Silent Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Ben winced. “How bad?”

  Joni’s eyes started to swell. “It’s bad, Ben. Real bad. I don’t know how—I didn’t know—I was only gone a minute …”

  Ben put his arm around her and lowered her to a chair. Joni was so dependable and so good at caretaking that he almost forgot how young she was—barely more than a teenager. She was shouldering enough responsibility to break people much older and more experienced than she. “It isn’t your fault,” he said.

  “I thought she was sleeping. I needed to call my friend to see if I could borrow his notes—”

  “It isn’t your fault,” Ben said firmly. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

  “But if I’d just been there. I was supposed to have been there.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. Accidents are inevitable with the elderly. You can only do so much. What do the doctors say?”

  “She’s hurt her hip. Again.”

  Ben shook his head. It was—what? Barely more than a year ago that she’d had hip-replacement surgery. It had taken her forever to recover from that.

  “The accident seems to have worsened her glaucoma. She can barely see.”

  She can’t walk. She can’t see. This was hopeless. Joni could no longer provide the kind of care Mrs. Marmelstein would need. No one could, not on their own. “She’s going to have to be institutionalized.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to have the chance, Ben.” Joni’s lips quivered. “She’s dying.”

  Mike was in his office working late, as he had been since the first of these grotesque murders had been discovered. The night was dark and starless, and through the window behind his desk he could see the lights of downtown Tulsa, the fluid ooze of headlights, the orange fires of the refineries just across the Arkansas. He was trying to concentrate on his work, trying to block the most horrific details out of his mind, trying to pretend he didn’t still hanker for a quick jolt of nicotine. The aching was worst late at night, when he was alone, perhaps even a little bored, and craved something to elevate his spirits, something to do with his hands, something to make him feel less alone. Since he’d quit smoking, he’d gained almost twenty pounds—and he still felt a pang of desire every time he walked past the smokes machine in the lobby.

  The telephone rang, jolting him back to business. He put on his no-nonsense voice and answered. “Morelli.”

  The voice on the other end affected an equally sonorous tone. “Pfieffer.”

  Mike’s expression soured. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got something for you.”

  “Let me guess. You’ve discovered that I took a cup of coffee from the kitchen twelve years ago without putting a dime in the kitty. You’ll probably bring me up on charges.”

  Pfieffer must’ve been in a good mood. He opted to ignore the sarcasm. “Not this time. I’ve got something on Blaylock.”

  Mike sat up. “So soon?”

  “Hey, can I cook or what?”

  “You couldn’t possibly have had time to—”

  “Well, I’ve only managed to go back in their financial records twelve years.”

  “Twelve years? You’ve been through twelve years of that gobbledygook?”

  “Hey, it may be gobbledygook to you, but it’s my first language. Did you know that a few years back Blaylock got ripped off for sixty million clams?”

  “Sixty million? No way. I would’ve heard something about that.”

  “Not unless they reported it to the police.”

  “You’re saying someone could lose sixty mil and not call the cops?”

  “That’s how it looks to me. At any rate, the money departed, and the ledger entry attributes it to theft.”

  “Must be some kind of cover-up. A bad investment or something.”

  “Maybe. But there’s no record of any such expenditure, and the money is gone, just the same. A hit that size could dent even Myron Blaylock s deep pockets.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Mind you, finding this wasn’t easy. Those Blaylock accountants use so many different interlocking documents, reading the financials is like solving a crossword. Even for me. I suspect different pieces of the financial puzzle are shipped out to different accountants, so no one person really knows what the hell is going on. Except ol" Myron himself.”

  That was interesting, Mike ruminated. Why would the distinguished president be so determined to keep his financials private?

  “Anyway, that’s the biggest single-entry suspicious item I’ve identified. Found that sometime last night. But I just uncovered the second largest, which is why I called.”

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “A lump sum payment to a corporate employee—in the amount of slightly more than two million dollars.”

