Authors: William Bernhardt
“I guess it was
Perry Mason
that did it for me. I mean, watching the show, somehow you just knew Della was the brains of the outfit. But did she ever get any credit? Nooooo.”
“I think the American criminal justice system is in sorry shape. I became a lawyer so I could reform the system from within. And get a swimming pool. I live to swim.”
“My mom always said, ‘Carrie, the way you argue, you ought to be a lawyer.’ So here I am!”
“I used to watch you on Court TV, every afternoon, during the Wallace Barrett trial. And I thought, Man, can that girl dress! I wanna get me some of that action.”
“Doesn’t it drive you crazy when people talk about the Founding Fathers? I mean, how sexist is that? There were women in those colonies, too.”
“Mostly, I want to be a lawyer so I can give speeches. I give seriously hot speeches. When I talk, people melt like butter.”
“I hate it when creeps tell lawyer jokes. I mean, that’s so bigoted. Negative stereotypes, based on someone’s profession. It’s disgusting. Now, Aggie jokes—those are funny.”
And worst of all, in Christina’s estimation: “I just want to be an attorney so I can help other people.”
“Ugh.” Christina rolled her eyes. “No, thanks. We’ve already got one of those.”
And then there was one. By the end of the morning, Christina had narrowed the field to: Vicki Harmon. On the plus side, she was smart, energetic, and appeared to work out regularly—a good quality given the rigors of trial preparation and courtroom proceedings. Furthermore, she was personally recommended by the dean of Northwestern, and she had the best résumé of the lot. On the minus side, Christina thought, she’s probably smarter than I am, is even shorter than I am, and by all indications is even quieter than Ben. If such a thing is possible.
She hired the girl anyway. “I assume you can start immediately.”
Vicki spoke softly—more like a mouse squeak than a human voice. “Oh yes. I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”
Christina shook her head. “When I say immediately, I mean immediately. As in
now
.”
Vicki blinked. “Oh.”
“This trial starts Monday, remember? And I don’t want to scare you off—but you’ll be my right-hand man. My Number One.”
Another blink. “Oh.”
Despite her quietness, the girl was seriously cute—which was kind of a strike against her. Christina was used to being the cute one in the office, but there was no way she could out-cute this little slip of a thing who was twelve years younger. Oh, well. The sacrifices she made for her clients . . .
“And not that this is immediately relevant,” Christina continued, “but I see on your résumé that you speak French.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Not just clichés, but really, truly speak French?”
“It was my minor in college. Can I still have the job?”
Christina batted her lips with a finger. “Let me think. You’re young, pretty, smart, ambitious, have good grades, are well dressed, almost a lawyer, free of entanglements, and you speak French. Vicki—you’re living my dream.”
Vicki leaned forward timidly. “If you’d like . . . I’d be happy to give you French lessons. When there’s time.”
Christina extended her hand. “Girl, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”
“Stop raving and just tell me what happened,” Christina said, trying to calm him. “You say you got a letter bomb?”
“I wish,” Jones replied, pacing in front of Christina’s desk. “That would’ve been better. I said the package exploded when I opened it. Right in my face. Tons of excelsior.”
“And you’re bringing this to my attention because . . .”
“Because it’s a threat, Christina. It’s got a brochure from ANGER. ‘Stop hate now,’ it says.”
“Doesn’t seem like that big a deal to me.”
“It would if you’d seen the doll.”
“The . . . doll?”
“Right. Mutilated. Cut up. Smeared with red paint.”
Christina drummed her fingernails. “I suppose we have to acknowledge that Johnny is likely to become a target of—”
“Would you just listen for a moment?”
Christina couldn’t think when she’d ever seen him so upset. “This wasn’t a Ken doll they mutilated. It was short and female. With long flowing red hair.”
Christina’s lips drew together wordlessly.
“They’ve moved way beyond making Johnny a target. He’s under lock and key. They can’t get to him.” Jones looked at her grimly. “But they can sure get to you.”
17
Even though it was contrary to her nature, not to mention the established practice of many years, Christina actually knocked before entering Ben’s apartment.
