Silent Justice (33 page)

Colby’s eyes were as dark as night. “No, your honor.”

“Very well, then. The defendant’s motion for summary judgment is denied. Furthermore, based upon the argument I have heard, I will allow the plaintiffs" medical experts to testify at trial. I will warn counsel, however, that I will be listening to that testimony very carefully. Although the professor has convinced me that the jury should be permitted to hear the evidence, if the court determines that the evidence is not sufficient to support a finding in the plaintiffs" favor, I will not hesitate to intervene.”

Matthews bowed his head slightly. “Understood, your honor.”

“Very good. Let’s move on to the rest of these motions.” He glanced up at Matthews. “They shouldn’t take too long.”

They didn’t. The court whipped through Colby’s remaining seven motions in less than half an hour. Matthews handled all the arguments, and it was clear that, from the judge’s viewpoint, Matthews could do no wrong. Colby might be his friend, but Matthews was the legal expert, and when he spoke, Judge Perry listened. Matthews was prepared for everything, anticipating Colby’s arguments and deflecting them with seeming ease. The results were never in doubt.

With Matthews at the helm, the plaintiffs defeated six of the remaining seven motions, and took a partial victory on the seventh. All the motions in limine were defeated. The motion to censure Ben was defeated, almost without discussion. The judge ruled that the plaintiffs would have to produce medical records and submit to medical tests, although at Matthews’s suggestion, the tests were significantly scaled down from what the defendant had requested.

All in all, it was a smashing victory for the plaintiffs, and a crushing defeat for the defendant. Ben could see Myron Blaylock’s dander rising with each ruling. Best of all, Ben felt that, for perhaps the first time since this case began, the court was treating him with deference and respect. Apparently the feeling was that, if the distinguished Professor Matthews was willing to work with Ben, he couldn’t be all bad.

Ben caught Colby’s eye on the way out. “Looks like there’s going to be a trial, Colby. You must be crushed.”

“Crushed?” Colby walked close to Ben, so no one else could hear. “Sure, I tried to stop the case from going to trial. I had an ethical obligation to do so. But now this case is going to be tried, and the trial will last, probably, what? A month? Two? Maybe longer. I’ll have to staff appropriately. My client has no choice but to defend to its utmost ability. So I figure my firm will make something like half a million dollars.” He paused. “Crushed? Yeah—I’m devastated.”

Colby stepped even closer, close enough that a whisper was more than enough. “No, Kincaid, I’m not crushed. But by the end of this trial, you will be.”

F
OR ONCE, BEN CAME
home from work in a relatively jubilant mood. True, he was staring down the throat of the worst, most complex, most expensive trial he had ever attempted in his entire career. But he had scored a major victory—two, actually. He’d gotten Arthur Turnbull’s new and improved testimony on the record, and he’d won the hearing on Colby’s motions, won with flying colors. There was still much to be done, but at least he was coming into the trial on a winning streak. So he was naturally in high spirits—

Until he saw the note from Joni pinned to his door. It was only four words long, but those four words spoke with magnificent clarity:
WE’re AT THE HOSPITAL.

He found Joni in the fifth-floor corridor, hovering outside Mrs. Marmelstein’s room.

“They won’t let me go in,” she explained. Her usually perfectly coiffed hair was a mess; her face was streaked and blotchy. “They’ve been in there for more than an hour.”

“What happened?” Ben asked.

“I don’t know. I just.…” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I was only gone a minute. Somehow—she must’ve fallen trying to get out of bed.”

Ben winced. “How bad?”

Joni’s eyes started to swell. “It’s bad, Ben. Real bad. I don’t know how—I didn’t know—I was only gone a minute …”

Ben put his arm around her and lowered her to a chair. Joni was so dependable and so good at caretaking that he almost forgot how young she was—barely more than a teenager. She was shouldering enough responsibility to break people much older and more experienced than she. “It isn’t your fault,” he said.

“I thought she was sleeping. I needed to call my friend to see if I could borrow his notes—”

“It isn’t your fault,” Ben said firmly. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

“But if I’d just been there. I was supposed to have been there.”

“Don’t blame yourself. Accidents are inevitable with the elderly. You can only do so much. What do the doctors say?”

