“Disappears?”
“Well, she went onshore.”
“Did you see where she went?”
“Naw. I couldn’t get close enough.”
Edwards began to look a bit worried. “So … you don’t know what she did next?”
“I know this. Ten minutes later she was back in her boat. And thirty minutes after that she sailed back to port with the biggest blamed rainbow trout I’ve seen in my life.”
“So what do you think she did onshore?”
“Objection,” Ben said, rising to his feet. “Calls for speculation.”
Judge Hart nodded. “Let’s limit the testimony to what he saw and heard, Mr. Edwards. Trust me, the story is riveting enough without supplementing it with conjecture.”
Edwards smiled thinly. “Mr. Hemingway, what did you do after the defendant returned to port with this large fish?”
“Well, I hopped into my truck and drove out to the spot where I saw her get out of the car. And what do you suppose I found?”
“Uh … traditionally, I ask the questions and the witness gives the answers.”
“Oh. Right.”
“So what did you find, sir?”
Hemingway leaned forward. “Not a hundred feet from where she got out of the boat, parked behind a tree, I found Fannie’s flame-red Ford pickup truck. Mag wheels and nylon gate.”
“Did you search the truck?”
“I most certainly did.”
“What did you find?”
“Objection,” Ben said. “No probable cause to search.”
“Nice try,” Judge Hart said. “But Mr. Hemingway isn’t a member of the law enforcement community, is he? His activities do not constitute state action.”
“But his testimony is being used by the government.”
“Yes, so it is. Tough how these things work out sometimes, isn’t it? Overruled.” She nodded toward Edwards. “Please proceed.”
“Mr. Hemingway, what did you find inside the truck?”
He leaned back, obviously pleased with himself. “That’s when I found the freshwater tank.”
Edwards introduced the State’s Exhibit A, an oversized portable freshwater tank. Just right for a jumbo trout.
“What did you do after you found the tank?” Edwards asked.
“Well, at that point, it was obvious she’d been cheatin’. What else could I do? I disqualified her and told her to return all the prize money. When she refused, I went and had me a little talk with the assistant DA.”
His brother-in-law, Ben recalled.
“Thank you,” Edwards said. “No more questions.”
Judge Hart swiveled to face the defendant’s table. “Any cross-examination, Mr. Kincaid?”
“Uh, yes.” Ben scrambled to his feet.
Fannie gave him a little shove. “Go get ’em, tiger.”
Ben tried to restrain his enthusiasm. “Mr. Hemingway, my name is Ben Kincaid, and I represent Ms. Fenneman. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Hemingway dipped his chin. “Shoot.”
“Mr. Hemingway, the fact is you didn’t actually see Ms. Fenneman take anything out of that tank, did you?”
“Well, no.”
“You didn’t see what she did after she got out of the boat?”
“That’s true.”
“Would you be surprised to learn that she went onshore just to … well…” Ben’s face flushed. “… to relieve herself?”
A slow grin crept across Hemingway’s face. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she said that.”
“Just answer the questions, sir.” Ben’s eyes darted around the courtroom. He knew he was just covering the obvious material; nobody appeared particularly impressed, and rightly so.
“Pssst.”
Ben heard the hissing behind him, but resisted getting dragged into another expression of Fannie’s outrage. “Mr. Hemingway, isn’t it true—”
“Pssst!”
Ben plowed dutifully ahead. “Isn’t it true that you never—”
“Excuse me.” This time the voice came from the foreground. It was Judge Hart. “Counsel, I believe your legal assistant is attempting to get your attention.”
Ben turned to face Christina McCall, who was leaning across the railing that separated the gallery from the court. Her hand was outstretched and she was clutching a scrap of paper. Ben snatched the paper and opened it.
Judge Hart peered down curiously from the bench. “Fan mail from some flounder?”
“Uh … not exactly.” Ben stared at the note, which contained two words: HE’S LYING.
“Your honor, might I confer for a moment—?”
“Will it speed the trial along?”
“I’m sure it will.”
“Then by all means.”
Ben walked to the back of the courtroom. Christina was in her pan-European phase; she was wearing a red-and-blue-checked French-schoolgirl dress tucked into black leggings, which Ben supposed was intended to make her look as leggy as a woman barely five-feet-one was ever likely to look. “Christina, I think you’re becoming more eccentric and mysterious every day.”
She smiled. “Did you read my note?”
“Yes. What does it mean?”
“Just what it says.” She tossed her head back, making her vivid red hair, which was tied in a ponytail, swish between her shoulder blades. “He’s lying. Vis-à-vis the tank. It’s a frame.”
“A fish frame. How?”
“I don’t know how.”
“Then how do you know he’s lying?”
“Because I am a femme du monde—or a femme, at any rate.”
“Stifle the French and tell me your theory. I find this very hard to believe.”
“That’s because you’ve been assuming your client is guilty.”
Ben avoided her eyes. “Well, her success record is pretty amazing.”
“Right. No woman could ever be that good.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“You didn’t. But look at the guy in the stand.” Ben glanced back toward the front at Hemingway, in his flannel shirt, his jeans, his palm-sized belt buckle, and his baseball cap advertising Shakespeare fishing gear. Hmmm.
