Justice Returns

by William Bernhardt

  None of which mattered. I had no intention of being detected. I have operated in the shadows for years. Tonight would be no exception.

  Even though it was not critical that I be able to audit this particular conversation, I decided to move closer. There would be later times, I suspected, when I would need to know what was being said inside that house. Better that I work out the parameters while there was no urgency about it.

  I crossed into the target’s backyard. The six-foot stockyard fence was so little inconvenience as to induce laughter. Who exactly did these capitalists think they excluded with a fence a child could mount without effort? I found a hideaway in some shrubbery not far from the house.

  Windows. Large windows. Perfect for letting in light. And anything else that wanted in.

  I could not help but note that this position, with visual access to almost every room in the house, would make a perfect sniper’s loft. Extraction would be equally simple.

  My lipreading skills are excellent. Using binoculars, I could follow the general trail of the conversation, with only occasional lapses when the wife spoke, as she sat with her back to me. First the parties present discussed al-Jabbar’s situation. I sensed that more was not being said than said. Then the conversation turned to the sister and her situation. Even less was said there.

  My tiny MacIV Listening Scope was only slightly more sensitive than the listening devices one could obtain at Toys R Us. But it was more than sufficient at such close range. The reception through my earpiece was almost static-free and immediately transmitted to the recording mechanism. I had an automatic backup file, in case my memory lapsed. Not that my memory ever lapsed.

  “Mind if I ask why you’re so concerned?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? We’ve known each other forever. We were high school sweethearts. Don’t you have a sweet spot for your high school sweetheart? Oh. You didn’t actually have one, did you?”

  “We’re making up for lost time.”

  I ensured transmissions and recordings would continue even when I was not present. I crept to the back of the house and wedged the subsonic transmitter through a tiny aperture on the side of the door using a shish kebab stick. The magnetized adhesive took hold.

  A remote possibility of detection existed, but I thought it unlikely. Given the minute size of the device, even if someone noticed, it was far more likely they would mistake it for a splotch of dirt or a dead insect. I did not believe anyone in this household bore the level of intelligence sophistication necessary to recognize this for what it was.

  The conversation ended, and the parties retired. Once the house was still, I climbed over the fence and departed, careful not to be seen. The risks were too great to take chances. The fate of nations lay in the balance. With stakes of this magnitude, the lives of individuals were less than meaningless.

  20

  As I rode the elevator to my office the next morning, my mind was filled with questions but no answers. Who killed Nazir? What did Oz want? Why did he go to that press conference? Why was my sister so interested? What game was Mina playing? Who and where was this mysterious Abdullah?

  All of which could probably be summarized in one overarching question: What the hell was going on?

  I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts I was halfway through the lobby before I noticed the devastation.

  My office had been trashed.

  I’m not talking about a few upended chairs. I’m talking about an office that looked as if one of Oklahoma’s infamous twisters came through and tap-danced for a few minutes. Paper covered the floor like carpet. Case files were dumped and scattered. Two of the windows were cracked. The seat cushions in the sofa had been ripped open. The end table was splintered right down the middle. Tanya’s workstation was a mess. It was like—

  I put my simile on hold.

  Tanya’s workstation .

  Where was Tanya?

  A chill gripped my chest.

  Stay calm, I told myself. Don’t panic. Don’t assume the worst—even though that is always my natural instinct.

  I willed my limbs back into action. I took one step, then another, then another. I rounded the curved desk that separated Tanya’s station from the rest of the lobby.

  Tanya huddled in a fetal position, hands wrapped around her knees, head pressed against the wall, her entire body quaking. She cried so intensely she could barely catch her breath. Tears and snot streamed across her face. Her shirt was hiked so high it revealed not just a butterfly but a kaleidoscope of them.

  I crossed, crouched beside her, and gently laid my hand on her back. “Tanya, it’s all right. No one’s here but you and me.”

  She looked up at me, her eyes wide and frightened, then looked away. She didn’t speak. I wasn’t sure she could speak.

  “What happened?”

  Eons passed before she answered. “Don’t . . . know. Found it . . . this way .

  “Did you see anyone?”

  Her head bobbed. “Wore ski masks. Rushed out when I came in.”

  “How many?”

  “S—saw three. Might be more.”

  “Did they hurt you?”

  “One . . . knocked me down. Didn’t have to. Wanted to. Knocked me down with a single swat.”

  I saw a welt on her face that would soon be a nasty bruise. I felt guilty about pressing her to talk about something she obviously didn’t want to remember. But I had to know what happened. I comforted myself with the idea that it might be good for her to get this out of her system. “Did they say anything?”

  It took her longer to reply. “The one who hit me. Said . . .” Her voice trailed off, degenerating into gasps and sobs.

  “What, Tanya? What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Tell your boss he doesn’t know who he’s fucking with.’”

  She turned suddenly and wrapped her arms around me. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt anyone squeeze so tightly. Like she thought body heat might chase the demons away.

