Blind Justice (14 page)

When Ben arrived on the twentieth floor, he faced a comely woman announcing that she was DeCarlo’s personal secretary.

“I’m Ben—”

“I know who you are,” the woman interrupted, “Please go on in. Mr. DeCarlo just arrived himself.”

The woman pushed a button, and the wood-paneled double doors swung open. Not bad.

Ben stepped into the inner office. He faced a huge bay window; practically the entire back wall was window. The adjoining walls were lined with bookshelves, and the shelves were thick with books of all kinds and sizes. The furnishings were contemporary and utilitarian. The one exception was the heavy oak desk in the center of the room, with Albert DeCarlo standing behind it.

DeCarlo extended his hand. “I’m Albert DeCarlo,” he said. “My friends call me Trey. I hope you will, too.”

Almost like a statue, Ben shook the proffered hand. DeCarlo was not at all what he’d expected. Among other things…he was
young.
He was Ben’s age, maybe a few years older, but not many. He was tall and lean; his jet black hair was pulled straight back and tied in a ponytail. He was wearing his trademark outfit: dark sunglasses, dark muffler, and white overcoat.

He removed his scarf and coat. “Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Kincaid?”

Ben took the indicated chair. DeCarlo returned to his nest on the other side of the desk, and Ben immediately realized why. There were two large, dark-haired men positioned on either side of him, both with bad complexions and suspiciously bulging jackets.

“These are my vice presidents,” DeCarlo said. “Johnny and Antonio. They’re in charge of security.”

I’ll bet they are, Ben thought. He noticed an extremely large man with long blond hair standing in the corner. “Another of your vice presidents?”

“On the contrary,” DeCarlo said. “Vinny is my executive officer. He makes sure everything gets done smoothly.”

“No doubt.” Ben examined Vinny carefully. “I had a scuffle with a big man with long blond hair outside Christina McCall’s apartment the day she was released from jail.”

“Is that a fact?” DeCarlo said. “Surely it wasn’t my executive officer.”

“The man was wearing a black motorcycle helmet,” Ben said, “so I can’t say for certain. Quite a coincidence, though, wouldn’t you agree?”

DeCarlo raised an eyebrow. “That two men in all of Tulsa have long blond hair? Hardly. And you surely can’t blame me for wanting to be surrounded by friendly faces. There have been some inexplicable threats against my company and myself. It’s trying, but some extra precautions are required.”

He placed his hands upon the green desk blotter. “Anyway, that’s not why you’re here. Your secretary indicated that you had a business proposition for me. Something that would turn Intercontinental Imports upside down, I believe he said.”

Ben vowed to have a heart-to-heart with Jones about how big he lied—and to whom. “That may be somewhat inaccurate, Mr. DeCarlo.”

“Trey. Call me Trey.” He chuckled. “Let me see if I can help you out, Ben.” He glanced down at a sheet of paper on his desk. “You’re an attorney, graduate of the University of Oklahoma College of Law. Your office is at 462 North Abilene Drive; your home is at 2080 North Eleventh Street, second floor flat. The building is owned by a widow, a Mrs. Harriet Marmelstein. You have a mother living in Nichols Hills and a sister living in Edmond.” He looked up. “Am I right so far?”

Ben nodded slowly.

“You drive a Honda Accord, 1982 model, license tag XAU-208. Not in good shape; hard to start. You have a male secretary you call Jones. Somewhat eccentric, but who are we to judge? You were fired last year by Raven, Tucker & Tubb under unusual circumstances. Your solo practice is…not exactly flourishing.”

“I get the message,” Ben said coldly. “There’s no need to show off.”

“Not at all,” DeCarlo replied. “You misunderstand my intentions. I’m trying to expedite matters. You’re currently representing Christina McCall, the woman who has understandably been charged with the murder of my business associate and friend, Tony Lombardi. I assume that’s the real reason you’ve come to see me today.”

“You assume correctly.”

“You realize I’ve already spoken to the FBI.”

“The FBI is not currently sharing their information with me.”

“I can sympathize. I, too, have found the law enforcement community less than cooperative on occasion.” He pressed his fingers together, forming a steeple. “So tell me, Mr. Kincaid. What would you like to know?”

There was no point in dillydallying. The man held all the aces. “Why did you go to Lombardi’s apartment the night he was killed?”

DeCarlo returned Ben’s gaze calmly. “I didn’t.”

“Mr. DeCarlo…” He saw DeCarlo about to interrupt. “
Trey.
The security guard on duty has already said he let you up that night. He even made a contemporaneous written record.”

“Spud is a nice old man, but he has a tendency to imbibe rather substantial quantities of alcohol while on duty. I wouldn’t be surprised if he saw
pink
Albert DeCarlos.”

“Spud seemed quite certain when he spoke with me.”

“Nonetheless, Ben, he is mistaken. I have certainly been at Tony’s apartment on other nights: Perhaps he was confused.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ben, I have numerous eyewitnesses who will testify that I was right here that entire night.”

“Really. How many?”

DeCarlo smiled. “How many would you like?”

