Justice Returns (Ben Kincaid series Book 19)

by William Bernhardt

  I saw the look Leone gave her. A tiny furrow between the brows. A coldness in the eyes. Stern. Uncompromising.

  A warning.

  And then she touched the bandage.

  Damn. How could I be so stupid?

  The saddest part was, I think she really did love him. And for that and probably a host of other psychological reasons, she stayed with him, even though she knew she should go.

  As an attorney bound by the Rules of Professional Conduct, I had a tricky decision to make, and about three seconds to make it. This woman was about to perjure herself. I knew that as well as I knew my wife’s middle name. I could probably pretend I didn’t, but I did.

  On the other hand, her testimony was crucial. Wagner supposedly confessed that the phone orders were mishandled, and we had the burden of proof to demonstrate the mishandling by a preponderance of the evidence. Our best evidence was the weepy confession at the restaurant.

  But it was a lie. A lie Leone bullied her into telling.

  I can’t honestly say I’ve never done anything the Disciplinary Committee of the Bar Association might condemn. I have. But always for a good reason. And today, I didn’t have one. This was just a squabble between two businessmen over a big pile of money.

  And what if she got caught? Sure, she probably wouldn’t, but what if she did? Leone was no fool—he got someone else to take the risks. Should I allow her to put her neck in the noose?

  If I asked what were the four things Wagner said, she would undoubtedly tell me. So I didn’t ask.

  “After Mr. Wagner left, what happened?”

  Kyra blinked several times rapidly. “Nothing. We finished our dinner.”

  “Thank you. No more questions.” I returned to the plaintiff’s table.

  Leone controlled his emotions well, but I could read the message in his eyes, and the language was considerably harsher than “screw you.” For that matter, the opposing attorney seemed fairly dumbfounded.

  At the break, I concocted some excuse, some alleged strategic reason for not eliciting the perjury. And I found another way to make the same point with someone else. My cross-examination of Wagner also showed how badly the phone orders were bungled. So I didn’t hurt my client. But I also didn’t allow an innocent young woman to sell her soul and endanger her future.

  And no one in the world would ever know what I did.

  Like I said, being an attorney is way more complicated than most people realize.

  3

  During the lunch break, I called my wife on my cell.

  “Hey, Chris. You at home or the office?”

  “Office. The twins are in All Souls’ Mom’s Day Out till five.” I knew there was more to that thought, but she kept the rest to herself. “Need something?”

  “Do you still volunteer at Harmonium?” A local battered women’s shelter.

  “Of course. Why?”

  “I’d like you to contact someone I know. Kyra Kubrick. Tell her about Harmonium and the help they can offer. I think she’s been abused for some time.”

  “I’ll call. But you know, people rarely respond to phone calls about something like this. They go into denial mode. Usually we can’t do anything until they’re ready to seek help themselves.”

  “I know. But she just dodged a major bullet, so she might be receptive.”

  “I’ll give it a try. How’s the trial going?”

  I’d save the details for later. “Not bad, given that the brains of our partnership aren’t in the courtroom.”

  I could feel the smile on the other end of the phone. “I think you can handle this one yourself.” Which was her loving way of saying civil cases bored her to tears. They did me, too, but bills must be paid. “Home by seven?”

  “Likely. Want me to pick up sandwiches at Napoleon’s?”

  “No. The mighty trial warrior deserves a home-cooked meal. Just let me know if you’re going to be late.”

  “Will do. Anything else on your mind?”

  “No.” A few moments of reflection and hesitation. Funny how sometimes you can feel so much pain packed into a single syllable. “No.”

  So we weren’t going to talk about it yet. Fine. I guess. “You know you’re what keeps me going, right?”

  “In the sense that you’d probably forget to eat if I weren’t around to remind you?”

  “No.” The problem with having an elephant in the room is that the damn thing makes it so hard to see the door. “In the sense that, no matter what has happened or will happen, I keep moving forward because I know you’ve got my back.” That was about as close to talking about it as I could get without actually talking about it.

  “No dark moments of the soul?” A Fitzgerald reference. I knew what she meant.

  “When I say ‘no matter what,’ I do mean ‘no matter what.’”

  Only a slight pause. “See you for dinner.”

  “See you then.”

  I slid the phone back into my pocket. At times, I feel as if my entire life has been a long series of mistakes and accidents. But there’s one brilliant exception, one that made up for all the goofs, a thousand times over. Lots of men said stuff like this, but I knew it was true. Marrying Christina was the smartest thing I ever did.

  Not everyone understood my devotion to my spectacular wife. When I first met her, she was running around in colored tights and crazy Alice in Wonderland hair. She’s matured—not that I didn’t adore her then. She’s smart, useful, hardworking, and everyone likes her. I, on the other hand, am slow, neurotic, antisocial, and I fully expected to be alone till the end of my days, the pathetic geezer you see at the cafeteria complaining that his Salisbury steak isn’t cooked enough. Christina gave me a life, gave me a family. I’d do anything for that woman.

  The sandwiches in the snack bar on the first floor of the Oklahoma County Courthouse were old and sadly deteriorated, not unlike the building itself, but I grabbed a ham and cheese and some chocolate milk and started back to the courtroom. I wanted to review my notes and some of the deposition transcripts before the trial resumed.

