Silent Justice (35 page)

The man leaned all the closer. “Will you? I’d really appreciate that. And you know what I want to know.”

“How do I know you won’t kill me? Even if I talk. Like you did the others.”

The man leaned all too close to George’s face. “You don’t. But that timer is still ticking.”

“I don’t have the merchandise. I was as surprised as you when I found out.

This was the third time he’d heard this same song and dance, and he was getting tired of it. “Then who does have it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Fred has it.”

The man was incredulous. “Fred? Fred the Feeb?”

“I don’t know. If I knew, I’d tell you. Hell, if I knew, I’d go and get it myself.”

“George, I want to know where it is.”

“I don’t know!”

The man pushed away from the bed.
“Am I going to have to kill every damn one of you?”
He turned away, pressing his fingers against his forehead. Control, he told himself. Control. That’s the secret. That’s why you’ve come so far so well. Preparation and control.

He walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He took several deep breaths, focusing on recapturing his inner tranquility. Then he grabbed a towel, dried himself off, and returned to the bedroom.

He glanced at the timer. “One minute, George.”

“Please!” George pressed his chest forward, straining, pulling the cuffs to the full length of their chains. “I do not have it. I don’t know where it is.”

The man shrugged. “Then you’ll die.”

“Okay, then—I do know where it is. I admit it. I can show it to you. But you’ll have to let me go.”

“I don’t think so.” The man glanced again at the timer. “Thirty seconds. Where is it?”

“It—it—” George’s eyes raced. “It’s in my office.”

“I’ve already searched your office. Thoroughly.”

“I didn’t mean my office. I meant—the den. Here at home. I sometimes call that my office.”

The man shook his head from side to side. “You’re pathetic, George.” He sighed. “And you don’t know where it is any more than I do.”

“Then let me go!”

“Why should I?” A second later, they both heard the click. A tiny sound, but one that sent shock waves of terror through George like nothing he had ever known in his life.

The timer had reached zero.

More than a thousand volts of electricity coursed through George’s body. He flew up into the air, his back arched, his handcuffs holding him to the bed.

The man shook his head in disgust. “I never liked you anyway, George.” He turned away and returned to the bathroom. He had never cared for the smell of cooked flesh, and he felt an urgent need to relieve himself.

There was no sign of forced entry, Mike noted as he approached the porch. And the front door wasn’t locked. Curiouser and curiouser.

He pushed the door open quietly, then stepped inside, gun at the ready. The downstairs was just as dark as it had appeared from the outside, but up the central staircase he saw a trace of light. A moment later, he heard talking, a voice, and—something else. A low humming sound, like powered machinery in operation.

What the hell was going on here?

He considered calling for backup, but decided against it. What would he tell them? He didn’t really know what he had here. Maybe it was nothing at all. And if he left, it was just possible the man he’d been chasing might escape. And he couldn’t live with himself if that happened.

Slowly, he crept up the stairs, gun poised, ready for anything. Catlike, he told himself. That’s what the manuals always told officers to do when they didn’t want to be heard. Walk catlike. What the hell did that mean? He weighed almost two hundred pounds and he was wearing street shoes. There was no catlike.

He heard the carpet creak—could a carpet creak? Something did. The floorboards, whatever. Fortunately, the humming noise upstairs was far louder than he was. He didn’t think he’d been heard.

At the top of the stairs, he saw the lights were on in a single room. The humming was coming from that room—and something else. What was it? It sounded like running water.

He walked cautiously to the doorway, then jumped inside. He whirled around, scanning in all directions with his gun at the ready, covering the room in the usual police-manual manner. Till his eyes were riveted by the spectacle at center stage.

There was a naked man handcuffed to the bed. He recognized him—it was George Philby. His body was arched up in the air. His eyes were clenched shut, as were his fists. His whole body was tight as a drum. He appeared to be in immense agony.

And Mike quickly saw why. He knew the gizmo at the side of the bed was a battery charger. The cables were attached to the bed and the man was handcuffed …

Mike’s jaw literally dropped. My God, what kind of sick mind—

It came to him like a bolt out of the blue. He was here. The killer was
here,
he realized.