  “Two million? What the hell did he do to deserve that?”

  “Beats me. The ledger entries just call it a "capital contribution."“

  “Must be a top vice president. Or maybe an inventor who came up with a new kind of machinery.”

  “Wrong on both counts.” Pfieffer seemed to be deriving a good deal of pleasure from being light-years ahead of Mike. “He’s a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer? Since when do lawyers make two-million-dollar bonuses?”

  “Since never, unless they’re representing former Heisman trophy winners. But this guy is a salaried employee. Supposedly makes eighty thousand a year. Works in-house at Blaylock.”

  That triggered a memory in Mike’s mental notepad. “What’s this guy’s name, anyway?”

  “Ronald Harris. Ring any bells?”

  “Yeah, it does. I interviewed him not too long ago. When was this payment made?” Pfieffer gave him the date. “That was long before the murders.”

  “Any idea why he’d get that kind of money?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Mike said, rising. “I think I’ll drop by and ask.”

  “Cool. Hey—does this mean I’ve been helpful to you?” Mike felt his teeth grinding. “Possibly.”

  “Excellent. So am I back in your good graces?”

  “Never,” Mike said, and hung up the phone.

  Ben gathered his staff together in his office for the traditional pretrial cram session. Christina was putting everything in order, using her supreme organizational skills to make sure there were no unpleasant surprises at the trial. Loving hovered over Ben’s desk, assembling all his witness profiles and investigative reports. At the same time, Professor Matthews ran hypothetical objections past Ben, anticipating potential snags and developing potential responses. They tried to run through every contingency, making sure they were prepared for anything. Ben had learned some time ago that, contrary to what spectators sometimes thought, the secret to being good at trial was not being quick on your feet. It was being prepared. And with the stakes as high as they were in this case, Ben planned to make damn sure they were prepared.

  They had walked through the trial notebooks, making sure everything was in place, everything Ben might need—witness outlines, exhibits, notes. They had combed through the enormous quantum of documents, pulling those few that might conceivably be of importance at trial. They had researched the legal issues that they could expect Colby to raise whenever he had a chance.

  “Enough,” Ben said, well past midnight. Preparation was a good thing, but at some point, it had to yield to other considerations. Like the need for sleep.

  He had tried to focus on the tasks at hand, although his mind tended to wander back to Mrs. Marmelstein’s hospital room. He had told Joni to call him if there were any developments. So far, no calls.

  “Loving—any news on the search for Paulie?”

  The mountainous man shook his head. “Sorry, Skipper. I’ve hit a wall. And what with this big trial comin" up …”

  “Keep looking,” Ben urged. “It’s important. Now more than ever. We …” He hesitated. “We probably don’t have much time.”

  Ben craned his neck around. “Where’s Jones, anyway? We need to review his stuff, too. Some
of those motions will have to be filed—”

  “Here,” Jones said, as he rushed through the doorway. “Sorry. Got trapped on the phone.”

  Ben didn’t bother hiding his annoyance. “Why didn’t you tell whoever it was that you had work to do?”

  “Because whoever it was was The Brain.”

  “Oh.” Thank God he hadn’t picked up the phone. “What did he have to say?

  “He found out somehow about the good professor here. He’s angry. Says that’s not what he loaned the money for.”

  Geez, Ben thought. If The Brain was upset about Matthews, it was a damn good thing he didn’t know about Dr. Rimland.

  “He says he was protecting his investment by making sure we could complete the trial, not so we could take on additional unnecessary expenses.”

  Professor Matthews cut in. “If I’m going to be a problem, I can drop out.”

  “No, actually, you can’t,” Ben said. “Colby will have a fleet of associates running research for him at every turn. I need you in my corner.”

  “Still, if your money man objects—”

  “Let him object. There’s nothing he can do about it now.”

  “Except refuse to loan us any more money,” Jones said.

  “He said he was going to do that, anyway,” Ben rejoined. “If we need more cash—”

  “Which we will.”

