Justice Returns (Ben Kincaid series Book 19)

by William Bernhardt

  “I had to go.”

  “You chose to go. And it was a bad choice.” I pulled out my phone and punched up a report. I’d had a lot of time to Google while I waited to see my client. “According to an unverified report in the Huffington Post, you were arrested with a gun in your possession. Which might provide an even more convincing explanation of why you were arrested.”

  He didn’t say anything. That worried me more than a little.

  “You are not required to speak to me.” This was where it got sticky. “At the same time, if you send me into the courtroom without critical knowledge, especially critical knowledge that the prosecutor might possess, you send me into a gunfight armed with a slingshot.”

  Oz’s chest rose, then slowly fell. “I don’t know what happened. I must have tripped. Stumbled. Hit my head. I was dazed. That crowd was crazy.”

  “What’s the first thing you remember?”

  “Lying flat on the ground, a police officer shaking me.” He hesitated. “And there was a gun in my hand.”

  I closed my eyes. “It just magically appeared there?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “There was so much going on. So much happening all at once. I was . . . confused.”

  No doubt. But the prosecutor wouldn’t buy it. And sell this story to a jury? I didn’t look forward to it. “If someone planted the gun on you, the police would’ve likely seen it.”

  “Unless the police were the ones who planted it.”

  Okay. That was the first good point he’d made. I’d known cops who thought they were justified in planting evidence when they wanted a conviction.

  “For that matter,” Oz continued, “given how many people were around, it should have been impossible to fire a gun without being seen. But someone accomplished it.”

  Okay, two good points for the defendant. “Did you say anything at the press conference? Anything that might suggest you were on a killing spree?”

  “Just the usual words of protest.”

  “Such as?”

  “I voiced my opposition to torture. Isn’t that my First Amendment right? To speak my mind?”

  “Yes, but like most rights, it comes with a price tag. Did you do anything else to give the feds a reason to suspect you?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “They’re filing charges as we speak.”

  “To bring pressure on their political opponents. Me. Abdullah.”

  “A crime was committed.”

  “For all I know, it was a CIA assassination.”

  “Nazir worked for the CIA.”

  “And you think this would be the first time they killed one of their own? I can assure you that it is not.”

  I swept a hand through my rapidly thinning hair. “Can you prove any of this?”

  “When I see footprints in the sand, I know someone made them. Even if the person is no longer there.”

  Wisdom or paranoia? I had no idea. “Oz, this is a murder case now. In all likelihood you’ll face the death penalty.”

  “They can bring all the pressure they have to bear. I will not give them what they want. I will not tell lies. I will not inform on Abdullah.”

  “You’d rather die.”

  He looked me squarely in the face. “I would rather die.” Several seconds passed before his face cracked slightly. “But I would prefer to do neither.”

  “That would be my preference, too.”

  “Talk to the prosecutors. See what they want.”

  “Wait a second. I haven’t accepted this case yet.”

  “But you’re my lawyer.”

  “In the civil case, sure. That doesn’t mean I have to take on this potentially life-threatening can of worms.”

  “You’ve handled controversial criminal cases before. I know you have.”

  “This is beyond controversial. This will be all consuming. For months, at the very least. Probably longer.”

  “If you don’t represent me, at this point—who will?”

  And I knew he was right. No one would, that’s who. The court would appoint someone, and they’d probably do the best they could, but . . . it wouldn’t be the same as having someone in your corner who actually cared. Someone you had some history with.

  Christina had already suggested I was motivated by guilt. How far could that take me? “I’ll see what they’ve filed, Oz. I can explore the possibility of a plea, though I think it’s unlikely at this stage.”

  “Then you will take the case.”

  I sighed heavily. It would be smarter to text my wife first . . . “Yes. I’ll take the case.”

  “Thank you, Ben. If I could embrace you, I would.”

  “Just as well. In the meantime, talk to no one. I mean no one. You may think that cellmate or convict is your friend, but they’re not. They’ll do or say anything to get out, so don’t give them the opportunity. Feds use jailhouse snitches all the time.”

  “I’ll keep my mouth closed. Can you get word to Mina?”

  “Yes.” I repeated her message to him.

  “And Julia. Keep her informed as well.”

  I paused. “Okay .

  His eyes darted upward, then away. “Thank you. From the depths of my heart. I am in your debt for all eternity.”

  A lovely thought. But I might not have an eternity, I suspected, because my wife might not let me live through the night.

  18

  It was almost dark by the time I headed home, but it felt as if it were about three in the morning. The whole day had played out in a bizarre slow motion. I was ready to get back to normal speed. I could hardly keep my eyes open.

  I waved at Bolton as I passed his house. He saw me, but he didn’t wave back, much less come out to the car and chat. The next neighbor down the street was worse. He stood in his driveway with his arms folded like Mr. Clean and glared at me as I cruised by.

  So word was out. If Bolton knew I was representing Oz, everyone knew. This neighborhood was about to get a lot chillier.