But too late. The blow struck Mike on the back of his neck, hard. He reeled forward, neck feeling like it was broken. Hold onto the gun, he told himself, as he tumbled across a chair and fell onto an end table. Hold onto the gun.

He felt a kick to his ribs. He clenched his teeth together. That hurt. He rolled around, trying to get his bearings. He saw a dark figure moving toward him. In an overcoat. He didn’t have time to think or focus. He brought his gun around and aimed.

The steel grippers on the battery cable touched Mike’s gun, and an instant later, he felt a thousand volts of electricity rocket through his body. He reflexively fired, but the bullet went wild and lodged in the ceiling. He dropped the gun, then fell back spasming onto the carpet.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered, as he fought for consciousness. The room was darkening, or so it seemed to him. A dark blur was surrounding him, blanketing him …

It was the killer. He still held one of the battery cables. And he was reaching for something.

Mike’s wedding ring. He still wore it, even after all these years. And now someone was going to use it to kill him.

He tried to roll around, escape, but he was too groggy. His body felt uncoordinated; it didn’t respond properly to command. The steel grippers came closer, and he couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t get away …

A moment later Mike felt as if someone had stuck a knife inside him and started peeling away his skin. From the inside. He felt his body trembling, rocking back and forth with the surge of electricity rippling down his spine. He felt his whole body tense like a brick. He thought his heart was doing flip-flops in his chest, thought his flesh was on fire, and a few moments after that, was beyond thinking anything at all.

C
HRISTINA STOOD AT THE
front of Judge Perry’s courtroom trying to explain things as best she could. “I’m sure it will only be a moment, your honor.”

“A moment is too long.” Judge Perry’s usual impassive expression today seemed positively grim. “When I say a trial will begin at nine o"clock, I mean it.”

“I understand that.”

“If this is part of a plaintiff strategy to delay, let me tell you right now that I will not tolerate it.”

“No, sir.” Christina felt the prickly heat rising up her neck. “It’s nothing like that. He’s just … late.”

“Then we’ll proceed with co-counsel at the helm. Approach the bench, Ms. McCall.”

“Your honor … I can’t.” Christina was twisting her fingers into knots. “I’m only an intern. I haven’t finished law school.”

Judge Perry’s shoulders began to heave. “Fine. Then we’ll proceed with Professor Matthews.”

Matthews awkwardly pushed himself to his feet, making minute adjustments in the lie of his tweed jacket. He did not approach.

“Is there a problem?” the judge asked, with an edge that could cut through butter. “Haven’t you finished law school?”

“Your honor,” Matthews began. “I do have a law degree. But I’ve never tried a lawsuit. I’m here strictly to advise on legal issues.”

Judge Perry’s face was so tight he had difficulty speaking. “I will not tolerate this in my courtroom! Where is Mr. Kincaid?”

“I-I don’t know, your honor,” Christina stuttered. “I can’t imagine what happened. But I’m sure, whatever it is, it was unavoidable …”

“Mr. Kincaid is in contempt of this court. If he does not appear in five minutes, I’ll dismiss the plaintiffs" suit.”

Cecily leaned across plaintiffs" table to Christina. “Can he do that?” she whispered.

“Oh, yeah,” she whispered back. “He’s the judge. He can do whatever he wants.”

“I’m setting my stopwatch,” the judge informed them. “Five minutes. And counting.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

The last voice came from the back of the courtroom. Everyone present swiveled around to see Ben Kincaid rush up the center aisle. He had a document box under each arm, with his briefcase precariously balanced between. His tie was unknotted, dangling over his neck. He looked a mess.

“I apologize to the court for my tardiness,” Ben said as he raced to the front. “It was unavoidable. I … uh … had car trouble.”

“That’s not good enough!” Judge Perry barked. He seemed even more enraged now that Ben was here. “When I say a trial begins at nine sharp, I mean nine sharp. Not a second later.”

“Yes, sir. I understand that, sir. And I’m very sorry.”

“In your absence, you were found in contempt of court. You are directed to pay a five-hundred-dollar fine to the court clerk on your way out of the courtroom today.”

Ben closed his eyes. “Yes, sir.” Five hundred dollars!