Only a few seconds later, Ben opened his door. “Christina! But—I thought you were in Chicago!” His face was a mix of unreadable emotions. Christina preferred to think he was happy to see her.
“Caught the red-eye. Had to make a few visits, collect a few things before the trial starts Monday morning.”
“Collect a few things? Such as? . . .”
“May I come in?” She looked as if she’d come straight from Tulsa International; she was carrying luggage. “I brought cookies. Chocolate milk. Travel Scrabble.”
“Of course.” Ben preceded her into the living room. She’d been here so many times she could find it blindfolded. Same threadbare sofa, same coffee table. Same enormous cat curled up in his chair. “I’m surprised to see you.”
“Well, surprises are the spice of life, right?” she said casually, as she sat in an overstuffed armchair.
“I’m surprised you’re not working tonight.”
“I needed a break. I’ve been pulling down twenty-hour days. And that pretrial hearing . . .”
“Yeah, how did that go?”
“Not well.”
Ben crossed his legs and clasped his hands around his knee; as body language went, he was a million miles away. “You didn’t expect that judge to give you a continuance, did you? With half the world waiting for this trial?”
“It was a long shot. But I had a fresh angle. I made a public policy argument.”
“Really,” Ben said, barely reacting. “Brilliant.”
“Yeah. Found an obscure local precedent. Didn’t fly. I had him going—he thought about it for a few seconds before turning me down. Rejected all the motions to suppress, too.”
“It might’ve been different if you’d been the first attorney on the case. You can’t expect him to turn back time and make evidentiary rulings after a jury has been selected.”
“Yeah.” They fell silent. Christina looked around the room, gazed at the pictures on the wall—there were two—scrutinized her shoelaces—until she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Ben . . . I really need your help.”
“Christina—”
“I think there’s a lot more to this murder than people think, but I can’t possibly track it all down in time.”
“Nonetheless—”
“If you won’t do it for me, do it for Johnny Christensen.”
“That’s—” Ben stood, then turned away. “That’s exactly what I can’t—won’t do.”
“Why?”
He walked to the window and stared out at the back alleyway. “I don’t want to discuss it.”
“I . . . didn’t know that we had . . . secrets . . .”
“It’s not a secret. It’s just too complicated to explain.”
“Ben, do you have any idea how much attention this murder case is getting?”
“Well, I saw pictures of the redecorations in your Chicago office lobby on CNN.”
“That’s just the tip of the iceberg. We’re getting threatening calls by the hour. The Chicago papers and talk radio hosts have been running op-ed pieces condemning us for taking the case. You know the rant—’some lawyers will do anything for money.’ That kind of crap.”
He continued staring out the window. “We’ve seen all that before.”
“Yes, we have, and that’s why I find your refusal so unfathomable. You’ve always said the unpopular cases are the most important ones to take. Anyone can represent a sympathetic client. But the dirty, unpleasant, unpopular ones—that’s when you prove that a lawyer’s oath isn’t just words, that everyone—
everyone
—is entitled to a fair trial.”
“All true.”
“Then where the hell are you?” Her voice rose much louder than she had intended. “Where’s your oath now that I need it?”
Ben turned, his arms spread, his head shaking, as if he were groping for words that would not come. “I . . . can’t do it, Christina.”
Christina felt so many emotions coursing through her—anger, confusion, disillusionment—she couldn’t possibly give voice to all the thoughts raging in her head. And she didn’t want to be here any longer.
She gathered all her belongings. “I’m leaving.”
Ben stretched out a hand. “Don’t.”
“What’s the point?”
“We could . . . play a game of Scrabble. I’ve been studying up on the three-letter words.”
“I’m not in the mood to play with someone who would . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence. “As long as I’ve known you, Ben, you’ve always done the right thing. That was what I’ve always admired about you most.”
She could see his body tensing. “There are some things . . . no one should be expected to do.”
She headed for the door. “We’ve been through some tough times together, you and me, Ben. We’ve had good cases and bad. Good clients and bad. Won some, lost some. But no matter how they came out—I was never disappointed in you.” She grabbed the doorknob and flung the front door open. “Until now.”
