Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-9

by William Bernhardt

  Ben flipped to the last page of the Complaint. “Paragraph Fourteen. For the aforementioned injuries, plaintiffs seek actual damages for injuries incurred, damages for emotional distress, pain and suffering, and punitive damages for the willful and wanton acts of the Defendant in an amount not less than one million dollars.”

  Loving pursed his lips and whistled. “That’s some Complaint, Skipper. You really think you could get a million bucks?”

  “He’d better get more,” Jones commented. “It’ll probably cost that much just to try this sucker.”

  “The amount requested in the Complaint doesn’t really mean anything,” Ben explained. “I didn’t want to stir up trouble by tossing out too huge a number. Between now and trial, we’ll figure out what to ask the jury for. Frankly, a million dollars wouldn’t even cover our clients" medical bills.”

  “When are you planning to file this, Ben?” Christina asked.

  “Right now. Assuming you three don’t have any changes or suggestions?”

  “And when will the big boys down at Raven, Tucker & Tubb get it?”

  “Just as soon as it’s filed. I’m going to walk it over to the Bank of Oklahoma Tower and hand-deliver it myself.”

  “Uh, Skipper,” Loving interjected, “have you considered, maybe, usin" a courier service?”

  “Why?”

  Loving tossed his copy down on a desk. “I don’t think you wanna be around when the powers-that-be read this.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “I don’t think so. A Complaint like this could do some real damage to an outfit like Blaylock. "Specially once the press gets wind of it.”

  “Which they will,” Jones interjected. “Blaylock will have to take this case very seriously.”

  Ben didn’t respond. Deep down, he knew they were right. Blaylock would perceive this as a threat to their corporate integrity, not to mention their bottom line. Raven, Tucker & Tubb would perceive this as an opportunity to rack up some major billable hours. This suit would be big news throughout the legal community—in fact, probably throughout the state.

  “All the more reason for us to get to work,” Ben said. “I expect each of you to give this case your full attention. Whatever else you’ve got going, put it on the back burner. We have to move fast or we’re going to get trampled.” He handed each staff member a legal pad that outlined their assignments. “Christina, I know you’re getting close to finals. Do you have time to do some intensive legal research?”

  “Of course. I make it a practice never to study for final exams until the night before.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “I think we can fairly anticipate Raven will try to bury us in a sea of motions. They’ll take advantage of the fact that they have a hundred lawyers and we have one.”

  “One and a half,” Christina corrected.

  “As you say. You think you can anticipate what they’ll file?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Discovery motions. Motion to dismiss for failure to state a claim.”

  “Exactly right,” Ben said. “And the last is the one that scares me. Find some similar cases. Some legal precedent in our favor.”

  “I know I can find similar cases,” Christina answered. “In fact, I’ve already found some. The Woburn, Massachusetts, case that was in that book, A Civil Action. The Tom’s River case. The outbreaks in Montana and east New Jersey. The problem is—they all feature plaintiffs who get creamed.”

  “Find one that’s different. It’s critical that we be able to show the judge we have some potential for success at trial.” He turned his attention to Loving. “We’re going to need some witnesses to prop up all these claims in the Complaint.”

  “You mean experts?”

  “No. We’ll worry about that later. I mean fact witnesses. As I see it, our case has two basic premises, both of which we have to prove. First, that Blaylock poisoned the water. Second, that the poisoned water caused the leukemia outbreak. Of course, I’ll conduct the traditional legal discovery, but I think we can fairly assume that everyone at Blaylock will deny all responsibility. I need you to ferret out someone who will tell the truth.”

  Loving tucked in his chin. “That’s a pretty tall order, Skipper.”

  “I know. That’s why I gave it to you.” He smiled. “Blackwood has almost five thousand citizens. There must be someone somewhere who knows what happened and is willing to talk.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. And I’m not exaggerating the importance of this. We’ll use experts to prove the contamination caused the cancers. But if we don’t have evidence that Blaylock caused the contamination, we’ll never get to trial. They’ll take us out on a motion for summary judgment.”