“Now please take a minute to … pull yourself together. And then let’s get on with this trial!”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” May I have another, sir?

The judge stepped into chambers. Ben avoided Colby’s smarmy smile; obviously he thought the trial was already drifting his way. He’d had nothing to do with Ben’s absence, but he was more than happy to exploit it to the fullest.

Christina began knotting his tie. “What happened to you? Sleep late?”

“No. Couldn’t get to the courthouse. Ended up calling for a taxi. And you know how long that takes. Since there are only two taxis in all of Tulsa.”

“What happened? Van wouldn’t start?”

“No.” He craned his neck as she slid the knotted tie up against his Adam’s apple. “When I walked out to the curb this morning, it was gone.”

“Stolen?”

“Repossessed.”

Christina’s jaw dropped. “No.”

“Yes.” He popped open his briefcase and started organizing his materials. “It seems we’ve reached the end of our financial tether. The Brain is calling in the markers.”

Once he was finally dressed and groomed properly, Ben scanned the courtroom gallery. It was jam-packed. Spectators were wedged together on the long-tiered pews like travelers on an overbooked bus. People stood at the back of the room and filtered along the walls. Ben suspected Judge Perry wouldn’t tolerate that for long; surely it violated the fire code.

All in all, he counted more than two hundred people crammed in the relatively tiny gallery. Members of the press and sketch artists occupied most of the first row. Members of the plaintiffs" families took the second, except for Cecily who, as the designated plaintiffs" representative, sat at the table up front with Ben. And directly behind the relatives sat a phalanx of gray-suited Blaylock executives and employees. Most of the people who had been deposed were present, including Turnbull—although Ben noticed that he sat a good distance away from everyone else in the Blaylock camp. Ben knew Turnbull hadn’t been fired, but he was probably receiving a chilly reception from his old pals, just the same.

And some of the people crammed into the courtroom were simply spectators, folks with no connection to the case at all. Some were VIPs or lucky ducks with well-placed friends who’d managed to get them in without waiting in line. It was supposed to be first come first served, but Ben knew that, as a practical matter, connections counted. He also knew Colby had sent in a squadron of young associates at the crack of dawn to hold seats until the Blaylockians arrived. He wanted as many friendly faces in the courtroom as possible.

The Brain was out there, too, the son of a bitch. Keeping an eye on his collateral, Ben supposed. He wondered if he’d driven to the courthouse in Ben’s van. Ben’s former van.

Ben marveled at the high-tech appearance of this far-from-new courtroom. Although federal courts still did not permit trials to be televised, monitors for internal use were everywhere. A huge television screen, six feet by six feet, faced the jury box. It was on wheels so it could be moved as necessary. In this way, exhibits could be shown to the jury as they were discussed. Two smaller television screens appeared at each end of the jury box. All of these monitors, of course, had wires and cables and feeder mechanisms cluttering the courtroom. There were also computer monitors at the judge’s bench, and it looked like Colby’s team had no fewer than three laptops.

Not exactly Clarence Darrow’s courtroom.

Ben stifled a yawn. He had not gotten much sleep last night and, despite the excitement swirling around the courtroom, it was beginning to catch up with him. Even after he left the office, he had a hard time sleeping. Sometime around four he finally drifted off. Good thing he hadn’t gone outside—he might’ve seen the repo man swiping his van.

The old-style steam radiators in the federal courtroom emitted a discernible hum; once you focused on it, it seemed deafening. The spectators had a hum of their own, an expectant buzz, an anticipatory excitement about what would soon begin. Why did people come to watch trials to which they had no connection? Ben wondered, for about the millionth time. Don’t they get enough of this on television? Don’t they have lives of their own? It never made sense to him. But after all the pretrial publicity this case had received, he supposed it was inevitable.

Around nine fifteen, Judge Perry returned to the courtroom. He appeared to have suppressed some of his anger, although Ben knew he had a long way to go before he’d be back in this man’s good graces.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” the judge said. “The court case set for trial is
Elkins et al. versus H. P. Blaylock Industrial Machinery Corporation,
case number JP00-065. This case is set as a jury trial. Counsel, is there any reason we should not proceed at this time with jury selection?”