Primary Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Sanguine shifted his weight in his chair. “You must realize though, Ben, that with an operation like ours, costs aren’t everything. We have over six hundred franchises scattered across North America. Where would we be if all our franchisors suddenly decided to quit operating their franchise and start operating a competing business under a different name? We’d be up the proverbial creek without a paddle.”

  Sanguine dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward across the desk. “Sometimes you have to maintain discipline. Set an example. Tell them in unequivocal terms that if they walk out on Sanguine Enterprises, there’ll be hell to pay.” His eyes met Ben’s. “Nobody messes around with Sanguine. That’s my credo.”

  Ben shuffled the papers in his hands and looked away. Propped on the edge of Sanguine’s desk was a flashlight, Ben’s flashlight, standing on end. The flashlight he and Christina had left in Adams’s office the night they broke in.

  “Let me shed some light on that,” Sanguine said. He laughed at his own little joke. “I found that in Jonathan Adams’s office a few nights ago. The window was open. Evidently there was a break-in, but no one could find any sign of a forced entry. Or theft. We called the police, but …” He shrugged with an unconvincing lightness. “You don’t know what a prowler would be doing in poor Jonathan’s office, do you?” Sanguine was staring directly at Ben. “I remember you were very anxious to poke around in there.”

  Ben squirmed uncomfortably. This was not the direction he wanted the conversation to take. “You were very close to Mr. Adams, weren’t you, sir?” Ben said. “His death must have come as a terrible shock.”

  Sanguine cocked his head to one side. “You really want to know the truth? No, we weren’t close at all. I didn’t like him, and he didn’t like me. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong in this world. I encouraged him to quit when I bought the company, but he resisted. He wanted a job, he said, not a pension. He had a contract; it was part of the deal. Part of the take-over agreement. I couldn’t make him go. But I could sure make him pay the price of his own stubbornness.”

  Ben tried not to react. He had hoped to uncover a motive, but he didn’t expect to have one served to him on a silver platter.

  “That’s right,” Sanguine continued. “Look astonished. You’re young. What the hell. Someone dies and everyone’s supposed to act as if he were a saint. Well, Adams wasn’t a saint. Where I came from, we didn’t have time for that kind of hypocritical crap. Where did you grow up, Kincaid?” He quickly corrected himself. “Ben.”

  “I grew up in the suburbs of Oklahoma City. Nichols Hills, to be exact.”

  “Ah, such a trying childhood. Like something out of David Copperfield. You must have emotional scars through and through.” He leaned forward, pointing with his pencil. “Let me tell you where I grew up. On a Sioux Indian reservation in South Dakota.”

  Ben scrutinized Sanguine’s face. His first impression was right. That would explain the kachina dolls and the other scattered Western relics in Sanguine’s office.

  “Yes, I’m an Indian. Excuse me, we’re supposed to be called Native Americans now. I keep forgetting. And no, to answer your next question, Sanguine isn’t the name I was born with. It’s Bloodhawk. At least that’s the anglicization. Joseph Paitchee Bloodhawk. My mother was white.” He chortled quietly. “I guess she contributed the Joseph part.”

  “I didn’t realize there were Indian reservations anymore.”

  “There aren’t any in Oklahoma. Tribal lands, yes, but no reservations as such. Still exist in other states, though. For the most part, still just as dirty and debasing and poverty-blighted as when I grew up. You have any idea what it’s like to grow up in a place like that? Over sixty percent unemployment? Average income about three thousand a year? You have any idea what the odds are against making anything of yourself after a childhood like that? No, of course you don’t. How could you?”

  His voice rose in volume. “You don’t know what it’s like to grow up knowing people think you can’t do anything more complicated than running a bingo parlor because you’re just a dumb Indian. And the worst of it, knowing that you really are just a dumb Indian, and that there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

  Just at the edge, Sanguine caught himself. He exhaled and fell back into his chair. “But of course,” he said, “you don’t know anything about that. They probably didn’t have any Indians in Nichols Hills, did they? They probably don’t allow such riffraff.”

