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

by William Bernhardt

  “What did you do instead?”

  “Objection,” Colby said. “Assumes facts not in evidence.”

  “Overruled,” the magistrate said. “Mr. Colby, please don’t interrupt unless you have an objection that is at least arguably applicable.”

  Colby burrowed down in his chair, his lips pressed tightly together.

  “I’ll ask again,” Ben said. “What did you do when you didn’t have the drums hauled away?”

  “We buried them.”

  Ben nodded. Scout had been right. He had seen drums coming out of the ground.

  “We had a big Brush Hog behind the plant. So someone would dig a hole and bury the drums. Saved Blaylock a significant amount of money.”

  “How many drums were buried? Five? Ten?”

  “Try fifty or sixty.”

  Ben’s eyes widened. “How sturdy were the steel drums?”

  “We didn’t use steel drums. At least not most of the time. We did keep a few out back, but they were mostly for show. The ones we actually used were made of corrugated cardboard. They were less expensive than the steel variety, obviously. They might look the same from a distance, but they weren’t the same. They broke much more easily.”

  “And did they break?”

  “All the time. Frequently. Particularly when we were trying to bury them. And when they broke, the waste would spill all over the ground.”

  Ben nodded. And from the ground to the groundwater to the ravine to the aquifer to the water well. Just like that.

  “Are the drums still buried behind the plant?”

  “No. Mr. Blaylock ordered that they be removed about two months ago.”

  Exactly when Scout and Jim were playing the “Outsider” game. Scout had seen exactly what he thought he’d seen. “Do you know why they were moved?”

  Turnbull’s head turned slightly. “I believe it was done on the advice of counsel.”

  Ben’s chin rose. “Mr. Colby, I believe you are guilty of tampering with evidence and obstructing justice.”

  “Mr. Kincaid.” The magistrate’s voice crackled. “Don’t make accusations you can’t substantiate. I’ve told you before I won’t tolerate that.”

  Ben kept his silence. He would never be able to prove that Colby deliberately hid evidence by advising Blaylock to get rid of the drums. But he had. Ben knew it, and the court reporter knew it, and the magistrate knew it. Soon, everyone in town would know it. Colby’s reputation would never be the same.

  “Anything further to tell us, Mr. Turnbull?” Ben asked.

  “No,” he said, head down. “That’s all. Except—I’m sorry.”

  “Sir, you have nothing to be sorry about. You’re a brave man.” He glanced up at Colby. “Care to withdraw your motion for summary judgment?”

  Colby coughed into his hand. “I … may have to amend my brief. Refile on other grounds.”

  “You do that.” Ben thanked the magistrate for his assistance, then disconnected him. “Mr. Turnbull, would you like to walk back to my office with me? Cecily Elkins is back there. I think she’d like to talk to you.”

  Turnbull’s eyes brightened. “Yes. I’d like that very much.” He pushed out of his chair. “I have a few things to say to her, too. And I’ve waited far too long to do it.”

  Chapter 22

  BEN DROVE HIS VAN back toward Tulsa after spending the morning in Blackwood. It was the most pleasant morning he’d had in weeks—possibly since this lawsuit began. He’d assembled Cecily and all the other plaintiff-parents to give them an update on the status of the case.

  Ben started the meeting with the good news: they had a witness who would testify—had testified—that Blaylock’s waste product had seeped into the soil, just as the EPA suspected. The bad news? Their work was just beginning. They would need expert witnesses to prove Blaylock’s TCE and perc did in fact seep into the water supply. That would be expensive, but Ben believed it could and would be proven. But even after they met that burden, they would need experts to prove that the contaminated water had caused the children’s leukemia. That would be far more difficult—but essential to their case.