“She’s hurt her hip. Again.”

Ben shook his head. It was—what? Barely more than a year ago that she’d had hip-replacement surgery. It had taken her forever to recover from that.

“The accident seems to have worsened her glaucoma. She can barely see.”

She can’t walk. She can’t see. This was hopeless. Joni could no longer provide the kind of care Mrs. Marmelstein would need. No one could, not on their own. “She’s going to have to be institutionalized.”

“I don’t think we’re going to have the chance, Ben.” Joni’s lips quivered. “She’s dying.”

Mike was in his office working late, as he had been since the first of these grotesque murders had been discovered. The night was dark and starless, and through the window behind his desk he could see the lights of downtown Tulsa, the fluid ooze of headlights, the orange fires of the refineries just across the Arkansas. He was trying to concentrate on his work, trying to block the most horrific details out of his mind, trying to pretend he didn’t still hanker for a quick jolt of nicotine. The aching was worst late at night, when he was alone, perhaps even a little bored, and craved something to elevate his spirits, something to do with his hands, something to make him feel less alone. Since he’d quit smoking, he’d gained almost twenty pounds—and he still felt a pang of desire every time he walked past the smokes machine in the lobby.

The telephone rang, jolting him back to business. He put on his no-nonsense voice and answered. “Morelli.”

The voice on the other end affected an equally sonorous tone. “Pfieffer.”

Mike’s expression soured. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got something for you.”

“Let me guess. You’ve discovered that I took a cup of coffee from the kitchen twelve years ago without putting a dime in the kitty. You’ll probably bring me up on charges.”

Pfieffer must’ve been in a good mood. He opted to ignore the sarcasm. “Not this time. I’ve got something on Blaylock.”

Mike sat up. “So soon?”

“Hey, can I cook or what?”

“You couldn’t possibly have had time to—”

“Well, I’ve only managed to go back in their financial records twelve years.”

“Twelve years? You’ve been through twelve years of that gobbledygook?”

“Hey, it may be gobbledygook to you, but it’s my first language. Did you know that a few years back Blaylock got ripped off for sixty million clams?”

“Sixty million? No way. I would’ve heard something about that.”

“Not unless they reported it to the police.”

“You’re saying someone could lose sixty mil and not call the cops?”

“That’s how it looks to me. At any rate, the money departed, and the ledger entry attributes it to theft.”

“Must be some kind of cover-up. A bad investment or something.”

“Maybe. But there’s no record of any such expenditure, and the money is gone, just the same. A hit that size could dent even Myron Blaylock s deep pockets.”

“No doubt.”

“Mind you, finding this wasn’t easy. Those Blaylock accountants use so many different interlocking documents, reading the financials is like solving a crossword. Even for me. I suspect different pieces of the financial puzzle are shipped out to different accountants, so no one person really knows what the hell is going on. Except ol" Myron himself.”

That was interesting, Mike ruminated. Why would the distinguished president be so determined to keep his financials private?

“Anyway, that’s the biggest single-entry suspicious item I’ve identified. Found that sometime last night. But I just uncovered the second largest, which is why I called.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“A lump sum payment to a corporate employee—in the amount of slightly more than two million dollars.”

“Two million? What the hell did he do to deserve that?”

“Beats me. The ledger entries just call it a "capital contribution."“

“Must be a top vice president. Or maybe an inventor who came up with a new kind of machinery.”

“Wrong on both counts.” Pfieffer seemed to be deriving a good deal of pleasure from being light-years ahead of Mike. “He’s a lawyer.”

“A lawyer? Since when do lawyers make two-million-dollar bonuses?”

“Since never, unless they’re representing former Heisman trophy winners. But this guy is a salaried employee. Supposedly makes eighty thousand a year. Works in-house at Blaylock.”

That triggered a memory in Mike’s mental notepad. “What’s this guy’s name, anyway?”

“Ronald Harris. Ring any bells?”

“Yeah, it does. I interviewed him not too long ago. When was this payment made?” Pfieffer gave him the date. “That was long before the murders.”

“Any idea why he’d get that kind of money?”

“I can’t imagine,” Mike said, rising. “I think I’ll drop by and ask.”