“So you think he didn’t like losing forty-seven times in a row?”
“I think he didn’t like losing to a competitor with no chest hair.”
Ben continued staring at the man in the witness stand. If he had learned nothing else in the years since he’d been out of law school, he’d learned to trust Christina’s instincts. She was a far better judge of people than he would ever be.
“Ready to proceed?” Judge Hart asked.
“Yes. Thank you, your honor.” Ben folded up his prepared outline. He was going to have to wing this one. “Mr. Hemingway. You’ve been a participant in some of these tournaments yourself, haven’t you?”
“I like to cast a line every now and again.”
“You probably didn’t much care for losing all those tournaments to my client, did you?”
“Objection.” Edwards was on his feet. “This is not relevant.”
“Your honor,” Ben interjected. “I’m trying to establish—”
Judge Hart cut him off. “No windy speeches, counsel. I know where you’re going. Overruled.”
Ben turned back to the witness. “Answer the question.”
“Well, I’d prob’ly rather win than lose, if that’s what you mean. I don’t much cotton to losin’.”
“Especially to a woman, right?”
Hemingway’s eyes darted away. “I don’t know what in the Sam Hill that’s got to do with anything.”
Ben took a few steps toward the witness. “Mr. Hemingway, you put that freshwater tank in Fannie’s truck, didn’t you?”
His voice swelled. “I sure as—” He glanced at the judge, then checked himself. “I mean, I certainly did not.”
“You’re under oath.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“And you’re stating under
oath that you did not put that tank in Fannie’s truck?”
“You got it, shyster. Hell, I’ve never had one of those tanks in my life. Never even seen one till I found Exhibit A in her truck.”
“And you wouldn’t want to damage Fannie’s reputation as a fisherwoman?”
“Couldn’t care less about that.”
“Hmm.” Ben took a step back. “Mr. Hemingway, when was the last time you actually won a fishing tournament?”
“It’s been …” His eyes floated to the tops of their sockets. “Well, it’s been a while.”
“A while … meaning years?”
“Yes.”
“How many years?”
“I don’t rightly recall.”
“You must have some idea.”
“Five years, eight months, and thirteen days, okay?” He was leaning slightly forward now, balancing on his fingertips.
“What tournament was that? That you won, I mean. Five years ago.”
“That was the Beaver Invitational, for your information. Damn tough tournament, too.”
“I see.” The neurons were firing in Ben’s brain, but he hadn’t yet pieced everything together. Beaver. Beaver. That place rang a bell, and not just because it was the cow-chip-throwing capital of the world. There was something he had read in the witness files …
He glanced to the back of the courtroom and saw a red ponytail bouncing above the pews. Christina was already digging in the files, way ahead of him.
A few moments later, she returned with a newspaper article they had obtained during discovery from the prosecution. The accompanying photo showed Hemingway holding an impressive bass. The sun was setting in the background, casting a rosy hue over the lake.
Ben handed the article to Hemingway. “Is this the tournament?”
Hemingway glanced at the picture. A smile of recollected pride crossed his lips. “Yes. I won that tournament. That was before she hit the circuit.”
“Nice-looking fish you caught there.”
“Aw, she was a beauty.”
“Nice gloss. Good color.”
“Yeah.”
“Thing is … don’t fish start to get kind of … well, groady, after they’ve been out in the sun for a while?” Ben was hardly an expert, but once Christina had dragged him out on a fishing expedition in Arkansas.
“Well,” Hemingway answered, “the coat tends to dry up. Scales flake off. They rot, like anything else.”
“But, Mr. Hemingway, that fish looks beautiful. You said so yourself.”
“The picture was prob’ly taken just after I caught him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Musta been.”
“No.” Ben pointed to a line in the article. “Paper says you caught him at twelve-forty P.M.”
“Well then, this was prob’ly right after that.”
Ben pointed to the photograph. “Look in the background. The sun is setting.”
“Well … yesss.”
“This was during the summertime in Oklahoma. Sun sets, what? About eight-thirty? Nine?”
“Yesss …”
“So this photo was taken seven or eight hours after you caught the fish. But he looks like you just dragged him out of the water.”
Hemingway shifted his weight. “Well, you know, them photographers are real talented.”
“You’re suggesting trick photography? Maybe some airbrush work? I don’t think so, Mr. Hemingway. I think you bought him.”
“I did not buy him!”
“You must’ve.”
“I didn’t!”
“You must’ve caught some other fish and then substituted the fish you bought just before this picture was taken.”
“I did no such thing!”
“Your denials are futile, Mr. Hemingway. The photo speaks for itself.”
His fists were balling up. “It’s a lie.”
“Face it, sir. You cheated.”
His voice rose. “I did not!”
“The evidence is right in front of you. Stop denying it.”
“I did not cheat!”
“Then how did the fish stay fresh all afternoon?”
He sprang to his feet. “Because I kept it in my—”
Hemingway stopped suddenly and froze. He looked both ways at once, mouth gaping, then slowly dropped to his chair.