  Ben couldn’t see the point in saying anything. This stream-of-consciousness soliloquy was giving him far more information than he could ever elicit with questions.

  “My point is this,” Sanguine said. “I worked very hard to become successful. Against damned near impossible odds. And that’s no exaggeration—I had no breaks, no connections, no education, and no money. But I have been successful. I’m rich. Sanguine Enterprises is in the Fortune Five Hundred and I’m on the list of the hundred richest men in America.” Sanguine’s full attention seemed focused on the pencil he held in his hands. “And I’ve used that success. I’ve tried to make things a little easier for the next Indian in line. And I’m making a difference. Maybe in the next generation, there’ll be more than one Sioux crossing the poverty line. Maybe the next one will be able to do it without changing his name.”

  The pencil in Sanguine’s hands suddenly snapped. “But the adversity does not stop, no matter how successful you are. Just when you’ve got a company that seems to work, here comes this man who’s too mired in yesteryear to even consider a change for the better. Every opportunity to diversify, he’s against it. Every idea for increasing efficiency or productivity, he’s against it. That’s why I made Adams vice president of new developments. Sort of a private joke. He knew it was, too, and it stuck in his craw. That’s what I liked best about it.”

  Abruptly, Sanguine shifted his gaze to Ben. The pencil pieces fell to the desktop.

  “I suppose in your eyes there was something admirable—in a perverse, futile way—about the old geezer’s tenacity. A latter-day Don Quixote. I can almost see it myself. But I would not let him bring down my business. I would not let him tear down everything I had accomplished. I would not.” He pounded his desk to emphasize the final word.

  Ben sensed that the conversation was going no further in that direction. “I guess you’ve heard about the adoption hearing,” he said.

  Sanguine seemed startled, as if brought out of a trance. “What? Oh, yes. Of course, I bear no malice against the widow. Tough break for her.” For some reason, he laughed quietly.

  Ben began to organize his papers and put them back into his briefcase. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you had been informed.”

  “What about being a grandparent?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “So the court thinks Mrs. Adams is too old to learn how to be a mommy. No big surprise there. How about getting her appointed as a foster grandparent? Courts do that now; I was just reading about it in Time. It’s supposed to be good for the kid and the elderly person. She wouldn’t get to see the girl every day, but she would get some reasonable visitation rights.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Better than nothing.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Ben admitted.

  “You hadn’t? Geez, what am I paying you guys those outrageous fees for? You lose on impossible theories and don’t even consider arguments you might actually win.” He paused, savoring the moment. “I thought of something you didn’t. Hell, I think I’m a better lawyer than you, Ben. This dumb Indian. A better lawyer than you.”

  29

  BEN STEPPED OUT OF the elevator on the fourteenth floor and walked toward his apartment. Shifting his briefcase into his other hand, he fumbled around in his jacket pocket. After a moment, he found the right key and shoved it into the door.

  The door was already unlocked.

  Ben set down his briefcase. If this were a movie, he thought, the audience would be screaming “Don’t go in, you fool!” But
then, Ben mused, if I didn’t go in, there would be no movie. Slowly, he turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

  The lights were on. A medium-size woman with long chestnut brown hair was sitting on the floor in a pretzel-like configuration resembling the lotus position. She was munching on cheddar-cheese-flavored potato chips and french onion dip.

  “About time,” she said, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

  “Julia,” Ben said. “How did you get in?”

  “I told the super I was your sister. Some wild story, huh?”

  “Those potato chips will make you fat again,” he said.

  “If I want Weight Watchers counseling, Ben, I’ll go to the meetings. Besides, it’s not as if you have anything nutritious to eat here.”

  “I just moved in.”

  “No kidding.” She glanced around the room, still only furnished with cardboard boxes and a sleeping bag. “When are you going to buy some furniture?”