  Finally, Ben adjusted his gaze to Jones.

  “I suppose you’ll want me to do some kind of high-risk heavy-duty investigating,” Jones opined. “Perhaps some undercover work.”

  “Nooo,” Ben replied. “I want you to figure out how we’re going to pay for this.”

  “But Ben—”

  “You’re the CFO of this firm, Jones. It’s your job.”

  “I know it’s my job!” he shot back. “I spoke to The Brain this morning, just as you asked.”

  “And?”

  “He’s willing to advance fifty thousand bucks at twelve percent.”

  “Fifty thousand? That won’t get us through the first month, even if we all agree to waive our salaries.”

  All three staffers shot out of their chairs. “What?”

  “I was just speaking hypothetically,” Ben said, although in truth, he doubted if he was. “We’re going to need more money.”

  “What you don’t seem to understand, Boss, is that The Brain works for a bank, not a charitable institution.”

  “Find the money, Jones.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know how. But I’m confident you’ll think of something.”

  “Oh, thank you very much.”

  “Look.” Ben pressed his hands against the desk. “I know this is going to be hard. This case—it isn’t like just any case. It’s—” He paused. “Frankly, most of what lawyers do these days doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. It’s paper pushing and moneygrubbing and no one’s the better for it. But this case is different. This case matters.” He paused again, making sure his words had a chance to sink in. “So I want to make sure we do the best job we possibly can.”

  Jones stared down at the floor. His voice was soft—but perfectly audible. “I still think we’ll go down in flames.”

  Ben picked right up on it. “You know what, Jones? You may be right. Frankly, I don’t know if this case can be won or not. But we’re going to give it every possible chance, and when it’s all over with—at least we can say we tried. Win or lose, we tried to do the right thing. We tried to find some justice for those parents who lost their children for no reason. And that’s what matters in the end. That we tried.”

  Ben pushed away from his desk and sighed. “End of sappy speech. Now get to work.”

  Fred Henderson wadded the newspaper in his hands and tossed it across the room. Damn!

  Well, he had wondered what everyone was whispering about at the Culligan cooler when he came to work this morning. Now he knew. After all, he wasn’t the only person in the building who knew Harvey. Hell, half the people here probably did. And now everyone did; Harvey was famous. Not for anything he did during his life, but for the nightmarishly gruesome manner in which he died.

  Fred could tell from the article that the police were doing their best to suppress the details, but how could you suppress a thing like that? In this tabloid world, sixty strokes with a blunt instrument was going to make the headlines. And that wasn’t even mentioning what happened to Harvey’s wife, his son. The whole family had been wiped out in a single hyperviolent stroke. The police were baffled.

  Fred wasn’t.

  He pushed out his chair, suddenly moved by the desperate need to stretch his legs. He felt as if the walls of his cu
bicle were closing in on him, threatening to crush him like some elaborate comic book deathtrap. He walked to the edge of his space, catching a glimpse of himself in the glass in the dividers. He was fifty-eight, gray, liver-bespotted, slightly arthritic, and too damn old for this sort of thing. Way back then, when the whole mess began, it had been different. He was a different person, with a different body. Now he just wanted to be left alone. To forget. To fill out his final days in peace reading H. Rider Haggard novels and watching the History Channel. Hell, given the circumstances, there was no end to his retirement possibilities. If he lived long enough to enjoy them.

  He knew what had happened to Harvey. He knew who did it and why he did it. And he knew that Harvey’s killer had not found that for which he was looking. Fred knew that for certain. Because Fred had it.

  Fred would be the last one the killer came after. He knew that as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning. No one had ever taken Fred seriously. He had never really been one of the gang—more like a mascot. Fred the Feeb, that’s what they called him when he wasn’t around. They thought he didn’t know. But he did, of course. He always knew. He always knew everything. He was always one step ahead of them. Which is why he now had the merchandise. And the others didn’t.

  And Harvey was dead.

