.

  “I’m beginning to understand why my office manager didn’t want me to talk to you.”

  “I understand the difficulties,” Cecily said. “But I think it’s important. We can’t let something like this happen.”

  “I agree,” Ben said, “but you have to realize that the odds against us are staggering.”

  “I’m not going to back off just because it won’t be easy.”

  “There are other concerns as well. Important ones. I’ve spent most of my career working in the criminal courts. Sure, I’ve done some civil work along the way, but with a case of this magnitude … you might be better off with a different firm. A bigger firm.”

  “I’ve been to all the big firms,” she explained. “In Tulsa and in Oklahoma City. They all said no, because—”

  “I know why they said no.” Ben gingerly laid the photos down on his desk

  “If you’ll agree to take us on, I’ll help in any way I can. I’ll do anything you want.”

  “I know.”

  “So?” She leaned forward eagerly. “Will you do it?”

  Ben drew in a deep breath, then slowly released it. It seemed like an eternity before he answered, both to Cecily and to Ben himself. “I want to meet the other parents.”

  He had waited long enough. The lights in the house had been out for more than an hour now. There had been no sounds, no movement, not the slightest indication that anyone was awake. True, it might be safer to wait another hour or so; it was only eleven o"clock. But he was ready now, and when he was ready, he was ready. It was difficult to explain. It was a tingling at the base of his spine, an itching at the back of his eyeballs. A sixth sense, if you will. It was like that passage in the Bible, in Ecclesiastes: There was a time for everything.

  This was the time to kill.

  Quietly, using maximum stealth, he crept out of the alleyway between houses toward the front door of a large two-story Tudor-style home. He kept to the shadows; only his piercing green eyes shone in the darkness. He tiptoed up the steps to the front door.

  Which was locked. As he had known it would be. He had learned s
ome time ago that the key to success in this world was advance research. He had planned this outing well, well enough to know that the door would be locked. He also knew how to get around that.

  From an inside coat pocket he withdrew a palm-size glass cutter. He attached the suction cup to the window panel on the left side of the door, close to the lock. He extended the string to its full length, then carefully drew a circle with the diamond stylus. He repeated the motion, again and again, cutting a smooth, round section of glass. When that was finished, he grasped the handle on the suction cup and removed the circular section of glass.

  Voilà! Smooth as a baby’s bottom.

  He reached through the new opening in the glass and slid out the chain lock. He gave the doorknob a little twist, popping open the lock.

  There was still the matter of the dead bolt. Reaching inside his coat once more, he removed a stainless steel lock pick. He had acquired this baby during his last trip to D.C. He loved it. It resembled a Swiss army knife, except the various blades were all picks designed for a variety of different locks. He chose the two most appropriate for this door and started to work.

  Two minutes later, he was inside. The lights were out, but moonlight streamed through the bay windows, making it easy to find his way around. He located the staircase almost immediately. As he knew, all the bedrooms were upstairs.

  There were three people in the house, not counting himself: Harvey, Harvey’s wife, and their fifteen-year-old son, the junior high track star. At the top of the stairs, he quietly crossed over to the first bedroom, carefully creeping, to use Sandburg’s phrase, on tiny cat feet. He soundlessly pushed open the door.

  The boy was asleep in bed, on top of the covers, wearing nothing but a ratty pair of gym shorts. He had no grudge against this boy, and there was nothing the boy could tell him. Unfortunately, the kid was young and strong, and if he awoke during the subsequent proceedings, there was a tremendous possibility that he could create problems. It was an unacceptable risk.

  The man reached into his overcoat pocket and this time withdrew a Sig Sauer .357. He walked to the edge of the bed, aimed it at the boy’s head, and fired.

  Bang-bang, he thought, adding the sounds his silencer-equipped gun did not. You’re dead.