  “Ben?”

  I pivoted in front of the world’s slowest elevators. Michael Hickman, associate prosecutor in the US Attorney General’s office, offered his hand. We’d had a few cases opposite one another since I moved to Oklahoma City. He struck me as a fairly typical government lawyer—ambitious, political, and, too often, completely self-oriented. For me, being a lawyer was always about the clients. But lawyers in the AG’s office represented the government—in other words, they didn’t really have a client. They had a cause. To me, that changed everything.

  Hickman had mop-top curls that wreathed his head like a halo. His soft Irish smile was hard to resist, even for someone like myself who’d spent most of his life resisting.

  “Hey, Michael. What brings you to the wrong side of the tracks?” The attorney general’s office was a few miles away, and its cases generally lande in the federal courthouse.

  “This is a closely guarded secret, but the coffee is much better here.” Which seemed extremely unlikely. “Days like these I need all the help I can get. Every day is a Monday, right?”

  Generally speaking, I like lawyers, but I weary of the bromides we exchange as a substitute for real conversation. “True dat.”

  “What are you up to, Ben?”

  “Toiling in the civil courts today. Breach of contract. Tortious interference with business.”

  “Any chance on the tort claim?”

  “Not really. But torts raise the possibility of punitive damages, which sometimes puts goose bumps on corporate flesh. It’s worth pleading, if only for settlement purposes.”

  He gave me a baffled expression that I immediately distrusted. “Too complicated for me. I’ll stick to criminal work. Right and wrong. Black and white. That’s hard enough for a Muskogee boy.”

  Right. He was about as rural as I was. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to prep for—”

  “Hear you’ve got a new client.”

 
; I slowed. “I do?”

  “C’mon, Ben. Privilege doesn’t extend to the fact of representation.”

  So this wasn’t a chance encounter. This was a fishing expedition. “Sorry. Haven’t had a new case or client in several weeks.”

  “If you don’t want to tell me, fine. But don’t lie to me.”

  There are many things in this profession I will grudgingly tolerate. But being called a liar is not one of them. “You’re mistaken. Unless you know something I don’t.”

  “Well, I know who’s sitting in your office right now.”

  My first thought was, How? But I knew asking that question would be pointless. “You’re monitoring my office?”

  He glanced down at his coffee. “We can’t do that. But we can monitor persons of interest.”

  My eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Michael, I’m tired of tap dancing. What are you talking about?”

  Hickman looked both ways down the corridor, then pulled me to one side, as if somehow that would convey more privacy. “Look, I’m only doing this because I bumped into you and we’re friends.”

  Three fibs in one sentence. Must be a record of some sort. “Doing what?”

  “Cautioning you. Against getting involved in a whole mess of trouble you don’t need or want.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about that sweet family of yours. They don’t need you wrapped up in something you might never get out of. Your record’s dodgy enough as it is. Your license wouldn’t survive jail time.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  He held up his hands, palms outward. “Of course not. Calm down. I’m just trying to help. I don’t want to get caught up in the cogs.”

  “If you want to help me, the best thing you could do is stop babbling in riddles and explain what you’re talking about.”

  He laid his hand on my shoulder and pulled me about as near as it was possible to be without kissing. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Give him the boot, Ben. Let the court-appointed drone handle it. Better for everyone. Especially you.”

  He gave me a little squeeze and walked away, dropping his coffee into the nearest trash can.

  4

  I didn’t know what to make of that. This was not the first time I’d been on the wrong side of government officials. But usually I at least understood why. This time I was completely clueless.

  On a hunch, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. Sure enough, I found a message from Tanya. I silenced the ringer while I was in court, so I missed the usual panpipe that told me I had a message.

  POSS CLIENT N OFFICE. TOLD HIM U WERE N COURT. WONT LEAVE TILL HE TALKS TO U.

  Normally, leaving the courthouse during a trial, even during lunch, would be unthinkable. The trial at hand always takes precedence. But on this occasion, I thought I’d best make an exception. I was unlikely to be able to concentrate on anything else till I figured out what was up.

  ***

  After a brisk jog to my office, I walked through the front doors. No one sat behind the reception desk. Or so it initially appeared. Upon closer inspection, I found someone behind the reception desk who was not immediately visible. Because her head was under the desk. And her nineteen-year-old rear was thrust up toward the heavens.

  I am completely and unalterably devoted to my wife. But did I notice that Tanya was wearing thong underwear? I’m devoted, not blind. Cute little butterfly tattoo, also.

  “Drop something?” I asked.

  “It’s the net server. We’ve lost our connection again. I can’t do a thing without it.” She withdrew her head. “When did we all become so dependent on computers?”

  Coming from a woman about the same age as my car, this was more than a trifle risible. “The world runs on the Internet.”

  “I wish people would forget email exists. I spend half my day answering it.”

  “Twenty years ago, you would’ve spent half the day playing telephone tag. This is better.”