  “—then we’ll have to try something else.”

  “Such as what?”

  The entire staff stared blankly at one another.

  “We could hold a bake sale,” Christina offered, perky as ever.

  Jones’s expression suggested he didn’t feel that was worthy of response.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Ben said. “For now, I want everyone thinking about the trial. The trial, the trial, and nothing but the trial. We’re the plaintiffs in this suit. We have to take control.”

  Christina’s brow creased. “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, since this lawsuit began, we’ve been reactive, not proactive. Plaintiffs are the ones who normally take the ball and run with it, but in this case, from the day it was filed, we’ve let Colby take charge. We’ve been his hostage.” And, Ben thought silently, our lives have been hostages to this case. “He’s taken the lead on pretrial publicity, on motions practice, even on discovery. All we’ve done is deflect his blows and try to keep our heads above water. But that won’t be good enough at trial. We have the burden of proof. If we don’t meet our burden, we’ll go down in flames.”

  He paused. “We know they outdollar us. We know they outman us. We know they have more resources than we ever dreamed of having. But we have to take the offensive. Because we have a room full of parents who are depending on us to make their children’s lives mean something. And to make sure this doesn’t happen again.” He gazed at each of them in turn. “They’ve put their trust in us. I don’t want to let them down.”

  Mike sat at his desk in the dead of night, frustrated.

  Ronald Harris was not at home, or if he was, he wasn’t answering the phone. Which was understandable, given the hour. But Mike couldn’t wait. He wanted to ask Harris about the two-million-dollar payoff, not to mention the disappearing sixty million from the corporate coffers. He didn’t know why, but he felt certain it was important.

  But Harris wasn’t at home. So he would just have to wait until tomorrow. Unless …

  A few synapses inside his weary brain fired back to life.

  What was it George Philby had said when they’d met? “I figured you weren’t here investigating financial improprieties.”

  Mike pondered. Could be just a coincidence. A smart aleck trying to make wise. But as he had mentioned before—he didn’t believe in coincidences. Why would Philby’s mind take that turn?

  It was probably nothing. But then, his last fifty or so interrogations had been nothing, too. What did he have to lose?

  He picked up the phone, hoping George Philby was a light sleeper.

  Just as Ben was almost out of the office, the phone rang. Jones scurried out to take the call, then returned. “Ben?”

  “Take a message. We’re busy.”

  “It’s Colby.”

  Ben’s head cleared with amazing alacrity. The weariness that had been seeping into his bones evaporated.

  Colby? At this hour? What the hell did he want?

  Ben punched the blinking red light on his phone and picked it up. “Yes?”

  “I want to say up front, this was not my idea.” Colby’s voice was flat and unemotional, even on the phone. “I personally am against this. But I am required to act at the instruction of my client. And my client has instructed me to make a settlement offer.”

  Ben felt a clutching at his heart. A settlement offer! Could it be true? He had discussed this possibility with his clients earlier in the afternoon, had considered what they would and would not accept, even though he thought an offer was unlikely. But here it was! And if they accepted—the whole hideous spectacle of a trial would become unnecessary!

  “What is it, Colby?”

  “Here’s the terms. We want a confidentiality agreement. No one talks to the press. The numbers are not revealed. The settlement will be structured, with a payout over ten years.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ben said. “Cut to the part that matters.”

  “We admit no liability. We’re doing this strictly to avoid the inevitable expense of going to trial.”

  “Spare me the sermon. I wasn’t born yesterday. How much?”

  Colby drew in his breath. “I’m in a position to offer you a cash settlement of two hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

  Two hundred and twenty? In other words, twenty thousand per dead kid. Barely more than what Colby had offered at that first hearing. Not nearly enough to compensate the parents for their medical expenses. It wasn’t an offer—it was an insult.

  “Your offer is rejected,” Ben said.

  “Excuse me, counsel. Don’t you have an ethical obligation to take the offer to your clients? Or have you decided to disregard the ethics code entirely now?