Ben eased away from the witness stand, his eyes dancing. “Is the word you’re searching for by any chance … tank?”
Chapter 2
BEN DIDN’T MAKE IT back to his office until later that afternoon. It was a downtown cubbyhole on a street full of pawnshops and loan offices (GET THE CASH YOU NEED QUICK—NO QUESTIONS ASKED). The yellow brick of most of the buildings harkened back to an era when these offices formed Tulsa’s line of demarcation between the prosperous white oil barons to the south and the equally prosperous Black Wall Street to the north.
Ben pushed open the door and stepped inside. For once the office seemed relatively peaceful. No bill collectors blocking the entrance, no strapped clients explaining why they couldn’t pay, no disgruntled opponents seeking revenge.
Jones, Ben’s office assistant, sat at a desk in the center of the lobby area, one hand clutching a phone receiver and the other tickling the keyboard of his computer.
Jones covered the mouthpiece when he saw Ben enter. “Congratulations, Boss.”
“You heard?”
Jones nodded. “Fannie told all. She’s in your office waiting for you.” He smiled. “Said you carved up the prosecution’s main witness on cross.”
“She’s exaggerating.”
“No doubt.”
“Who’s on the line?”
Jones pointed at the computer screen. “I found another small New England college on the Net this morning. They have several graduate programs in nursing.”
Ben’s interest was immediate. “Really?”
“Relax, Boss. Just because they have a program doesn’t mean your sister is in it. I’m trying to bully my way into the admissions records.”
Ben crossed his fingers. After a few moments he heard a voice buzzing on the other end of the line. Jones replied, not in Oklahoman, but in a clipped British accent. “Jolly good, old chap. Are you certain about that?” After a few more such exchanges, Jones hung up the phone.
“Ronald Colman?” Ben asked.
Jones grinned. “A tony British accent can occasionally charm some answers out of these New England universities.”
“And?”
Jones shook his head. “Sorry, Boss. She isn’t there.”
Ben tried not to let his disappointment show. “Well, keep trying.” He started toward his office.
“Boss—”
He stopped. “Yeah?”
“Not that it’s any of my business, but—”
“But you’re going to butt in anyway.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you gave up this search? Your sister obviously doesn’t want to be found.”
“We don’t know that for certain.”
“She told you she was enrolling in a graduate-level nursing program in Connecticut. But we’ve searched every Connecticut college on the map and she isn’t there.”
“She might’ve gotten her states confused.”
“Get a reality check, Boss. She fled. Vanished. After dumping her baby on you.” Jones clicked the mouse on the computer. “How old is Joey now?”
“Thirteen months.”
“So she’s been gone for almost six months. And she’s never called once to check on her kid. Face it; she’s history.”
Ben knew any refutation would sound desperate and lame. “Still … it doesn’t hurt to keep looking. When you have the time.”
Jones frowned. “You’re the boss, Boss.” He handed Ben some papers. “Here’s your latest draft of the summary judgment brief in the Skaggs case. It’s due today.”
Ben checked his watch. “Today? The courthouse closes in less than an hour!”
Jones turned back to his computer
. “Have a nice day.”
“Swell.” Ben shoved the brief under his arm. “By the way …” He made an awkward coughing noise. “… did the payroll … ?”
Jones shook his head.
“Oh. Well.” He shuffled toward his interior office.
Just as Ben tried to step in, another, much larger figure stepped out.
“Whoa!” the man said as he quickly ducked out of the way. “Sorry, Skipper. We nearly had a head-on collision. We coulda flattened each other.”
Except, Ben thought, since Loving outweighed him by about a hundred and twenty pounds, mostly muscle, Loving would’ve done most of the flattening. “Working on some big case?”
“Not at the moment. Things are kinda slow.” Loving was Ben’s private investigator, although he often worked independently when clients had need of his services. “I was chatting with your client. Nice gal.”
Ben suppressed a smile. “I thought you might like her.”
“By the way …” The hesitance in his voice told Ben exactly what was coming. “I know you’ve been busy and all, but can you tell if the payroll …?”
Ben shook his head. “No.”
“Oh. Well, I understand.”
“I’m sorry, Loving. Work really seems to have dried up, and my clients aren’t paying—”
“Don’t worry about it, Skipper. It ain’t your fault.”
“It ain’t?”
“Nah, it’s the whole international banking conspiracy thing.”
“The—what?”
“The banking conspiracy.”
Ben frowned. “Perhaps I should start reading the papers.”
“All the bigwigs in all the major industrial countries, the Trilateral Commission, the Illuminati, the power elite—they’re all sucking up the world’s cash. Trying to make paper currency worthless.”
“And why would they want to do that?”
“ ’Cause they own all the gold, of course. Cash goes down, gold goes up.”
“That’s incredibly paranoid.”
Loving chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what JFK said, too. And look what they did to him.”
“I beg your pardon. I thought the CIA, the FBI, the Mafia, the Cubans, and the military-industrial complex were behind that one.”
Loving smiled knowingly as Ben entered his office and closed the door. “That’s what they want you to think.”
Naked Justice Page 2