  Ben left them on an upbeat note, but made it clear they still had a long way to go before judgment. It was hard, staring out into that sea of faces, confronting those hopeful, wide-eyed expressions. He had the sense that, strange as it might seem, he had taken the place of their children, that they had bundled up all their remaining sorrow and guilt and lost hopes and deposited them on one Ben Kincaid. They were counting on him to give some meaning to all those days they had spent raising a child who never reached adulthood, all those messy diapers and sleepless nights, all those dreams.

  He only hoped he wouldn’t let them down.

  Back at the office, Jones was fuming. “Guess what we got in the mail this morning?”

  Ben wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. “Judging by your expression, I’d say it must be a bill.”

  “Darn tootin". Do you have any idea how much you blew taking all those depositions?”

  Ben peered at the bottom line on the invoice Jones was waving. He did a double take. It was twice what he had expected.

  “Sorry, Jones. It was necessary.”

  “Necessary? Thirty-two depositions? Couldn’t you have skipped the losers?”

  “Unfortunately, you can’t separate the winners from the losers until after you take their depositions.”

  “Well, then couldn’t you have asked fewer questions? Or asked them faster?”

  “There’s no point doing it if you’re not going to do it right. You have to be thorough if you hope to drag anything out of unwilling witnesses.”

  “Fine.” Jones folded his arms. “Tell me, Mr. Thorough, how exactly are we going to pay this bill?”

  “I thought the last loan—”

  “Long gone.”

  “Gone? That was supposed to last us through the trial.”

  “Well, surprise, surprise. It didn’t even come close.”

  “Where did it go?”

  Jones threw his hands up in the air. “Where do you want me to begin? This case has been a money pit since day one—as I predicted. You totally wiped us out with that battery of experts you hired. Geologists and hydrologists and all that rot.”

  “We can’t make this case without expert testimony.”

  “Did you need so many?”

  “I didn’t get nearly as many as I would’ve liked.” Ben felt himself getting hot under the collar. This was ridiculous. He was being put on the defensive—by his employee. “I needed a geologist to analyze the soil behind the plant, in the ravine, and at the water well to prove it was contaminated. I needed a hydrologist to prove the groundwater from Blaylock made it to Well B. They all have to conduct tests, which must be run twice for confirmation, once by themselves, once by independent analysts. They’ve got to consult with specialists, prepare exhibits.”

  “It’s too expensive.”

  “It’s only just begun. I still need doctors to provide medical testimony about each of the children’s illnesses. I’ve got to have a cancer specialist talk about the causes of leukemia, to tie it to the tainted well—”

  “Which you don’t have yet.”

  “The point is, I’ve already cut expenses to the bone. If I do any more, we’ll be throwing the case away. And if we do that, we have no chance of recovering anything.”

  Jones sat in his chair and stewed. A long period passed during which neither of them spoke.

  “I’m not going back to The Brain,” Jones said finally.

  “Jones, you have to.”

  “I’ve done it the last three times. I’m not doing it again.”

  “It’s your job.”

  “I don’t care. I’m tired of groveling for change. I feel like a little boy asking for an advance on his allowance. I refuse.”

  Ben could see they were at a stalemate. “Fine. I’ll go.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll make you an appointment.” He pointed across his desk. “By
the way, you got a big package from Colby. I think he’s taking his revenge for the Turnbull depo.”

  Ben picked up the hefty stack of paper and rifled through it.

  “Eight motions? Eight?”

  “Guess he thought you had too much free time on your hands.”

  “Eight? How can he do this?”

  “When you have forty or so associates at your disposal, you can do about anything.” He smiled thinly. “The one that matters is on top.”

  Ben glanced at the titles of the motions and their attached briefs (few of which were, in fact, brief). Three motions in limine, trying to keep out various pieces of evidence, including Turnbull’s testimony. Two discovery motions, one requesting not only medical records, but requesting that each of the plaintiffs undergo an extensive (and no doubt humiliating) battery of medical and psychological tests. A motion for physical inspection of the plaintiffs" homes. A motion for censure against that notorious embarrassment to the local bar, Benjamin Kincaid. But as Jones had said, the best was the one on top.

