Silent Justice (44 page)

“I see this. Your current approach is not working.” Christina leaned in closer, till they were practically nose-to-nose. “If you’re going to win this thing, Ben, you’re going to have to get mad.”

Mike strolled about the interior of Ronald Harris’s corner office, drinking in the chairs, the carpet, the so-so SAM’s Club office furniture. There was a bookshelf lined with legal volumes, although the layer of dust atop them told Mike none of them had been consulted in ages. There was a potted tree in the corner, looking even worse than it had the last time Mike was in this office. But for the secretary, Mike suspected it would’ve been dead long ago. The office did have a window with a view, unlike most at Blaylock, although the view was principally of the plant parking lot.

All in all, Mike was not impressed.

“This is the best they can do for you?” Mike asked.

Harris shrugged. “I’m just one of many executives in the Blaylock firm.”

“You’re the man who recovered sixty million missing buckeroos.”

“I guess you’ve talked with Mr. Blaylock.”

“I certainly have. Why didn’t you mention that the last time I talked with you?

“I didn’t see that it had anything to do with the murders. I still don’t.”

“If I found sixty million bucks for Blaylock, I’d expect a lot better office than this. A penthouse, at the very least.”

“There aren’t any. And I felt amply rewarded at the time.”

Given the size of the lump sum payment he received, Mike would have to agree. “How did you ever tumble onto Montague?”

“It was pure process of elimination. I’d been working on it for months. Trying to figure out who had all the information required to make off with the loot. The account number, the password, the credentials. I knew the money had been picked up in person; I learned that from the bank. Once I excluded all the people I knew good and well weren’t in Switzerland on the fateful day, there were few remaining possibilities. I became convinced it was Montague.” He paused. “I just couldn’t figure out how a dead man could rob a bank.”

“That must’ve been a hell of a meeting. When you waltzed into the boardroom and informed everyone that a corpse had cleaned out the cashbox.”

“It was … memorable.” Harris glanced at the open door, as if making sure no one was listening in. “Blaylock about had a fit. He ranted and raved. Called me names. Told me I was crazy. Frankly, I thought I was going to be fired. Probably would’ve been, too.”

“If you hadn’t been right.”

“Exactly. If I hadn’t been right. I hired private detectives—a platoon of them. It was expensive, but eventually they started to turn up traces. Indications that Montague wasn’t dead. We figured his mother—his only living relative—would be in on the secret. So they staked her out. Sure enough, she didn’t seem particularly grieved about the loss of her only son. Hadn’t even paid for a memorial marker.”

“She knew he was alive.”

“She did. We staked out her house—and several other places we thought Montague might return to. Unfortunately, he had the sense not to go to any of them. We did eventually track him down, though. Took forever. But we nabbed him.”

“Where was he?”

“Holed up in a fishing cabin, somewhere in Texas. One sunny Tuesday morning, five of my men rushed in on him, grabbed him, and drove him up to Oklahoma. He never knew what hit him.”

“And that’s when the negotiations began?”

“Right. And I guess you know how it came out. He gave back the money—everything that was left, which was almost all of it. We agreed to keep quiet about what happened. That really ticked off Blaylock. He wanted the man to pay. Pay bad.”

“Sounds like he did, as it turned out.”

“Yeah. Montague died just a few months later—this time for real. Stress had just been too much for him, I guess. Pathetic thing is, he never got any benefit out of all the money he stole. Mind you, I don’t approve of theft or anything. But after pulling off such an ingenious robbery, it seemed like he was at least entitled to a shopping spree at the mall or something.”

“At least.”

“Has this been helpful?”

“Not especially. But I needed to fill in the gaps. Learn as much as I could. Can you think of anything else notable about the robbery? Anything you haven’t told me yet?”

Harris shrugged. “I don’t think so. There’s not much more to tell.”

Mike pushed out of his chair. “Well, I appreciate your cooperation. Can you think of anyone else who might know more about Montague? Or the robbery?”

“We kept this thing very hush-hush, for obvious reasons. I can count all the people who know about it on one hand. I don’t think you’ll have much luck in that direction.”

“What about people who knew Montague? Before he died—the first time. Friends. Coworkers.”