Christina’s eyes were flooding and her head was boiling and as a result she almost crashed into Ellen Christensen and knocked her down the stairs.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Christina said, wiping her eyes. “I didn’t—” She stopped for a moment, letting her brain come back into focus. What was Mrs. Christensen doing in Tulsa? At Ben’s house, no less? “I didn’t realize you knew Ben. I mean, outside the office.”
Ellen’s lips thinned. “Ben and I know each other very well.”
They did? “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I mean, not that’s it’s any of my business.”
Ellen smiled slightly, then passed her on the stairs.
Christina ran across the front yard to her car, feeling stupid and betrayed. She’d been suspicious before, but now it was all starting to make a twisted sort of sense. Small wonder their relationship was going nowhere. Small wonder he didn’t want to talk about it. What a fool she was. The combination of running, fresh air, and heartache was clearing the cobwebs out of her muddled brain.
Oh, my God, Christina realized. She’s the one.
She’s the one!
She got into her car and checked her pocket calendar. She had to fly back to Chicago tomorrow morning, but there was still time for a road trip to Oklahoma City. She wouldn’t put it off this time. She was going to clear up this mystery, once and for all.
Even if the answers killed her.
18
Another day in the exciting life of Charlie the Chicken, he thought, as he strode through an elegant North Side neighborhood. Lovely homes—big palatial mansions, large enough to house everyone in his apartment complex with ease. The lawns were all perfect, as if they had been mowed with cuticle scissors. Rose bushes seemed to be the thing this year; everyone had them, in some cases in sickening abundance.
It was a lovely stroll, but Charlie wasn’t enjoying it. For one thing, he was working, so it would be a mistake to act as if he were out on some pleasure jaunt. Moreover, this was the first time he’d been outside, exposed, for more than ten minutes since he’d returned to Chicago. Not that he thought the person who was looking for him was likely to be hanging in this neighborhood. But you never knew. You couldn’t be too careful, not with someone like that. When he remembered what had been done to Manny—
He mentally erased the chalk from his brain. He needed to get in a happy mood. This was his first gig for the new service, and he wanted to do a first-rate job of it.
When he arrived at his destination, he had to stop and gape. This place was immense! Not just a house—more like a walled city. The lot had to be two acres, maybe more. It went on and on as far as the eye could see. Must’ve been oil, Charlie reasoned, made back in the days when oil tycoons were practically printing money. No one could afford to build a palace like this today.
He glanced down at his clothing, wondering if he had erred. He was wearing tight jeans, as usual—so tight they clutched the crotch and, quite frankly, made it difficult to walk. He couldn’t wait to get them off. Fortunately, he knew he would not have long to wait. And he’d gone with a white muscle T-shirt. Not exactly the standard attire for this part of town—unless maybe you were the gardener. Perhaps he should try to find the servant’s entrance?
Hell with it. This lady would be glad to see him. He’d checked himself out in the mirror before he left, and he looked damn good, if he did say so himself. He marched up a long paved walkway that led to the massive front door. He wondered: Would the door open, or would it lower like a castle drawbridge?
It opened.
“Are you Charlie?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then come in.”
She was pitifully thin—these rich wives tended to be—but at least she wasn’t decrepit. He wasn’t a good judge of age, but she couldn’t be older than her mid-fifties. And he supposed if he had to choose, he’d go with egret-frame before he’d tackle big-pig fat.
She led him directly to her bedroom, which did not surprise him. He wouldn’t have minded spending some time checking out the ungodly expensive furniture and art objects that cluttered every square inch of the house, but she hadn’t invited him over for a grand tour. Like most of the women in her social strata, she was all business.
She instructed him to remove his clothing, which he did. Then she tucked an envelope under his shirt. That was the cash up front, presumably. He supposed it would be gauche to count it.
“I’m fifty-two years old and I’ve never had an orgasm,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed. “I think it’s about time. Don’t you?”
Isn’t this a chat you should be having with your husband? But Charlie knew that probably wasn’t an option. Scattered about the room were pictures of at least three kids so, Charlie surmised, it wasn’t that sex didn’t exist. More likely that Mister Big Business Missionary Position You’re Here to Service My Needs never bothered to ask his wife if she was enjoying herself down there. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”