  “Sometime after my first paycheck and before I die.” He shut the door. “Mind if I come in?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Ben tossed his jacket on the floor and sat down opposite Julia. She was still his pretty baby sister. A little older, a bit too plump, but still very attractive. Although the wrinkles surrounding her eyes seemed a bit more pronounced than when he had seen her last. Time marches on, he supposed, even for baby sisters.

  “I thought you were living in OKC,” he said.

  “I am. I came here to talk to you.” She rolled up the potato chip bag and replaced the lid on the dip.

  “About what?”

  “About why the hell you’re dodging Mom’s phone calls. Don’t you know she’s worried sick about you?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Ben said. He pressed his fingers against his forehead.

  “Don’t give me that,” she said angrily. “Personally, I don’t care whether you ever talk to your family, but Mother does. I can’t believe the way you’ve been acting! First, you get a new job, then you move to a new city, all without saying boo to anybody. You don’t give anybody your phone number or address—it’s as if you’re deliberately trying to isolate yourself. I had to act like a frigging private investigator just to find your apartment.”

  “Julia, I’m really not up to a scolding right now. I’ve had a really horrible week. You can’t imagine—”

  “I don’t care!” she shouted, cutting him off. “I’m tired of you bumbling along feeling sorry for yourself just because—”

  Ben’s face tightened and he cut her off with a fierce, stony look. After a moment, she started again, a little slower and softer. “It just isn’t fair, Ben. It’s not fair to Mom or—”

  “Stop!” Ben’s face was reddening. “You want me to call Mom, I’ll call Mom. It’s just that I’ve been very busy—”

  “With what? Taking over something? A corporate merger, maybe?”

  Ben sighed. “I’m not a business lawyer, Julia. I’m in litigation—” There was a loud knock at the door.

  “I’m closer,” Julia said. “You catch your breath. Wimp.” She walked to the door and turned the knob.

  It was Mike.

  Julia’s mouth opened, then slowly closed again. She took a step back, and Mike entered the apartment. He’d been caught in the rain; water on his overcoat was dripping onto the floor. Mike and Julia stared at one another for several seconds, then Julia turned to her brother.

  “So, Ben, you’ve been running around with Morelli. That explains a lot.”

  Mike just stood there; rain droplets plopped from the hem of his overcoat “I need to talk with you, Ben,” he said at last.

  Julia chuckled, a quick, bitter laugh. “That’s it, Mike. Act like I’m not even here. Come to think of it, that’s what you did the whole time we were married.”

  Ben leaned back against the wall. Here we go again.

  “That’s really not fair, Julia. You know I worked very hard—”

  “At some things, yes,” she interrupted. “At others, no.”

  Mike took a deep breath, then released it. There was really no point in playing the scene out again. “You’re looking good,” he said. “I’m glad to see nursing school hasn’t turned you into a drudge.”

  “If it hasn’t, it will,” she said, her teeth set tightly together. “It isn’t the way I planned to be living my life at this point.”

  “I see you still blame me for your having to pursue a career.” He shook his head back and forth. “You know, you didn’t have to choose one of the hardest professions in the world—unless maybe you were still trying to punish me.

  Julia’s eyes and nostrils flared. “I wanted to be supported in the manner to which I was accustomed. You promised me you’d take care of that, Morelli.”

  “Morelli is your name, too, Julia,” he said.

  “Not anymore,” she snapped. “Not anymore and never again.”

  “You guys,” Ben said, in a slow, pleading tone. “Come on. Don’t do this.”

  “I really do need to speak with Ben,” Mike repeated.

  “Fine.” Julia lifted her coat off the floor, then walked to the door. “But don’t forget, Ben—”

  “I’ll call Mother as soon …” He hesitated. “As soon as I can.”

  Julia nodded. “See that you do. Goodbye, Ben.” She closed the door behind her.