  I’ll admit I felt a strong chill myself.

  “I’m scared, Ben. Really . . . really scared.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Tanya.”

  “I’m scared for you.” I felt tears drop onto my neck.

  I knew we had a lot of work to do. And I knew it would take much time to reassemble this office. But for the moment, surely, the best thing in the world I could do was hold her and let her cry it out.

  ***

  “Well, now. Good thing I’m not the suspicious type.”

  I was still on the floor holding Tanya when I looked up and saw Christina hovering above us. “I can explain.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said, gazing around the room. “I think the state of the office is explanation enough.” She crouched down and wrapped an arm around us both. “You two okay?”

  Tanya wouldn’t look up. “I don’t know.”

  “She ran into the intruders,” I explained. “One of them hit her on his way out.”

  Christina nodded. “Take some time and get over this, Tanya.”

  “I . . . don’t want to be a crybaby.”

  “You’re not. Look, I’ve been manhandled once or twice in my life. I didn’t like it. Makes you feel vulnerable. Like, if that can happen, anything can happen. You take all the time you need.”

  Tanya looked up, her face streaked with tears and blotches. “This—this has happened to you?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “You’re the toughest woman I know.”

  Christina turned her head. “Oh, pshaw.”

  Tanya wiped her nose. “If you can work through it, so can I.”

  “You should probably go home and—”

  She pushed herself to her feet. “Nah. Someone’s got to clean up this mess.”

  Once she was out of earshot, I gave my wife a hug. “Remind me to tell you how special you are someday.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You did what I didn’t come close to doing. Because you understand people.�
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  “You’re getting better.”

  “I’m not even in your league.”

  “True.” She sifted through the debris. “You think the haters did this? Racists? Lynch mob?”

  “I wish I did. But I don’t.”

  “Nazir’s family?”

  “No.”

  “You think it was the government.”

  “I wish I didn’t. But I do.”

  “Which particular branch of the government?”

  “I don’t know. I probably never will. The possibilities are endless.”

  Christina walked down the main corridor, cataloguing the damage. “There may be more to this than scare tactics. They might’ve been looking for something.”

  “What? I don’t know who killed Nazir. Or even who would have a motive. And I don’t know how to find Abdullah.”

  “But your client might. And someone might be worried about him talking.”

  We sat down in my inner office. “If that’s true, it would be useful to know who it was and what exactly they were worried about.”

  “Yes, and we’re not going to learn that from chatting. Ben, call in Loving.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Ben, it’s been years.”

  “I don’t care. Not doing it.” Aloysius Loving had been my private investigator. We met when he held me at gunpoint. I represented his ex-wife in their divorce, and he wasn’t happy about it. We worked past that and became close friends. He helped me on innumerable cases. But on the last one, he was seriously injured and almost killed. He decided to take some time off, which I thought a good idea. And much as I could use some help, I wasn’t about to risk his life.

  “Ben,” Christina said, “Loving would do anything for you.”

  “That’s the problem. He never says no—even when he probably should.”

  “He wouldn’t mind.”

  “He should. And you should, too. You should be home with our girls. This is looking dangerous.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “So you can be the next target?”

  “To keep my girls from losing their good-hearted but occasionally thickheaded father.”

  I knew from experience there was no point in arguing with her. But I wouldn’t draw Loving into the fire. “I already called Corwin about the case. He’s good.”

  “He’s no Loving.”

  “He’ll have to do.”

  Christina gave me that smoldering look I’d learned meant that, at the very least, I shouldn’t be expecting ice cream tonight. “Why did you call Corwin?”

  “To interview people who were at the press conference. Someone must have seen something. If we could find another suspicious character, it would make my job much easier.”

  “SODDIT?”

  “Do we have an alternative? Corwin was glad to get the work. He’s mostly worked for the OSBI these past months, tracking down illegal immigrants. Now that Oklahoma allows law enforcement to seize the property of illegal immigrants, they’ve gotten very interested in rooting them out. Even if it leaves people with no way to care for their children. Who also can’t become citizens under the current laws, even if they were born in Oklahoma.”

  “Chill, Ben. One cause at a time.” She leaned forward and squeezed my hand. “You don’t have to run with this case, you know. If you drop out, the court will appoint a lawyer.”

  “And you know how well that will go for Oz.”

  “The girls and I will love you no matter what.”

  “Those girls need to live in a world where people care about one another, where rights don’t disappear the moment they become inconvenient.”

  Christina fell back into her chair. “You’re a hopeless dreamer, Ben.”

  “But . . . you can live with that?”

  The corner of her mouth turned up slightly. “Live with it? That’s why I married you, you chump.”

  21

  I spent the next many days dreading the preliminary hearing. We had to go through the motions, but I couldn’t remember the last time I heard of a case not being bound over for trial. Magistrates typically handled the hearings, and this was a conservative state, and you don’t hang on to your job long if you let accused criminals off the hook. The standard of review was preposterously low. All the prosecutor had to show was probable cause for believing the accused committed the crime—far lower the “beyond a reasonable doubt” standard supposedly required for conviction.