“Cool. Hey—does this mean I’ve been helpful to you?” Mike felt his teeth grinding. “Possibly.”

“Excellent. So am I back in your good graces?”

“Never,” Mike said, and hung up the phone.

Ben gathered his staff together in his office for the traditional pretrial cram session. Christina was putting everything in order, using her supreme organizational skills to make sure there were no unpleasant surprises at the trial. Loving hovered over Ben’s desk, assembling all his witness profiles and investigative reports. At the same time, Professor Matthews ran hypothetical objections past Ben, anticipating potential snags and developing potential responses. They tried to run through every contingency, making sure they were prepared for anything. Ben had learned some time ago that, contrary to what spectators sometimes thought, the secret to being good at trial was not being quick on your feet. It was being prepared. And with the stakes as high as they were in this case, Ben planned to make damn sure they were prepared.

They had walked through the trial notebooks, making sure everything was in place, everything Ben might need—witness outlines, exhibits, notes. They had combed through the enormous quantum of documents, pulling those few that might conceivably be of importance at trial. They had researched the legal issues that they could expect Colby to raise whenever he had a chance.

“Enough,” Ben said, well past midnight. Preparation was a good thing, but at some point, it had to yield to other considerations. Like the need for sleep.

He had tried to focus on the tasks at hand, although his mind tended to wander back to Mrs. Marmelstein’s hospital room. He had told Joni to call him if there were any developments. So far, no calls.

“Loving—any news on the search for Paulie?”

The mountainous man shook his head. “Sorry, Skipper. I’ve hit a wall. And what with this big trial comin" up …”

“Keep looking,” Ben urged. “It’s important. Now more than ever. We …” He hesitated. “We probably don’t have much time.”

Ben craned his neck around. “Where’s Jones, anyway? We need to review his stuff, too. Some of those motions will have to be filed—”

“Here,” Jones said, as he rushed through the doorway. “Sorry. Got trapped on the phone.”

Ben didn’t bother hiding his annoyance. “Why didn’t you tell whoever it was that you had work to do?”

“Because whoever it was was The Brain.”

“Oh.” Thank God he hadn’t picked up the phone. “What did he have to say?

“He found out somehow about the good professor here. He’s angry. Says that’s not what he loaned the money for.”

Geez, Ben thought. If The Brain was upset about Matthews, it was a damn good thing he didn’t know about Dr. Rimland.

“He says he was protecting his investment by making sure we could complete the trial, not so we could take on additional unnecessary expenses.”

Professor Matthews cut in. “If I’m going to be a problem, I can drop out.”

“No, actually, you can’t,” Ben said. “Colby will have a fleet of associates running research for him at every turn. I need you in my corner.”

“Still, if your money man objects—”

“Let him object. There’s nothing he can do about it now.”

“Except refuse to loan us any more money,” Jones said.

“He said he was going to do that, anyway,” Ben rejoined. “If we need more cash—”

“Which we will.”

“—then we’ll have to try something else.”

“Such as what?”

The entire staff stared blankly at one another.

“We could hold a bake sale,” Christina offered, perky as ever.

Jones’s expression suggested he didn’t feel that was worthy of response.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Ben said. “For now, I want everyone thinking about the trial. The trial, the trial, and nothing but the trial. We’re the plaintiffs in this suit. We have to take control.”

Christina’s brow creased. “How do you mean?”

“I mean, since this lawsuit began, we’ve been reactive, not proactive. Plaintiffs are the ones who normally take the ball and run with it, but in this case, from the day it was filed, we’ve let Colby take charge. We’ve been his hostage.” And, Ben thought silently, our lives have been hostages to this case. “He’s taken the lead on pretrial publicity, on motions practice, even on discovery. All we’ve done is deflect his blows and try to keep our heads above water. But that won’t be good enough at trial. We have the burden of proof. If we don’t meet our burden, we’ll go down in flames.”

He paused. “We know they outdollar us. We know they outman us. We know they have more resources than we ever dreamed of having. But we have to take the offensive. Because we have a room full of parents who are depending on us to make their children’s lives mean something. And to make sure this doesn’t happen again.” He gazed at each of them in turn. “They’ve put their trust in us. I don’t want to let them down.”