  A motion for summary judgment.

  “Son of a bitch,” Ben murmured. “He did it anyway.”

  “He came up with different grounds,” Jones explained. “Some legal mumbo jumbo I didn’t begin to understand.”

  Ben thumbed rapidly through the brief. It seemed the legal scholars at Raven, Tucker & Tubb had been working double time. The motion hinged on a Supreme Court case called Daubert v. Merrill Dow Pharmaceuticals which, according to the Raven brief, established standards for scientific testimony. According to the brief, this case precluded Ben from putting on evidence at trial about the causes of leukemia—which of course would make the parents" case unwinnable. Therefore, Raven argued, summary judgment should be entered against the parents now.

  After all this work. All this time and money. Summary judgment. Ben’s chest felt as if his heart had stopped beating.

  “Can this be right?” Ben said softly, under his breath.

  “Don’t ask me,” Jones replied. “But it looks good on paper. And they’ve got a lot of cases supporting their position.”

  Which was true. The brief’s table of cases went on for three pages. Most were cases Ben had never heard of.

  “What are you going to do?” Jones asked.

  Ben dropped the briefs on the desk, feeling forlorn and useless. “I don’t know. When she comes in, ask Christina to go to the library and start working on all this.”

  “Boss, she can’t possibly—”

  “She’s a law student. She knows her way around the library.”

  “But Boss—eight motions?”

  “I’ll help.”

  “You’ve got your own work to take care of. You’ve got stacks of documents you still haven’t waded through. Depo transcripts you haven’t read. Experts to locate and prepare.”

  “We have no choice.”

  “Boss—you need help.”

  Ben arched an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. Can’t you … hire an associate?”

  “Hire an associate with what? No money, remember?”

  “You’re going to have to do something.”

  Ben blew air through his lips, suddenly feeling enormously tired. “Thanks for telling me something I didn’t already know.” He started toward his office. “Did I mention that I hate civil litigation?”

  “No,” Jones said, with a wry smile. “Why?”

  “Because there’s nothing civil about it.”

  Mike stared glassy-eyed at the mound of paper covering his desk. He hated paperwork. Hated it with a passion. Avoidance of paperwork could well be the secret reason he’d decided to become a cop in the first place. He wanted to be Starsky and Hutch, not Bob Cratchit.

  So why was he—top homicide detective in the Tulsa police department—going over these blinking accounting records?

  It had taken him more than a week to pry these financial statements out of H. P. Blaylock. He’d had to bully, swagger, threaten, cajole, wave subpoenae in the air. Finally, experiencing a rare moment of triumph, he got what he wanted.

  Except, now that he had it, he didn’t know what to do with it.

  He couldn’t read this spreadsheet crap. He couldn’t even balance his checkbook. He’d been an English major, for God’s sake. And although there were many reasons for that choice, one of the highest ranking was definitely—no math.

  He couldn’t begin to decode all this accountant gobbledygook. Much as he hated to admit it, he needed assistance.

  He punched the intercom button on his phone. “Nita?”

  The floor secretary was there. “Yes, Mike?”

  “I need a consultant. Who’s the top accountant in our white-collar crimes division?”

  “That would be Pfieffer.”

  “Not Pfieffer!”

  “ ‘Fraid so.”

  Mike groaned. “Okay, who’s the bottom accountant?”

  “That would also be Pfieffer.”

  “Are you saying he’s the only accountant we have on staff?”

  “Where do you think you are, New York City? Of course he’s the only accountant we have.”

  Great. Just great. “Would you please tell Mr. Pfieffer that I would like to request an audience with him at the earliest possible opportunity?”

  “I will.” She giggled. “Can I come and watch?”

  “No.” He slammed the phone receiver down. He hated to be harsh with a sweetie like Nita. But some things just weren’t funny.

