Blind Justice (13 page)

“I would appreciate it. I don’t wish to leave a written record if I can avoid it. It might, um, be accidentally produced during discovery.”

“I can probably bring it off,” she said cheerily. “Those guys in Central Supply can’t resist a pregnant woman. What do you need?”

“A paper shredder,” he said, slowly and carefully. “A large one. Industrial strength.”

B
EN AND CHRISTINA APPROACHED
a small booth in the front plaza of the Tulsa Zoo. A banner stretched across the booth identified it as belonging to the Oklahoma Society for the Protection of Other-Than-Human Lives.

“May I help you?” the woman behind the booth asked.

“We’re here to see Clayton Langdell,” Ben said. “We have an appointment.”

“He’s in the aviary at the moment. Can I interest you in a bumper sticker?”

She had two different stacks of bumper stickers; one read
SAVE A SEAGULL—CLIP SIX-PACK RINGS,
while the other explained that
FUR ISN’T FASHIONABLE,
with a bloody raccoon draped around a woman’s neck.

Ben took one of the brochures and began to read.

In 1980, the population of Spaceship Earth was 4.4 billion. In 1990, the population was 5.2 billion. Every single day, human beings move into rain forests, oceans, ice caps and prairies where once only plants and animals lived.

I get the message, Ben thought. He skipped to the last page.

Extinctions are accelerating on an exponential basis. Spaceship Earth loses as many as three species per day. By 1995, we may lose three species per hour. By 2000, twenty percent of all species currently living on this planet may be gone.

“Got anything lighter?” Ben asked.

“I don’t know what you mean,” the woman replied.

“I’m not surprised.” He put the brochure back on the desk.

“They’re free. Take as many as you want.”

“No thanks. Just point me to the aviary.”

The aviary was a huge sunlit building surrounded by transparent glass walls. The interior replicated a natural woodland area; it was filled with tall trees and plants and brush. Perches disguised as branches provided numerous places to rest. Exotic birds of every color and variety fluttered across the aviary, nesting, swooping, or making the proverbial lazy circles in the sky.

Ben and Christina stepped inside. “Have you ever seen that Hitchcock movie?” she asked.

“Which?
North by Northwest
?”

“No, stupid.
The Birds
.” She looked around uneasily. “They kind of give me the creeps.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re in a zoo. What could be more harmless?” Ben spotted a short, pudgy man with a bird perched on each shoulder. “That must be Langdell.”

“You go chat with him,” Christina said. “He might be inhibited if I’m around. I’ll just stay here and try not to look like carrion.”

Ben approached the man with the birds, his arm extended, and introduced himself. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

“Not at all.” Langdell had improbable orange hair and a speckled turnip of a nose. He seemed born to seriousness, his face set in stern lines. “Your secretary indicated you had some vital information about cruelty to animals.”

Oh great, Ben thought. This was going to get them off to a fine start. “Well, he may have been a bit misleading.”

“You’re not here to discuss cruelty to animals?”

“Well, I am, but the animal suffering cruelty was a human animal. I’m here about Tony Lombardi.”

Langdell’s movements slowed. He shrugged slightly and the two birds on his shoulders flew off.

“I’m representing the woman accused of murdering him,” Ben added.

A tiny light flickered in Langdell’s eyes. “There’s no question about her guilt, is there?”

“There’s a supremely big question. I’m convinced she didn’t murder Tony Lombardi, and I ‘m trying to find out who did.”

“Very well then. What do you want to know?”

“Why did you go to Lombardi’s apartment the night he was killed?”

To Ben’s relief, Langdell didn’t try to deny it. “I wanted to talk to him privately.”

“Why?”

“I’d been writing letters to him for months. And attempting to reach him by telephone. He never answered, and he never returned my calls. So I decided to confront him face-to-face.”

“About what?”

“About his despicable parrot trade.”

“Despicable? Because he was using parrots as a front to smuggle drugs?”

“Is that true? I knew nothing about that, although I’m not surprised. I just wanted Lombardi to terminate his cruelty to fellow members of the animal kingdom.”

“Lombardi was cruel to the parrots he imported?”