  “I’ve already discussed settlement with them, and they’ve given me parameters for what they will and won’t accept, to avoid the trouble of tracking them all down every time we need to make a decision. Your offer isn’t even close.”

  “It’s a mistake to get greedy, Kincaid. Twenty thousand is a lot of money. And a lot better than nothing.”

  “The answer is no, Colby.”

  “At least this way they take something and save some face. If they go to trial, they’re going to be humiliated—and take home nothing.”

  “I gave you my answer. If there’s nothing else—”

  “You plaintiff’s attorneys are all alike,” Colby snarled. “You claim there are great principles involved. You say it isn’t about money. But it always is. You and your pack are just looking for a quick financial fix. Someone else’s money.”

  “It isn’t about money, Colby,” Ben shot back, “and I can prove it to you. Here’s a counteroffer, which my clients have authorized me to make when I think the time is right. They’re willing to settle for this amount: one dollar.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone was satisfyingly long. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. Blaylock pays us one dollar—and admits that what it did was wrong. Admits they poisoned the well and caused those unnecessary deaths. And pays to clean up the Blackwood water supply. That’s the whole deal, Colby. No greed involved. So what do you say?”

  Colby’s voice was low and subdued. “You know we can’t accept that.”

  “One measly dollar, Colby. Not a very greedy offer.”

  “Your offer is rejected,” Colby said.

  He hung up without another word.

  “What was that all about?” Christina asked.

  Ben shook his head. “Nothing important. You people go home and ge
t some sleep.” He pushed himself up and snapped his trial notebook shut. “Tomorrow morning, we’re going to trial.”

  Chapter 27

  GEORGE PHILBY SAT AT home, waiting.

  Why the hell was the cop chasing him tonight, when there was a killer on the loose? Morelli had called a few minutes ago, said he wanted to come over and ask a few more questions. Fine, jerk-off—whatever amuses you. The cop was clueless; he still hadn’t tumbled onto what this was all about. As long as he was in the dark, he was helpless.

  George wasn’t excited at the prospect of talking to Morelli, but what could the man do? He had no grounds to arrest him. George would bluff, lie—whatever it took. The far greater danger lurked in the killing hands of his former friend.

  The doorbell rang. That would be the cop. George wondered if he knew about the money. Probably not, but even if he did, so what? It wasn’t illegal to give an employee a big paycheck. The police might frown on the motivation for the payout, but they had no way of learning about that. No one could tell them—except George, or Blaylock himself. Maybe Ronald Harris. And none of them was likely to start talking.

  He peered through the peephole in the door. He saw the back of the cop’s trenchcoat. He was gazing at the stars. Probably fancied himself the romantic type, George mused. What a fool. He’d blow wind up this guy’s ass, get him out of the house, then go upstairs and catch some sleep.

  He opened the door. “Okay, Lieutenant, let’s get this over with. I’ve got a big day—”

  George froze. His expression disintegrated, from impatient tolerance to unmasked horror.

  “Hello, George,” his old friend said, as he peered out with his piercing green eyes. “Miss me?”

  While he steered his Trans Am with his left hand, Mike punched the number into his cell phone again with his right. No answer. That was odd. He had spoken to George Philby just ten minutes ago, telling him that he wanted to talk to him tonight. Sure, come on over, the man had said. I’ll be here all evening. So why was it that when Mike called now, just to tell him he was going to be a little delayed, there was no answer?

  Something strange was going on here. Mike felt a tingling somewhere at the base of his brain. There were, of course, a thousand possible explanations. Maybe the man was in the bathtub and didn’t care to get out. But would he do that when he was expecting a police detective to drop by? Maybe he had call waiting and he didn’t want to ditch his first caller. But Mike had tried three times; surely he would’ve eventually taken the call. It was possible the man was taking out the trash, or doing some moonlight weeding, or had fallen asleep …