Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  23

  “YOU’RE TRYING TO POISON him against me, that’s what you’re doing!”

  “You’re a paranoid fool !”

  “I know what I know. What I can see!”

  “You’re four martinis past being able to see anything clearly.”

  “Stupid ungrateful cow.”

  “Pig.”

  Harold Rutherford pressed his hand against his throbbing temples. He could feel his pulse quickening, his blood pressure rising. Why did he allow himself to be drawn into these shameless displays? All he’d done was ask Rachel to stop telling their son that his father didn’t like him. Was that so very much to ask?

  “It’s hard enough to keep this family together without you telling Abie I hate him.”

  “I never said any such thing.” Rachel folded herself into a furry white overstuffed couch. “He figured it out for himself.”

  “See?” Rutherford shouted, pointing a finger at her. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. That kind of smart remark is doing Abie a lot of harm. And it doesn’t do anyone any good.”

  “It does me a world of good,” Rachel said. She walked to the wet bar and poured herself a drink. “I always feel better for having spoken the truth.”

  “You’re destroying this family, that’s what you’re doing!”

  “Spare me the Father Knows Best routine, Hal. You never wanted a family, as we both well know. Family is something you condescended to for me.”

  Rutherford’s neck stiffened. “Maybe I didn’t particularly want children, in the abstract. But once I saw that precious little bundle of—”

  Her drink spurted out from between her lips. “Give me a break. You? Sentimental about Abie? You’ve spent more time holding a golf club than you ever spent holding our child.”

  Rutherford checked his watch. “I don’t have time for this. I’m late.”

  “For what? Tee time?”

  “For an appointment with our son, for your information. You remember, the one I never spend any time with!”

  Rutherford stomped out the front door, slamming it behind him with gusto. He just didn’t understand Rachel anymore. After all the agony they had gone through to adopt, all the false hopes and disappointments, he would have thought that when they finally did get a child, and a beautiful one at that, they would never again have another problem. He had staked so much on this. He had assumed that once they had a baby, their marriage would cure itself.

  He should have known better. Nothing cures itself. Nothing ever improves unless you take it into your hands and force it to do what you want.

  He slid into the front seat of his cream-colored Mercedes and turned the key. To his surprise, nothing happened.

  Now that was strange. The car drove just fine this morning.

  He tried the ignition again. Still no response. No impotent revving, no sputtering noises under the hood. Nothing.

  Damn these foreign cars, anyway. He should’ve bought a Saturn, and to hell with what the neighbors would think.

  He checked his watch again. He was already running late, and now he was going to be a good deal later.

  Abie would never forgive him.

  Rutherford slumped down in the car seat. Everything seemed to hit him all at once, like a wall. He loved his son, he really did. But he didn’t know how to … show it. Everything was so different now. Jesus, his own father never once said “I love you” in his entire life. Did that mean he didn’t? Of course not. People understood those things back then. But not any more. Now everyone was expected to babble on about their feelings all the time. Fathers were supposed to be mothers. Everything was different. And not particularly better.

  He tried the ignition again, but there was still no response. Abie would be so upset. The rift between them would be even deeper than before. Perhaps irreparable.

  Rutherford pressed his hand against his face and, to his surprise, wiped away a tear.

  Abie sat on the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, his arms wrapped around his knees, hugging them tightly. It was one-forty, and no Dad.

  It would take his father only a few minutes to get here from home or the country club. Abie had to face facts. He wasn’t coming.

  He had broken his promise.

  Abie pushed himself to his feet. So what, anyway? He didn’t really want to go to some stupid ball game, at least not with his dad. He jerked the Drillers cap off his head and threw it to the ground.

  He looked at it there, lying in the mud, and then, with a sudden burst of energy, smashed it down with his foot till the colors were entirely obliterated.

  A gray sedan with smoked-glass windows eased up to the corner. The window rolled down and inside, Abie saw—that man. Sam. The one who had fought off the bullies and then walked him home.