“From what I hear, Montague pretty much kept to himself. He was a bit strange. Dreamy. You know the type. Not content with his lot in life.”

“He went on the company outing. To Frontier City.”

“Yeah, he did. And picked up a woman there, apparently, which was what caused all the confusion on the body count. But as far as actual friends …” His head turned. “I just remembered. There was one guy people said he hung with sometimes. But you’re not going to be able to interview him, either.”

“Let me guess. Dead.”

“Yeah. "Fraid so.”

Mike stepped forward; his interest level was taking a sharp upward turn. “One of the three employees recently murdered?”

“Oh, no. Is that what you thought? No—this guy was dead a good while before that. James David Fenton.”

“James Fenton? Not the lunatic who held all those law students hostage?”

“The very same. I’m impressed. You recognize the name of every criminal?”

“No, just the ones who create major hostage scenes. Especially when my best friend is one of the hostages.”

“Really? Wow. Small world. You knew the hostage. And Montague knew Fenton. Birds of a feather flock together, huh? Weirdness attracts weirdness. Crazies attract crazies.”

Mike probably should’ve taken offense, but his mind was elsewhere, plowing through his memory banks. “Montague wasn’t crazy. And for that matter, neither was Fenton, at least not totally. There was something he kept saying, throughout the hostage siege.” He snapped his fingers. “‘Where’s the merchandise?" That’s what it was. ‘Is the merchandise secure?’“

“What’s the merchandise?”

“I don’t know,” Mike said. His eyes seemed to turn inward, lost in thought. “But whatever it is, Fenton wanted it bad. And I’ll bet my killer is looking for the same damn thing.”

W
HETHER HE CARED TO
admit it or not, today was the day Ben had dreaded most since this whole trial had begun. Not that life as a litigator was ever a piece of cake. He’d put small children on the stand, mentally retarded defendants, even murderers. He’d cross-exed victims of horrible crimes, innocent bystanders. But this morning was something else again. This morning he would put on his plaintiffs, starting with Cecily Elkins, to talk about the one subject on earth they would least like to discuss.

Ben had wanted to put a representative of all eleven families on the stand. Colby had wanted him to put on none, arguing that the details of the parents" bereavement “weren’t relevant.” The compromise they’d reached was that Ben would select three of the parents to represent the whole group. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed to select his three—including Cecily, the woman who’d gotten him into this mess in the first place.

As he watched the spectators flood into the courtroom at the start of this fateful day, it occurred to Ben that being in trial was like being on the crew of a submarine, buried deep in the ocean, for weeks at a time. The real world, its sights, sounds, and happenings, become little more than a faint echo. Colors dim; food becomes tasteless. The world becomes a textureless blur. Governments could crumble, economies could fall, but the litigator would barely notice. It wouldn’t matter. When you are in trial, the trial is all-encompassing, all-devouring. The case invades your every waking thought, even your dreams. Nothing else seems to matter. Worst of all, every second is marked by unrelenting pressure, like the weight of thousands of tons of water bearing down on you. Breathing becomes difficult. You wonder if your life will ever be normal again.

Except in those rare moments when some startling event brings the real world back into focus with shattering clarity. Like this morning, on the way to the office, when Ben had stopped to pick up his suit—and the dry cleaners wouldn’t let him have it. Because he hadn’t paid his bill. In months. And the exactly two dollars and forty-seven cents he had in his pocket wasn’t going to do the trick.

So he’d had to race back to his apartment and pick up this ugly gray pinstripe he hadn’t worn since law school, which was at least fifteen pounds ago. It barely fit and was extremely uncomfortable. The jacket hampered his breathing, and he felt as if the seat of the pants might rip at any moment. Now that would be the perfect topper for this miserable day, wouldn’t it?

At last the time came. The jury was reassembled, Judge Perry raced through the preliminaries, and Ben called Cecily Elkins to the witness stand.

She looked good, all things considered. Ben had told her not to go overboard; this was court, not a society ball. Still, she should look neat and groomed, and not wear anything that indicated disrespect for the court. She’d chosen a simple blue denim dress over a red blouse. Her hair was combed and tied in the back. She looked good, but not too good.

Ben had barely established who she was and where she lived before Colby was on his feet.