  To my disappointment, the twins were already asleep. I could have used some sweet, high-pitched chirping in my ear. Christina gave me permission to hover over their beds, although she threatened me with a death sentence if I woke them.

  Lizzie was deep asleep. She was always the easy one. Sing her a song, recite a little Shakespeare, and she was gone.

  Emily flipped and flopped restlessly. I knew it was dangerous to make any sound at all because that might give her an excuse to wake and demand more attention. I left the lights out but bent down low beside her and whispered. “Let us not to the marriage of true minds / Admit impediments. Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds, / Or bends with the remover to remove. / O no! it is an ever-fixed mark . . .”

  Guess my pal Mike made more of an impression on me than I realized. I have no idea why I remember that stuff.

  Emily fidgeted and made a gurgling noise. All at once her eyes shot open, as if a cannon had fired in her ear.

  Even in the dim lighting, I could see her beautiful eyes.

  The vacancy in those eyes terrified me.

  I don’t even know how to describe it. She was there, but she wasn’t there. She saw me, but she didn’t see me. Like she was peering through the looking glass, seeing a dim reflection of what lay on the other side without actually comprehending it.

  She was in her world. And I was in mine.

  “You’re imagining it,” Christina told me later, over hot chocolate and coffee cake. “Babies are weird. No one knows what’s going on in their heads.”

  “She never talks.”

  “Or maybe she has a language of her own, and we don’t know it.”

  I almost laughed. “I used to love Sheldon Mayer’s Sugar and Spike comics. Those two tykes had their own language—which of course sounded like gibberish to the grown-ups.”

  “See? If it happened in a comic book, it must be true.”

  “But at least Sugar talked to Spike, and vice versa. Emily doesn’t talk to anyone.”
>
  She laid her hand atop mine. “She will, Ben. Be patient.”

  I heard padded footsteps on the kitchen tiles. Julia was in her bathrobe, rounding the island. My mother built the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen with more marble than most quarries. “Is this a private party, or may I join you?”

  “Please sit down,” Christina said. “You’ve done a yeoman’s work today.”

  “Watching the girls? Are you kidding? Those two are precious. I could do that all day long.”

  Christina arched an eyebrow. I knew what thoughts traveled through her brain. The original plan, once we knew Christina was pregnant, was for her sister to come watch the girls so Christina could maintain some semblance of a career. That hadn’t worked out, so she was limited to a few hours here or there when she could find an acceptable Mom’s Day Out program.

  “Those girls are smart,” Julia continued. “I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise, given who their parents are.”

  Okay, now I was suspicious. We’d never been a family of flatterers.

  “Heard you had some excitement today, Ben.” The air of casualness didn’t work. Julia was no actress. “Did you get in to see Oz?”

  “I did. Thanks to Christina.”

  “You two make a good team. She’s got the chutzpah and the street smarts, and you’ve got .

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know. A big briefcase. Anyway, how’s Oz?”

  “As well as could be expected.” I took a long drag from my hot chocolate. It’s not as good when it doesn’t scald a little. “They’ve put him through the wringer. He’s behind bars without a friend. If the other inmates learn who he is, they’ll probably try to rip his throat out with their teeth.”

  Julia’s hands flew to her mouth.

  “Just an expression,” I added. “In his mind, he’s a political prisoner, held unjustly, not for the first time, because the authorities believe he’s associated with this Abdullah guy, or because he had the obviously anti-American idea of exercising his freedom of religion and converting to Islam.”

  “Do you think the government is behind this?”

  “I would be lying if I pretended I had any idea what’s going on here. What I am concerned about is this murder. Someone assassinated Nazir. In a crowded area with decent security. And still managed to escape detection. That suggests a high degree of sophistication. I don’t think Oz operates on that level.”

  “But you don’t know that,” Christina said, her voice low. “He could be playing you.”

  “Every attorney has to deal with the possibility that his client might be lying. But we proceed on the assumption that they’re telling the truth.”

  “Is there anything we can do for him?” Julia asked. “Maybe get him a private room?”

  “This is jail, not the Hyatt Regency.”

  “Surely they have some obligation to safeguard him from danger.”

  “Some. Not much.”

  “What about bail?”

  “We’ll have a hearing in a few days. Don’t hold your breath. He’s going to be charged with a capital offense in a high-profile case. The easiest course for the judge is to leave him locked up.”

  Julia reached across the table, pushing aside my plate. She grabbed my wrist. “Ben, you have to help him. Surely you can do something. Pull a rabbit out of your hat.”

  I gave her a hard look, trying to see what was going on behind those eyes. “Mind if I ask why you’re so concerned?”

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

  “We’re making up for lost time,” Christina said.

  “Thank goodness. In high school, my friends thought he was gay. No way, I told them. He’s just shy.” Her voice dropped a notch. “But I was never really sure.”

  “Could we stop talking about me like I’m not here? Julia, it’s obvious that this is more than just a casual interest in a guy you knew decades ago. And it’s also probably not a coincidence that you showed up here at the same time that he boomeranged onto my doorstep. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I just want to make sure Oz is okay. And the only reason I came back here is . . .” Her eyes darted away. “Because I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  I felt like a complete heel.