“The practice of importing parrots is cruel in and of itself, and it ought to be abolished. Do you know how parrots are caught? Lombardi’s men, like all parrot trappers, will do anything, so long as it’s quick, efficient, and heartless. They invade the birds’ South American habitat and wantonly cut down trees so they can rob the nests. Or they trap the birds with leg snares from which the birds dangle helplessly for extended periods. Or they ignite a sulfur smudge to create a dense cloud of smoke, until the birds fall out of the trees unconscious. Then they can be plucked off the ground like ripe fruit.

“Or they simply shoot the birds’ wings with pellets to wound them so they can’t fly and can be captured easily. Of course, since wing-shooting requires good aim, which most of the trappers don’t have, more birds are killed than crippled.” Langdell’s lips tightened. “Some poor birds never have the opportunity to fly free; thanks to Lombardi and his ilk, their life begins in captivity. And ends in death.”

“Mr. Langdell, I like animals as much as the next man, but that’s not why I came here.”

Langdell glared at him. “Thirty million wild birds world-wide are caught each year for resale as pets, Kincaid.”

Ben was stunned. “Thirty
million
?”

“That’s right.”

“There must be some restrictions…something at Customs.”

“A routine examination by the woefully understaffed Department of Agriculture, followed by a cursory thirty-day quarantine. It accomplishes nothing. Especially for the birds that are smuggled illegally into the country.”

“Smuggled?”

“You got it, counselor. About a quarter of a million parrots and other exotic birds are smuggled into the United States every year—often with drugs—for sale to pet shops and private dealers.”

“How are the birds smuggled?”

“You name it; it’s probably been done. Parrots are sewn into the lining of coats, crammed into false-bottomed suitcases, or stuffed into machinery, pipes, or gutted auto parts. Hundreds of birds are often packed in tiny crates meant for two dozen and left with no food or water. For days. Of course, their beaks are taped shut. The beak of an angry parrot can be a dangerous weapon.”

“I can see where they might be angry.”

“You don’t know the half of it. The mortality rate for smuggled birds is between fifty and seventy-five percent.”

Ben felt the need to sit down. “That’s incredible.”

“But true. Of the thirty million birds captured each year, only seven and a half million survive importation. And ninety percent of those will be dead within two years.”

“That does seem rather inefficient.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Do you realize some studies indicate parrots are intelligent?”

Ben didn’t.

“A recent Purdue University study indicated that to some degree parrots may actually understand the meaning of the phrases they are taught to say. They may be able to deduce and reason in response to their environmental conditions. And I’ll tell you something else. Parrots mate for life. As a result, they suffer even more from the loss of their mates.”

“Amazing. Is there much money in parrot smuggling?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. And the rarer the bird, the higher the price. Some go for as much as a hundred thousand dollars.”

Ben whistled. “How much could a guy get for an Imperial Amazon?”

Langdell smiled bitterly. “You’ve been to see Quinn Reynolds.”

“Yeah. Nice bird.”

“It’s a revolting situation. Quinn Reynolds is an ethical toxic waste dump.”

“You don’t approve?”

“Damn right I don’t approve. He keeps that bird in a cage every second of its life. It never gets a chance to fly free. If you must keep a bird in captivity, particularly one that size, you have a moral obligation to keep it in an aviary.”

“Wouldn’t that be expensive?”

“Reynolds can afford it. And if he can’t, he can send the bird here. The Tulsa Zoo takes exceptional care of its animals. That’s where the bird should be, assuming it has to be in captivity.”

“You think it should be set free?”

“At the very least, I think it should be set free of Reynolds. He doesn’t care for it worth a damn. Parrots need attention, care, grooming. Reynolds doesn’t provide any of that. That bird gets the same oilseed to eat every day, and virtually no attention. The last time I was in his office, the poor thing had started feather-plucking.”

“Feather-plucking?”

“Sounds horrible, doesn’t it? It is. It’s an aberrant behavior pattern brought on by monotony of diet, lack of companionship, and inability to bathe. In the tropics, parrots bathe themselves in the frequent rains. That never happens in Reynolds’s eighteen-inch cage. So the bird begins yanking its own feathers out, trying to clean itself. Sometimes they bite off their own toes. Unless some change occurs, the bird will continue mutilating itself until it’s plucked out every feather it has. And then it will die.”