“Objection,” he said. “Lack of relevance.”

He’s starting, Ben thought silently. Already. “Your honor, I have a right to introduce my witness to the jury. They need to know who they’re hearing from.”

The judge actually seemed to be pondering whether this was true. “I’ll allow it. For a bit longer, anyway.”

Ben proceeded. But barely a minute later, Colby was objecting again.

“Your honor,” he complained. “You said you’d allow a bit more of this. We’ve had more than a bit.”

Ben clenched his jaw together. These objections were garbage in the extreme. Colby was just interrupting for interruption’s sake, to disrupt the flow. If he kept this up, it would seriously undermine the dramatic impact of Cecily’s story. “Your honor, this is still preliminary material.”

“I understand,” the judge said. “Still, this has already been a long trial. Let’s not go too far with this.”

Ben tried to restart, but he had trouble remembering where he was. And if he couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about, what were the chances that the jury would?

At last, preliminaries finished, Ben brought Cecily around to the topic of her son Billy. “When was Billy first diagnosed with cancer, Cecily?”

“Objection!” Colby said.

Ben glared. If there’d been an Uzi in the courtroom, Colby would be a dead man.

“I must protest,” Colby continued. “This is not relevant.”

“She’s a plaintiff,” Ben said, his lips pressed tightly together. “She has a right to tell her story. We agreed—”

“That she would testify, yes. But not about matters that are not at issue.” Colby stepped toward the bench. “There’s no dispute about the fact that this woman’s son died of leukemia. The dispute is about what, if anything, caused the disease. And this witness knows nothing about that.”

“They may not dispute it,” Ben said, “but they haven’t stipulated to it, either. Besides, she can testify to matters relating to causation. The use of tap water in their home, for instance.”

Judge Perry nodded. “I’ll allow it. But let’s not dwell on matters that aren’t contested.”

Once again, Ben tried to resume his questioning, but every time it was harder. He was losing his train of thought, plus, his irritation at Colby was undermining his concentration.

“What measures did you take to try to save your son?”

“Objection!” Colby said.

Ben clenched his teeth together. What was it Christina had told him?
If you’re going to win this case, you’re going to have to get mad.

She was right.

“Your honor!” Ben boomed across the courtroom. “How much longer are we going to put up with these frivolous objections?”

Judge Perry shook his head. “Opposing counsel has a right to make objections …”

“Valid objections, yes. But these objections are garbage and he knows it. He’s just doing it to interrupt the flow of testimony. To make it harder for the jury to follow the witness’s story.”

“I must protest,” Colby said. “That simply isn’t so.”

“Do you have any proof, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Proof? How could I have proof? Why would I need proof? Everyone in this courtroom knows it’s true!”

Judge Perry’s face grew stony. “Now, counsel, I warn you—”

“This is an abusive trial tactic, unethical in the extreme, and I want a stop put to it immediately.”

Perry raised his gavel. “Counsel, you’re about to be in contempt.”

Mad, Ben told himself.
Get mad. Stay mad.
“For what? Protecting my clients from unethical defense tactics?”

“Counsel, this is your last chance—”

“I won’t tolerate this, your honor. If you won’t put an end to it, I’ll take an immediate interlocutory appeal.”

“Citing what? Too many objections?”

“Abusive conduct. I’ll attach a copy of the transcript. A blind man could see what Mr. Colby’s trying to do here. It won’t be a problem for three appeal judges.”

“Mr. Kincaid—”

“Your honor, I’m sick of these tiresome, inane interruptions. And I think the jury is, too.”

Without even thinking about it, the combatants turned to look at the jury. Ben saw that three of them were slowly nodding their heads—thank God. They knew what he was saying. They were tired of it, too.

“Counsel, approach the bench.”

Ben and Colby approached. Judge Perry covered the microphone with his hand. “Mr. Kincaid, this is my courtroom. I will not tolerate this insubordination.”

“But your honor—”

“Don’t give me any excuses. You will treat the court with respect, or I’ll toss you in the clink.” He took several deep breaths, almost hyperventilating, then turned to Colby. “And as for you, Mr. Colby, I would appreciate it if you would restrict your interruptions to those that actually have some merit. You’ve been practicing long enough to know the difference.”