  Mike took off his coat and sat down on the floor next to Ben. “You know, I haven’t seen her for three years. Isn’t that weird? You see someone every single day, every single night, for so long, then you don’t see her at all for the next three years.” He shook his head. “Weird.”

  “If I were you, I’d wait another three years before your next reunion.” Ben straightened up and tossed Mike one of the throw pillows. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “I’ve got a little more evidence to share,” he said cryptically. “First tell me what you’ve been up to lately.”

  Ben sat forward eagerly. “I’ve talked to Sanguine, Mike, and you won’t believe everything he said. This was as close to a flat-out fourth-act Perry Mason confession as anything you’re going to hear in your lifetime.” Ben quickly recounted the high points of his conversation with Sanguine.

  “Did he say he killed Adams?”

  “No, but he admitted everything but that. He practically fed me a motive.”

  “Oh, a motive. Well, that settles everything.” He tossed the pillow behind his head and leaned back against the wall. “Didn’t they teach you anything in law school?”

  “I know, I know. Motive isn’t an element of proof for establishing a prima facie case of murder. Or any other crime, for that matter. But it will go a long way toward getting a conviction from a jury. You know it as well as I do.”

  Mike hesitated. “Well, perhaps I should visit Mr. Sanguine again.”

  “Do it tomorrow morning. Or maybe we should go now. What if he skips the country?”

  “Give me a break, Ben. The man heads a multimillion-dollar corporate empire. He’s not going to skip the country. If you’ve really put the fear of God into him, he might hire a lawyer. A slick lawyer can keep him out of prison longer than he could hope to stay hidden. Come to think of it, he’ll probably use your firm. Come to think of it, he may hire you. He seems to have such a high opinion of your work these days. Wouldn’t that be a knotty problem? If R T & T agrees to represent him, you won’t be able to testify against him.”

  “They can’t do that. They’d have to check for any conflicts of interest before accepting the case, and I’d speak up. If a lawyer expects to be called as a witness, he can’t agree to act as a lawyer in the case. And that goes for his entire firm.”

  “And so Raven, Tucker & Tubb would lose one of its most profitable clients, perhaps its most profitable client, perhaps permanently. Any idea how that would affect your standing with the shareholders?”

  Ben had to stop a moment at that.

  “Look, Ben, give us a few days to finish the physical-evidence analysis. The
n, if we’re sure we’re right about Sanguine and the evidence matches up, I’ll drop in on the esteemed president of Sanguine Enterprises.”

  Ben nodded his reluctant acceptance of the plan. “So what have you got now?” he asked.

  “More forensic evidence,” Mike replied. “The hair and fiber team found several dark coarse male hairs on the inside lining of Adams’s overcoat. They match the ones I told you about before that we found on Adams’s body.”

  Ben’s eyes widened. “Dark hair. That could be Sanguine.”

  “Yeah, it could be, but is it? Adams could’ve picked them up from someone at the bar beforehand, or at his home, or office, or anyplace else for that matter. But the distribution of hairs on the inside of the coat and their proximity to blood splatters makes the fiber boys think they came from the killer. They think it happened while the killer struggled to get the body into the Dumpster.” He paused. “And I think they’re right. That would explain, for instance, why the hairs are all on one side of the body.”

  Mike studied a small notepad that he withdrew from his coat pocket. “I sent the hairs and a sample of the blood we think came from the killer away for a special test. A DNA fingerprint.”

  Ben looked impressed. “I’ve read about that. How does it work?”

  “Well, they analyze nuclear rather than mitochondrial DNA—”

  “Ahh,” Ben said. “Thank you for making that distinction clear.”

  Mike continued unperturbed. “They use restriction enzymes as scissors, cut the DNA into segments and arrange the segments into patterns that resemble the Uniform Product Code labels you see everywhere now. They’re easier to compare than fingerprints. And, unless our man has an identical twin, no two are alike.”