  The prosecutor could also proceed to trial by indictment. Let the grand jury do all the hard work—they always indict, and it’s done behind closed doors, so the prosecution doesn’t have to reveal their case. They don’t have to produce exculpatory evidence until “no less than ten days before trial.” This is typically done in a huge document production masking the few vital documents in a morass of trivia, leaving the defense scrambling to find the needle in the haystack while the clock ticks down to opening statements.

  Preliminary hearings are quicker and simpler but require the prosecution to reveal at least some of what they have. I could only assume that Thrillkill thought this case such a slam dunk he didn’t worry about what he revealed—and he wanted to reap the publicity whirlwind before the election season began.

  I managed to get Oz scrubbed up and into a clean suit. Amazing what a difference a good suit can make, something Christina told me for years while I was buying suits at the Goodwill store. He still had the red, tired eyes that almost inevitably follow a stint behind bars. But his spirits seemed up, and he was generally optimistic, even though I told him he had no grounds for optimism about today’s outcome.

  “Maybe the magistrate will see what a farce this is,” he said.

  “Let’s hope so,” I replied, though I thought it much more likely the magistrate would take the easy way out, especially given how much press the case had already received.

  “They’ll try to hang me because I’m Muslim.”

  I don’t like to argue, but it was best my client had a realistic appraisal of the situation. “That’s hardly the only strike against you.”

  “Doesn’t America guarantee freedom of speech and freedom of association?”

  “That’s the theory.” Not so much in practice.

  Thrillkill came in looking as if he were Moses preparing to address the Pharaoh. All the cordiality he’d feigned during our last meeting had dissipated. He gave me a curt disapproving nod, then moved on. The reporters in the gallery got the lofty lawman they wanted.

  “What’s he got up his butt?” Oz whispered.

  “A deep desire to be governor,” I replied. In any normal circumstance, someone lower on the totem pole would be handling trial work, but Thrillkill undoubtedly saw this case as an opportunity to score political points.

  I noticed someone else sitting beside him at counsel table: a middle-aged middleweight woman I did not know. She was probably from Washington, possibly representing the CIA of the Justice Department.

  A few minutes later, Thrillkill deigned to approach my table. “I can make this go away, Kincaid.”

  “So you’re going to drop the charges. Wonderful.”

  Not even a smile. “You can waive the hearing. Spare your client a lot of misery.”

  “He’ll be automatically bound over for trial.”

  “That’s inevitable. Save the man some pain.”

  “That would be malpractice. You don’t have anything.”

  Thrillkill shrugged. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  This was not, of course, a real settlement offer. This was an intimidation tactic, targeting both Oz and me. He knew I’d never take the offer. Even if I thought our cause hopeless, I’d still go through the motions. I wanted a sneak preview of what Thrillkill had up his sleeve.

  Magistrate Hamilton took the stand. He’d come from a small practice in Choctaw but was said to be well connected. He had a shock of bangs that covered his forehead, making him appear younger than he was. He struck me as reasonably
intelligent and appeared to take his job seriously. But he was also a Republican appointee and had little patience for people he thought were not telling him the truth.

  Hamilton banged his gavel. “This tribunal is now in session.” He read the case style. “The government wishes to bind the defendant over for trial on the charge of first-degree homicide and treason.”

  My eyebrows shot up. Treason? When did Thrillkill add that? Based on what?

  “Both of these charges could carry a death sentence, gentlemen, so I want a clean hearing. No shenanigans. Let’s get this done and get out of here.”

  I wanted a more extensive description of “shenanigans,” but I kept my mouth shut. “We can dispense with extensive opening remarks,” the magistrate continued. “I have a good idea what’s going on here from your pretrial filings. Is there any possibility that counsel could limit their opening comments to one minute?”

  Thrillkill nodded obsequiously. “I will do whatever the court requests, Your Honor.”

  “And Mr. Kincaid?”

  “I’m known for being succinct, Your Honor. When I string more than two sentences together, my wife starts yawning.”

  He did not crack a smile. “You’re up first, Mr. Thrillkill.”

  Thrillkill positioned himself before the judge and spread his arms wide. “Pretty simple, Your Honor. Motive, means, and opportunity are all present, plus the defendant was apprehended at the scene of the crime with the murder weapon in his hand.”

  I tried not to squirm.

  “The motive is obvious. This was a revenge killing, both personally and politically motivated. We know the defendant was previously interrogated by the victim.”

  Oz and I exchanged a glance.

  “We know he bore a great deal of resentment toward the deceased, a CIA agent, and that very day had filed a civil action against Nazir asserting allegations that”—here he glanced at me—“are in all likelihood untrue, unless you believe federal employees are jackbooted hooligans who run around torturing innocents.”

  He had, of course, chosen the phrase “federal employees” because, technically speaking, the magistrate was also a federal employee.