  “If you say so.” I heard a click that told me she’d replaced a connection. “Let’s see if the reboot works.” She stood up a little too fast, dislodging the contents of her low-neck blouse and giving me an unnecessarily generous view of her two strategically placed crescent moon tattoos. “You need to get to the conference room, Ben. He’s been waiting a long time.”

  “What’s his name?”

  She glanced down at her desk. “Omar al-Jabbar.”

  Now I understood Hickman’s use of the phrase “person of interest.” “What’s he been charged with?”

  “Don’t really know. Wants you to file a lawsuit.”

  Curiouser and curiouser. “Tanya, have you noticed anything . . . unusual around the office?”

  “Like weirdo guys who won’t leave, won’t make an appointment, and stare at my tats?”

  “You have tattoos?”

  “Duh. If you weren’t so head over heels with your wife, you would’ve noticed.”

  “Love is blind. But I was thinking more in terms of . . . being watched.”

  “Guys are always watching me.”

  “But . . . anything unusual? Like maybe someone watching this prospective client?”

  “Not that I noticed. What is he, ISIS?”

  I didn’t comment. Because I didn’t know and also because despite her bravura attitude, I thought Tanya seemed a trifle skittish about this man, perhaps even scared. She’d worked for me about six months. It was an adjustment. I was accustomed to having a seasoned professional and semimature adult at this station. But Jones didn’t want to move to OKC, so Christina took over the office-management duties, and Tanya filled in at the front desk.

  I met Tanya when she turned state’s evidence on one of my clients. She was from a small town in Western Oklahoma, Dill City, who thought she’d won the lottery when she was asked out by the high school quarterback. This was an Oklahoma town that completely revolved around high school football—well, actually, they all do. Consequently, she didn’t say anything even when it became clear he used performance-enhancing drugs, not only on the field but in the classroom. Her deal with the DA kept her out of jail but left her a pariah in the only town she knew. I gave her a job to help her get back on her feet. She took night classes at UCO, hoping to be a teacher one day. Her secretarial skills were rudimentary at best, but her attitude was excellent, which I found a pleasing change.

  “I don’t know what he is. Guess I better find out. Hold my calls. I have to be back in the courtroom by one.”

  Tanya nodded, and I headed down the corridor. I braced myself for what was bound to be an unpleasant conversation. Probably because of my reputation for handling civil rights cases, not to mention hopeless cases, I’d been approached before by men of Middle Eastern descent protesting their treatment by the federal government. For good or ill, the Patriot Act gave law enforcement enormous powers, and no judge yet had the courage to declare the law unconstitutional.

  I had another problem, though one I never discussed or admitted to anyone, not even my wife. I had a hard time understanding foreign accents, particularly those of the Persian variety. It may relate to a hearing loss I suffered at an early age from an ear infection. I once dated a lovely woman with a French accent, but I had to end it because constantly asking her to repeat herself was making us both batty. Having a client you couldn’t readily understand was almost equally impossible.

  So I braced myself for a conversation that would be somewhat tortured and, for him, unavailing.

  “Ben! How the hell are you?”

  I froze in the doorway. Most people have probably had the awkward experience of being recognized by someone you couldn’t recognize back—but it happened to me all the time. Part of that is because my legal exploits, plus the two books I wrote, have given me a higher-than-average profile. Part of it, I suspect, is because you have only so many memory slots in your head, and so many of mine are consumed by litigation details and piano chords and obscure Scrabble words, som
e faces have been pushed out.

  “I’m . . . fine.”

  “Good Lord, Ben. How long has it been?”

  And the other problem is that I was expecting to see someone with a darker skin tone. But the man standing before me was just as Caucasian as I am. More so, actually, since he had more hair in a lighter color. His ramrod posture and close-cut hair suggested military.

  “How’s Julia? I haven’t seen or heard anything in years.”

  The reference to my sister was the memory jog I needed. They used to date. But the name wasn’t right. Something didn’t match up.

  And then the light dawned. Did Tanya get the name wrong? “Oz?”

  He smiled again and stopped shaking my hand. “I’m sorry. I should’ve left both names with your receptionist. Who, by the way, is quite the hottie.” He jabbed me in the side. “Does your wife know about her?”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I maintained my stunned and silent demeanor.

  “I’d have gone to law school if I’d known there were perks like that. After your sister, I didn’t date again for three years.”

  It was him. Oz Kirby. Oz, short for Oscar, and who could blame him for abbreviating that? “Oscar” must’ve been a terrible burden for a teenager.

  I was embarrassed for not recognizing him sooner. We had a lot of history. Most of which I would prefer to forget. “Oz . . . do you know if anyone followed you here?”

  “I’m certain someone did. They’ve been following me for months.”

  “Why?”

  He was completely straight-faced when he said, “They think I’m a terrorist.”

  The pieces were coming together. “Do they have any evidence?”

  The corner of his lips turned up. “Do they need any evidence?”

  5

  Even though I recognized him, there was still a jigsaw piece missing. How did Oscar Kirby—a rich kid growing up in Nichols Hills, one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Oklahoma City, a track star and, if I recalled correctly, Eagle Scout—become Omar al-Jabbar?

  “I can’t believe I’m seeing you again, Ben, after all these years. Good grief, we haven’t talked since—”