  “How’s it going, Abie?”

  Abie thrust his hands into his pockets. “I dunno.” He realized suddenly that his face was streaked with tears. He wiped them away furiously. “I’m fine. How’d you find me?”

  “Well, it was pure accident. I just happened to be driving by when I saw you standing there on the corner. I’m on my way to the Drillers game.”

  Abie’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. I go to all the games.” The man smiled warmly. “What about you?”

  Abie shrugged. “I was supposed to go, but … well, it didn’t work out.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. Today’s game is supposed to be the best all year. They’re playing Shreveport for a place in the playoffs.”

  “I know.”

  “Look, I don’t want to push my luck or anything, but—” The man stopped abruptly. “Oh, never mind.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. It isn’t right. You barely know me.”

  Abie looked at the man and his kind, friendly face. It was true he had just met the man, but he felt as though he had known him for years. He liked him. What’s more, he trusted him.

  “My dad was supposed to take me to the game,” Abie said quietly. He could feel tears welling up again inside. “But he didn’t show up.” Abie paused. “He forgot about me.”

  “Aw, I can’t believe that.” The man leaned out the car window. “You know, if you were my kid, I’d never leave you standing around on a street corner all by yourself. And we’d go to all the games.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. Heck, I’ve got season tickets.” He hesitated. “You know, Abie, I probably shouldn’t say this, but I like you so much I’m going to do it anyway. If you want, I’ll take you to the game.”

  Abie swallowed. “You will?”

  “I’d consider it an honor. Just hop in, and away we’ll go.”

  Abie pondered. His brain was a mishmash of confusion and indecision. “I’m not supposed to get into cars with—you know. People I don’t know so well.”

  The man smiled. “Of course not. That’s a smart rule. I understand entirely. Well, say hi to your father for me, if he ever shows up.” The man began rolling up the window.

  “Wait!” Abie bit down on his lower lip. What could it hurt, anyway? He’d be a lot safer with Sam than he’d ever be with his stupid father. And this was the biggest game of the season—

  “Okay. I’ll come.” He tossed his blue book bag into the backseat.

  A broad smile spread across the man’s face. He popped open the passenger-side door. “That’s great, Abie. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.”

  Abie reached for the door and, at just that moment, noticed a green sports car pulling up behind Sam. “That’s Mom’s car!”

  The tall man glanced into his rearview mirror. “What?”

  “It’s my mom’s Jaguar—and Dad is driving it!” Abie beamed. “I guess he didn’t forget after all. I wonder why he’s driving her car?”

  “Yes,” the man said evenly. “I wonder why.”

  Abie stepped away from the man’s car. “Gosh, Sam, I’m sorry, but—”

  “It’s all right. You run along.” His disapp
ointment was evident, but he was being nice about it. What a good sport he is, Abie thought. A really good guy. “We’ll go some other day.”

  “Sure. See ya.” Abie scampered to the green Jaguar and crawled into the front seat beside his father. As he buckled his seat belt he saw Sam pull away from the corner and drive on toward Twenty-first. He was going awfully fast, like he was in a big hurry to get away. Well, he probably didn’t want to miss the first pitch.

  “Are you up for a hot dog?” Abie’s father asked.

  “That sounds great. Can I?”

  “Of course. It’s not really a ball game unless you get a few stale hot dogs.”

  Abie looked up at his father, eyes bright. “And … if it’s not too much, could I maybe get a new ball cap, too?”

  24

  WHEN BEN ENTERED HIS office, Jones was huddling with Loving, the office investigator.

  “Haven’t seen much of you lately, Loving,” Ben said. “What have you been doing?”

  Loving shrugged his immense shoulders. “Nothin’ special, Skipper. Stalkin’ a wayward wife.”

  “I see. You’re probably supposed to take some pictures the husband can use in divorce court.”

  Loving shook his head. “Nah. I’m supposed to make the boyfriend wish he’d never been born.”