  “My ex-husband doesn’t want me back. He’s got custody of my son. I’ve tried working crap jobs, but I’m not good at it. I’m not trained for anything.”

  “You’re a nurse.”

  “Not anymore. He filed some trumped-up complaints to get me out of the hospital. They’re in the system. I seriously doubt anyone would hire me. I’ve been drifting around with no place to go for . . . a very long time.”

  Christina reached out to her. “You should’ve come here sooner.”

  “I didn’t want to impose.”

  “It’s your house.”

  “It isn’t. Really.”

  Christina pushed away from the table and cut a slice of cheesecake for Julia. “Eat this. You’ll feel better.”

  Julia reluctantly took the fork and nibbled a bit at the corner. “Thank you.”

  “Look,” Christina said. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with this case. But I know it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better. The politicians and protesters and reporters have been storming the castle all day. I predicted this case would be trouble, and now it is. The kind of trouble that ends careers.”

  I couldn’t argue. I couldn’t blame her if she tried to talk me out of it.

  But she didn’t. “Here’s my point, Julia. Ben is going to need my help.”

  “I believe that.”

  “If our family and our livelihood is on the line, I’m gonna be right there making sure no one takes advantage of my boy. And if he needs my help, I need your help.”

  “You mean with the girls?”

  “And the house. And the shopping. And a thousand other problems that will likely arise. We’ve run a relatively low-visibility practice since we moved to OKC, but that’s about to change. We’re understaffed and overwhelmed. They’ll bury us if we let them.” She paused. “So what do you say? Will you pitch in?”

  “I guess . . . I could try. If you’re sure you need me.”

  “I’m sure. You can start with watching the girls. Who knows? Before this is over, we may have you cross-examining witnesses. One thing at a time.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother. But . . . it would feel good to be wanted.” Pause. “Needed.”

  “And we’re going to pay you, so don’t even argue about it.”

  “That’s not necessary. I—”

  “Did you hear the part about no arguing?”

  Julia buttoned her lip.

  Christina turned to me. “You have a problem with this, oh mighty trial warrior?”

  As if I would’ve said anything, even if I did. If this meant I’d have Christina at my side as we plunged into this big hot mess, terrific.

  I needed all the help I could get.

  19

  Witness Affidavit

  Case No. CJ-49-1886

  I could see Kincaid and the other two in the kitchen as clearly as I could see my own shadow. Satellite triangulation allowed me to find the house. The numerous neighbors prowling about, plus the propensity for neighborhood police to investigate parked cars, complicated securing a safe berth. But I managed. I did not have audio access yet. But I would remedy that in time. If they took out their cell phones, I would be able to watch or listen, even if they never made a call.

  Earlier that day, Kincaid texted his wife:

  Story credibility issues. Failing memory. Jury won’t buy bonk on the head.

  And the woman replied:

  Maybe true assailant was bonker.

  Three minutes later, Kincaid texted back:

  Need better SODDIT than “Bonker.”

  I am no
lawyer. But I could interpret the communications. He had contacted al-Jabbar, who had provided a provisional alibi. Kincaid either didn’t believe it or didn’t believe he could convince a jury.

  Two other electronic actions seemed noteworthy. First, one from Kincaid to the shameless whore who works in his office:

  Batten down the hatches. Firestorm coming.

  Translation: He will represent al-Jabbar on the criminal charges.

  Also noteworthy: His wife added a contact to her cell phone. Julia Kincaid Morelli McKeown.

  And perhaps of even greater interest: Kincaid called a contact from his smartphone. Charles Corwin. A simple data search revealed that the person in question was a private detective.

  Mobile electronic devices have made my work much simpler. People grouse about privacy and perform childish maneuvers with passwords and VPNs, but they reveal their entire lives on their laptops and cell phones and Facebook and Instagram, oblivious to how easy it is to access that information. They surveil themselves. Their lives play out in bits and bytes, read by the ever-increasing number of people conversant in that digital language.

  The temptation for al-Jabbar to open his mouth, to say what must be said to liberate himself, must be great. He could resist torture, as a man must do. But the thought of life imprisonment, or death with ignominy, is different. The Koran speaks of rewards for those who perform holy work. They will spend eternity with bountiful riches, food, wine, and a large number of virgins (though I have always been troubled by the Book’s failure to specify where these virgins come from, or to specify their gender). But what rewards can be expected when one perishes with a cloud over one’s head? Perhaps Allah can sort out the truth. But what of the seven billion people residing on the planet?

  My handler instructed me to ensure that al-Jabbar does not speak of the unspeakable. Not to anyone. Not even an attorney.

  And I was further instructed to make sure that if he did speak, the information did not travel far. And there is only one way to ensure that a secret is not spread. Eliminate all those who know the secret.

  I delight in the irony of these so-called high-security residential areas. Neighborhood watch parties. Private cops. And my favorite, the illusion of gated security. The gates certainly did not complicate my entrance or egress. All they did was slow down whatever emergency vehicle might be tempted to venture this direction.