Ben felt a churning sensation in his stomach. “Aren’t there any laws restricting traffic in rare birds?” he asked.

“Oh yes. The Imperial Amazon is an endangered species. We’re not even sure they exist in the wild anymore.”

“Can’t you turn Reynolds in to the authorities?”

“He claims he hasn’t done anything illegal. That’s the problem with lawyers. They can talk their way out of anything. The 1973 Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species forbids trade in certain species, including
Amazona imperialis.
But, as Reynolds is quick to point out, he isn’t engaged in the parrot trade and the Convention does not forbid ownership. Lombardi claims his bird was a gift. Damned expensive gift, if it was.”

“If this bird is so controversial, why would Reynolds want one in his office?”

“Ego. The hotshot collector with his one-of-a-kind rare bird.”

A sudden shriek pierced the aviary. Ben whirled back toward Christina.

“I’m under attack!” she cried.

Ben ran across the aviary, Langdell close behind. A large bird was hovering over her head, pulling Christina’s long red hair with its beak.

“It’s just like the movie!” Christina screamed. “What is that monster, a vulture?”

“A buzzard,” Langdell said, smiling. “And it’s not attacking you. It’s trying to build a nest. Your hair looks like prime nesting material.”

“I don’t care if it’s trying to save the universe,” Christina said. “Make it let go of my hair!”

Langdell picked up a stick and gently inserted it into the buzzard’s beak. The bird released Christina’s hair and flew away.

“Bless you,” Christina said. “I think you just saved my life.”

“I doubt it,” Langdell said. “But I may have saved you some hair. Did you have any other questions, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Yes. What happened when you went to see Lombardi the night he was killed?”

“Nothing. The security guard let me up. I knocked on the door. No one was home, or if they were, they didn’t answer. After a few minutes, I left. The next morning, I read in the
World
that Lombardi was dead.” He was silent for a moment. “My God, do you think Lombardi was already dead when I was there? Or”—he swallowed—“that the murderer was inside?”

“I couldn’t tell you.” Ben took a step toward Langdell. “You were determined to put an end to Lombardi’s parrot trade, weren’t you?”

“Now wait a minute, counselor. If you’re trying to twist my concern for the rights of other living creatures into a motive for murder—”

“I’m just asking questions. I have to explore all the possibilities.”

“It’s true I wanted to shut down Lombardi’s parrot operation,” he said cautiously. “But I wouldn’t kill the man. I knew his death wouldn’t accomplish anything. Lombardi had an assistant who worked on everything with him. For all I know, he’s going to follow in Lombardi’s footsteps. No, it made no sense for me to try to kill Lombardi. I could be much more productive pursuing the tried-and-true paths of political activism to effect change.”

“I guess that’s all I need to know at the moment,” Ben said. “I might come by again later if I think of something else.”

“I have a lot more information about parrots.” Langdell reached inside his coat pocket. “Here, take some brochures.”

“No thanks, I have other—” On the top brochure, Ben saw a photograph of a beautiful Amazon parrot, with regal green wings and penetrating orange eyes. Langdell was right. They did look intelligent.

“Well, perhaps one or two,” Ben muttered, He took a fistful of brochures and left the aviary.

D
ESPITE HIS TECHNICAL INCOMPETENCE
at most fundamental secretarial chores, Jones still managed to impress Ben from time to time.

“How did you ever get me an appointment to see Albert DeCarlo?” Ben asked.

Jones just smiled. “I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

There was no denying it. Ben was definitely nervous as he strode into the offices of Intercontinental Imports. The place looked legitimate enough—very high class, very corporate. It reminded Ben of the days when he visited Sanguine Enterprises, when he almost became their in-house counsel. Unfortunately, by the time Ben had finished investigating them, most of the officers were facing securities fraud charges, and the whole corporation went into receivership. Which might explain why Ben hadn’t been getting those high-tone corporate clients lately.

Ben introduced himself to a gorgeous receptionist who directed him to the top of the building, the twentieth floor. He mentally noted the omnipresent security cameras in the lobby, the elevator, and the hallways. He wondered if the place was wired for sound as well. Probably.