  He would be good at that. Loving was a huge, barrel-chested two-hundred-and-fifty-pounder. His idea of going easy on a suspect was to leave all his body parts intact.

  “Did Christina give you the details on the Leeman Hayes case?”

  “I think I got the general picture. Whaddaya need me to do?”

  “Well, for starters, see if you can find any potential witnesses. Anyone who knows anything about the murder. I’d start with the members of the country club and the staff. Ten years ago.”

  Loving frowned. “That ain’t exactly gonna be easy.”

  “I know. But I need a witness in the worst way. You’ll do it, won’t you?”

  Loving half smiled. “Only for you, Skipper. Only for you.”

  A few years before, Ben had won a nasty divorce case—Loving v. Loving. Afterward, the disgruntled and estranged husband showed up at Ben’s office with a gun. Ben managed to survive, and Loving was so grateful to Ben for not pressing charges that he insisted on helping Ben with his caseload. In a matter of months Loving had become a full-fledged, licensed private investigator. He did all Ben’s litigation investigations and handled some clients of his own when he had time.

  “I’ll do my best, Skipper. But I know the police have been looking for the same info, and they totally flushed out.”

  “I may have a helpful piece of data the police didn’t.” He told Loving and Jones about his meeting with Captain Pearson, and Pearson’s oil-and-gas operations in Peru. “Gas prices aren’t that high, but Pearson appears to be rolling in dough. Mike told me there’s a lot of illegal narcotics coming this way from Peru. I just wonder if there might be a connection.”

  “Someone should fly to Peru and check it out,” Jones said. “As it happens, I’m available.”

  “No doubt. Unfortunately, that’s not in the Kincaid office budget. I was hoping you could do some database research. Like without leaving your chair.”

  “Right,” Jones said. “Booting up now.” He turned on his desktop computer and keyed up the modem. “But you know, Peru isn’t going to have as many computerized records as the United States does. Plus, access will be much harder. I haven’t read Spanish since high school.”

  “Do the best you can,” Ben said. “And come up with something I can use.”

  Christina came through the front office door with a large file folder under her arm. She was wearing a billowing purple sequined skirt with gold frill. It made Ben wonder if the national square-dancing convention was in town.

  “Here I am,” she announced. “This had better be good. Your mom wanted to take me to Utica Square.”

  “Did you stop by to see her this morning?”

  “Oh, yes. She has your little pigpen completely under control. Joey was happily downing his formula and she was doing a little housecleaning.”

  “Housecleaning?” Ben groaned. “Like what?”

  “Well, when I arrived, she was tossing out some maggot-infested food. Under the sink she found a bag of potatoes that the entire Tulsa pest population has been munching on for months. Later she was planning to alphabetize your record albums.”

  “Aaargh! Why can’t she leave things alone?”

  “Because she’s your mother, Ben.” Christina giggled. “I mean Benjamin. I’m afraid she thinks your apartment is pretty shabby.”

  “She thinks every place on earth should look like a Nichols Hills mansion.”

  “Ben, I’ve been poor all my life, but I still think your apartment is pretty shabby. Let the woman do what she can.”

  Ben decided to change the subject. “Let’s get on with the team meeting. You should probably go to the courthouse and—”

  “I’m way ahead of you.” Christina thunked the large file down on Jones’s desk.

  Ben lifted an eyebrow. “Good news or bad?”

  “A little of both. Which do you want first?”

  “The good news. Definitely the good.”

  “Myrna Adams is the assistant DA who’s going to try the case. You remember Myrna.”

  “Sure. Tall, attractive. Great legs.”

  Christina drummed her fingers. “Legal skills, Ben. Focus on the legal skills.”

  “Right. She’s pretty good. A straight shooter. She won’t try to pull any sleazy prosecutorial tricks.”

  “Women never do. It’s you testosterone types who try to turn the courtroom into a macho meter.”