  For some reason, Fred’s mind began drifting backward, snatching back the calendar pages, remembering his boyhood back in Carter, a small town in western Oklahoma. He thought of his father, dead these past twenty years. His dad had been a poor hardscrabble farmer, barely eking out a living for his family of seven. He had rarely had time for play and too often had time to drink. And fight. And hit. They were too unalike, Fred and his father, and Fred’s disdain for farming was too transparent. Instead of encouraging Fred’s business ambitions, he actually seemed to resent them. They had never been very close.

  And now that he was gone, Fred thought of him every day. And missed him, so badly that at times his chest ached.

  What was it his father used to say? “You can’t hang pumpkins on a morning glory.”

  What the hell had that meant? Fred asked himself time and again. If that was his father’s idea of homespun wisdom, it was just as lame as everything else the man did. Or so it had always seemed. Now, today, his father’s words came back to him, and they made perfect sense. He knew exactly what his father had been saying. He’d spent his whole life hanging those damn pumpkins. And the morning glory was the merchandise.

  Fred had it, all right. But what good had it ever done him? He couldn’t use it; he couldn’t even tell anyone he had it. Not if he wanted to live. It was his little secret. He’d had to content himself with the knowledge that he’d fooled them all. That he’d succeeded where the others had failed.

  Fred had never married. Who would want to marry Fred the Feeb? His family was all dead. His principal source of pride in his life had come from one dirty little secret. But how much longer would it remain a secret? He knew Harvey’s killer wouldn’t stop after one strike. He would keep on swinging that bat, or whatever the hell it was, until he found what he wanted.

  Until he found Fred.

  Fred pressed his hand against the glass pane, staring at the lines in his face, the deeply etched creases that reminded him how old he was, how long it had been. He was too old to track down his old friend. And too old to kill. Too old to do anything, really. But a countdown had begun. A countdown that could finish only one of two ways.

  Either way you looked at it, someone was going to end up dead.

  Like any good associate, Mark Austin came when he was summoned. He hoped he was dressed appropriately. It was such a tough decision, dressing to work in a large law firm. The blue suit, or the gray? The gray suit, or the blue? With the white shirt, of course.

  The current summons had him scurrying out of the library with particular haste. For the entire two years he’d been at Raven, Tucker & Tubb, he’d been hoping for a chance to work with Charlton Colby. Colby was generally considered the top litigator in the city, if not the state. Certainly he was the richest. He had all the top blue-chip clients in his back pocket. He was the man holding the brass ring Mark hoped to grab.

  He made a last-minute duck into the men’s room to straighten his tie and adjust his hair, then sped toward Colby’s office. He’d been waiting two years for this chance; he didn’t want to screw it up now. This could be his ticket to the upper echelon of the litigation world. It all flashed past him in a heartbeat. Dining at the Tulsa Club, a vaguely bored expression on his face. Hobnobbing with CEOs and society debs. Weaving his spell in the courtroom, the eyes of the world upon him via the magic of television. Retiring to his majestic estate near Philbrook, neighbored by some of the oldest money in the city. That was what he aspired to. That was what he dreamed of. He knew it could all be his. He knew it.

  He stopped just outside Colby’s office and knocked on the open door. “You wanted to see me?”

  Colby peered through his tortoise-tinted wire-rimmed glasses. “Yes. Come in, Mark.”

  Mark stepped into the office. He saw Colby was wearing his blue today, generally considered the warmer of the two acceptable lawyer fashion choices. He was glad he had done the same.

  There were two high-backed plush chairs opposite Colby’s desk—but one was occupied. “Mark, I’d like you to meet Myron Blaylock. Myron, Mark Austin.”

  Mark took the other man’s hand, which was like ice. He had a weak, unenthusiastic grip.

  “Mark, as you probably know, Mr. Blaylock is the CEO and president of the H. P. Blaylock Industrial Machinery Corporation. His grandfather founded the business.”

  Mark hadn’t known, but now that he did, he would never forget it. “Of course.”