  Ben checked his watch again. Thirty minutes. He’d been waiting thirty minutes. If he were in a doctor’s office, of course, that would be nothing. But in a bank, it seemed like an eternity.

  Finally, a bleached blond secretary escorted him into The Brain’s interior office. He was actually named Cecil Conrad Eversole II. He was twice as old as Ben and about half the size, a tiny man who seemed almost entirely enveloped by his white starched shirt and pinstripes.

  The Brain was sitting at his desk, bifocals poised at the end of his nose, staring at some documents. When he spotted Ben, he offered a slight smile. “Always a pleasure to see you, Ben.”

  Ben scrunched down in a chair, already feeling cranky. “If it’s such a pleasure, why did I have to wait so long?”

  “Sorry about that. Busy day. Hope you weren’t too miserable.”

  “I was. I hate banks.”

  The Brain did a double take. “You hate banks? Why?”

  “Because I don’t have any money in them.”

  The banker smiled. “Anyway, how much will it be?”

  Ben blinked. “How … much?”

  “Of course. I assume since you’re here in person this time, you’re planning to pay back some—”

  He froze. The expression on Ben’s face told him how mistaken he was.

  “Oh, no,” he whispered under his breath. “No, no. Please no. Don’t tell me—”

  “I need more money.”

  “I made it clear to Mr. Jones last time that it was absolutely your last trip to the well.”

  Ben squirmed. “We’ve got this big lawsuit going—”

  “I know all about the class action suit. Mr. Jones has briefed me extensively.”

  Ben fingered his collar. “Well, then, you must realize that the potential for recovery is … unlimited.”

  “I think it’s speculative in the extreme. I think you were foolish to take the case.”

  Well, that was going to make this more complicated. “We’ve had some unforeseen expenses. But I’ve no doubt that in the end—”

  The Brain cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Let me make this easier for you, Ben. No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No. Absolutely not. Not a penny more.”

  “But—we’re in the middle of a lawsuit!”

  “All the more reason. This is a responsible financial institution. We can’t throw good money after bad.”

  “But—”

  “Ben, I’m trying to make this ea
sy for you because I like you. I’m trying to spare you the mortification of making a lot of desperate pleas. They won’t work. I cannot loan you any more money.”

  “But I’ve got to hire experts—”

  “My colleagues think I was crazy to humor you as long as I did. Making loans with a lawsuit as collateral is preposterous.”

  “Then—take something else as collateral. Take the title to my van.”

  “Already got it.”

  “Take a lien on our office equipment.”

  “Did that months ago.”

  “Then—take a lien on my personal possessions.”

  “I can’t, Ben. You don’t have anything anyone else would ever want to have.” He fidgeted with a pencil. “This is making me most uncomfortable, Ben. Please desist.”

  Ben threw himself back in his chair. “There must be some way. I can’t just abandon the case.”

  “I don’t think you have any choice. I can’t loan you any more money for a lawsuit. And no one else in town will, either.”

  Ben felt his weight sinking into the cushioned pads of the chair. There had to be some way to continue.

  “Hear what I’m saying, Ben. I cannot loan you any more money for a lawsuit.”

  Ben tilted his head slightly. The way The Brain was overemphasizing some of the words—it was almost as if he was trying to tell him something. Tell him something without saying it.

  The light dawned. “What if the money … wasn’t for a lawsuit?”

  The Brain arched an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “What if it were something more … ordinary?”

  “An ordinary business expense?” He shuffled his papers around. “That, of course, would be an entirely different matter.”

  “What if I simply wanted to … expand my business?”

  The Brain shrugged. “A loan of that nature would be a far simpler matter. Principally the decision would be based upon an analysis of your most recent financial statements and your potential gains after the implemented expansion. I believe I have a copy of your last year’s profits.”

  “I had a pretty good year last year. Well, for me.”

  “What kind of expansion did you have in mind?”

  “Well … I’ve been thinking of bringing in another lawyer. So I could handle more business.”