  “Facts, Christina, not feminism.”

  “Right. I talked to Myrna for a few minutes. She was getting ready for the pretrial conference today at ten. She’s not crazy about this case and she knows you’re in a tough spot. I think we’ll be able to work something out. Like a plea bargain. Maybe even for time served, if the judge okays it.”

  “Well, it’s worth pursuing. It always helps when the prosecutor is rational. What’s the bad news?”

  “Judge Hawkins.”

  “Not again!” Ben threw his head down against the desk. “I’ve already had three cases before him this year. And I lost every single one.”

  “Well, here’s your chance to go for oh-and-four.”

  “Are you certain about this?”

  “Positive. And there’s no chance of a transfer.”

  “What’s wrong with Hawkins?” Loving asked. “Does he hate your guts as much as that federal judge?”

  “It isn’t anything to do with me,” Ben explained. “It’s all him. Hang ’em High Hawkins. He’s the closest thing to a hanging judge we have in Tulsa County. As far as he’s concerned, anyone the police arrest is guilty until proven innocent. And he always gives the maximum sentence. He doesn’t have any sympathy for anyone.”

  “Well, maybe if you talk to him …”

  “Forget it. Hawkins is the most inattentive, indifferent, indolent judge on the bench. As far as he’s concerned, trials are just rigmarole he’s forced to endure before he can toss the defendants in the hoosegow. He never takes charge of his cases. Lets the prosecutors get away with anything.”

  “I’m sorry I asked.”

  Ben pointed at the file folder on the desk. “What’s in there?”

  “My pièce de résistance. Trial exhibits. Everything the prosecution is planning to use. Mike got them for you.”

  “Great. That’ll cut through the red tape. Have you got time to review them?”

  “I live to serve.” Christina pulled a chair up to the desk. “I may check in on your mother at lunchtime, though. Just to make sure she’s doing all right with Joey.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Ben said. “She’s done kids before. I don’t want you to impugn your professional reputation.”

  “I don’t mind.” Christina opened the folder and began poring over the docum
ents. “To tell the truth, I kind of miss the little squirt.”

  “There seems to be some magic memory-erasure effect that makes people remember how cute babies are and forget everything else about them.”

  “Just as well. If it were the other way ’round, the species would have gone extinct aeons ago.”

  25

  BEN COULDN’T FIND A parking space in the underground lot between the state courthouse and the library, so he ended up having to park at the Convention Center and hoof it. The heat was still blistering—over a hundred and eight now, according to KWGS—and he wasn’t the only one feeling it. The homeless people occupying the bus stop on Denver looked singularly miserable. The air conditioner in his apartment might not work, Ben noted, but at least he had an apartment.

  Knowing as he did that riding the elevator always entailed at least a fifteen-minute wait, Ben took to the stairs. He was doing some significant huffing and puffing by the time he reached the seventh floor. Judge Hawkins’s clerk waved him into the judge’s chambers. Ben pushed open the door and found Judge Hawkins reclining in the chair behind his desk …

  … and Jack Bullock sitting in the chair on the opposite side.

  “Ben,” Bullock said. His hands were folded steeple-style before his face. “We were just talking about you.”

  What a delight to find the notorious hanging judge was talking about him with the man who had recently sworn to “teach you a lesson.” “About the case, or me?”

  “You,” Bullock said. “And your … tactics.”

  Ben took the available chair opposite the judge’s desk. “You know, Jack, some people might consider an ex parte conversation with the judge mildly improper.”

  Ben glanced at Judge Hawkins, assuming he would intervene and assure Ben that nothing untoward had occurred. Ben was sorely disappointed. Hawkins just leaned back in his chair with the usual indifferent expression plastered across his face.

  If anything, he appeared amused and content to enjoy the banter.

  “Like I said,” Bullock growled, “we talked about you, not your case. As long as we don’t specifically discuss the case, there’s no ethical impropriety.”