  “I’ve helped Myron with a number of cases over the years. Business litigation, mostly. Never anything like this.” He lifted a stapled document off his desk and passed it to Mark. “Mr. Blaylock received an unwelcome bit of news this morning. A lawsuit.”

  Mark took the proffered paper. It looked like a standard civil-suit Complaint. He saw on the last page that the opposing attorney was someone named Benjamin Kincaid. Never heard of him.

  “I’m going to need some help on this lawsuit,” Colby continued. “A lot of it, in fact. I heard you had some time available.”

  “Of course,” Mark said, straightening. “I’m ready to start immediately.”

  “Good. For starters, I’d like you to draft an Answer to this Complaint.”

  “Sure.” The Answer was one of the simplest and most pro forma of all the pleadings in a suit. The defendant’s approach was easy: Deny everything. “I assume we have the standard twenty days. Forty if we ask for the automatic extension.”

  Colby shook his head. “We want to file our Answer tomorrow.”

  Mark blinked. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “No. Of course not.” He concentrated on controlling his facial expressions. Had he already blown it? “I’m just … surprised. Normally, defendants—”

  “Aren’t in a big hurry?” Colby glanced at Blaylock, almost smiling. “I don’t anticipate we’ll stray from that standard strategic approach much throughout the course of this action. But we contemplate the press being interested in this. They’ll run a story as soon as they learn of the Complaint. We want to be ready with our Answer. We can’t let these charges go unrefuted. Not for a day. Not for ten seconds.”

  “I see.” Mark scanned quickly through the Complaint. Leukemia, TCE, perc. Wrongful death, negligence, punitive damages. He didn’t have time to soak in all the details. But it was apparent this was not your standard-issue business litigation. “May I ask what our … position is with respect to these charges?”

  “We deny everything,” Blaylock said. His voice had a raspy quality reminiscent of the creaking of a door in a haunted house. He was an old man, in his sixties at least, possibly older. His frame was long and gaunt, almost skeletal. “These charges are outrageous.”

&
nbsp; “No doubt,” Mark murmured.

  “I’m appalled that anyone would even suggest that H. P. Blaylock engaged in improper waste disposal. H. P. Blaylock has been an exemplary corporate citizen, from my grandfather’s day to the present. We would no sooner poison the water wells than we’d poison our own watercooler. We employ over six thousand people in this state, and we take good care of them. To suggest that we are responsible for the deaths of children—it’s unconscionable!” His indignation was so intense Mark worried that he might froth at the mouth. “It’s outrageous. Libelous! Truly, Charlton, I feel the standard litigation responses are not enough. These people should be made to pay the consequences of these unjust and outrageous accusations. I think criminal charges should be considered.”

  “Rest assured that we will consider every realistic option, Myron,” Colby said calmly. “And I can guarantee you that Mark’s Answer will include a counterclaim for libel. Right, Mark?”

  Mark hedged for a moment, torn between his desire to flaunt a morsel of knowledge and his hesitance to oppose anything Colby suggested. “Actually, sir, you can’t bring a claim of libel against litigants based upon accusations made in a legal Complaint. They have qualified immunity.”

  Colby waved his hand absently. “If these plaintiffs are prepared to make these claims in court, I’m sure they’ve already made them somewhere else.”

  “But if we don’t know—”

  “We’ll find out in discovery.”

  “Then perhaps we should wait and amend our Answer when we know—”

  “Put the counterclaim in now.” Colby still remained calm; only the slightest alteration in his intonation cued Mark that this discussion was over.

  “Do you know anything about this pissant attorney who signed the Complaint?” Blaylock asked, keenly agitated. “This Kincaid?”

  “In fact, I do,” Colby said. His voice, his entire manner, was supremely dismissive. “Believe it or not, Kincaid actually worked here at Raven, for about ten minutes. Till we ran him out on a rail for gross incompetence. He’s small potatoes. Solo practitioner. Probably hoping for a quick and dirty nuisance settlement. We have greater resources, more talent, and more money.” He shrugged dismissively. “We’ll bury him.”