Ben thought a long time before he spoke again. There was no point in trying to pressure DeCarlo. The best Ben could do was take a step back and learn what he could about the subtext, if not the murder itself.

“All right. You say you’ve been to Lombardi’s place on previous occasions. Why?”

DeCarlo looked at Ben as though he was explaining higher mathematics to an infant. “Tony and I were business partners.”

“Meaning partners in his parrot business?”

“Exactly. Tony brought in the parrots, Intercontinental Imports handled distribution and retail sales.”

“That seems an odd business for you to be involved in.”

“Not at all. It’s very profitable.”

“I’ve been talking to Clayton Langdell about the parrot trade, and—”

“I know Mr. Langdell,” DeCarlo said. “I donated ten thousand dollars to his organization last year.”

Ben’s mouth worked wordlessly for several seconds. “I’m…surprised.”

“That he would accept money from a suspected mobster? Of course, the donations are all made in the name of Intercontinental Imports. It’s possible he doesn’t know who owns the company. Or more likely that he just prefers not to focus on that issue.”

“I’ve been told parrots are often used as a front for drug smuggling.”

The pleasantness drained away from DeCarlo’s face. “Just what are you suggesting, Ben?”

“Well, I would hardly be the first person to link the DeCarlo family with illegal drugs.”

“Those allegations have never been proven.”

“Your name was mentioned repeatedly during the Abello trial.”

A small but detectable edge crept into DeCarlo’s voice. “That was my father.”

Of course. Ben knew this guy was too young to be Tulsa’s top crime boss.

“My father, God rest his soul, was Albert DeCarlo the second. I’m Albert DeCarlo the third. Hence the nickname Trey. I inherited this business from my father, just as he inherited it from his father.”

“A dynasty,” Ben remarked.

“True enough. But I am not my father, Ben. Times change. I received my MBA at Princeton. I have a different approach to business. I’ve restructured the family operations into a more traditional corporate format. I’ve been attempting to redirect our activities into more legitimate enterprises.” He paused. “Not that they weren’t before. Only now, more so.”

“Sounds like the old mob with a new cover.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Everything is changing. It always has. The organization you call the mob was originally a secret society formed to protect poor and oppressed Sicilians from the French Angevins in power. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Somewhere along the way, the focus changed. And now it will change again. The truth is, the old businesses are dying out. We needed a new profit center. In this ever-so-liberal society of ours, prostitution is becoming an increasingly unnecessary commerce. And a dangerous one. Gambling is an overcrowded market—even the governments are players now.

“Do you realize various companies make tiny computers a gambler can hide under his pant leg to help him count cards at the blackjack table? The readout appears on an LED screen disguised as a wristwatch!” DeCarlo shook his head with disgust. “Games of chance perverted for personal profit.”

Ben found it hard to be sympathetic.

“And the drug trade, although lucrative—I’ve heard—has become too competitive. Now there’s the Japanese Yakuza, the Chinese Triad, the Jamaican Posse, the Colombian Cali cartel—all squabbling over the same territory. Soon it will be impossible for anyone to make a profit.”

“Seems like the most logical plan for a Princeton MBA is to work a joint venture with the South American cartels.”

“You are not a stupid person, Ben.” DeCarlo opened a desk drawer and removed several files. “But let me assure you that I intend to engage in entirely legal business activities. Feel free to examine our portfolios. Securities, banking, real estate, entertainment. These have been part of the family business for some time, perhaps more as a mask than a genuine pursuit. But that is changing.”

“Well, if so, I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you.” DeCarlo’s eyes became tiny embers. “Regardless of the nature of the activities in which we are engaged, however, I would take very seriously any threat to my business or to my personal liberty. That, too, is a family tradition.”

Ben felt an involuntary shiver creep down his spine. He saw the bodyguards on either side of DeCarlo twitch, then take the tiniest step forward. Message received and understood.

DeCarlo rose to his feet. “But I like you, Ben, and I’m confident we won’t have any problems.” He walked around his desk. “Tell you what. My sister is getting married soon. Please accept my invitation to the wedding reception.”

“No thanks,” Ben said. “I’ve already seen
The Godfather.
I’d be bored.”

DeCarlo laughed. “It’s going to be a huge party, Ben. At the Twelve Oaks country club. There’ll be music, dancing, food, drink—after all, it’s not every day my baby sister is married. It might give you a better opportunity to see what Intercontinental Imports, and the new DeCarlo family, are all about.”

“I don’t think—”

“I’ll send you an invitation, just in case.”

He accompanied Ben to the door. “May I also send an invitation to a companion? A lady friend, perhaps?”

“No, I don’t—” Ben thought for a moment. “This gala is going to be at the country club?”

“Oh yes. We’ve reserved it for the entire day.”

“Pretty big bash?”

“The biggest Tulsa has ever seen. Or is ever likely to see.”

“Okay then. Send an invitation to Harriet Marmelstein.” Ben smiled. “I believe you have the address.”

J
ONES LEFT BEN A
message on his answering machine: Alexander Moltke requested a meeting before the preliminary hearing, at 8:30 sharp, in the law library at the courthouse.

If Moltke wanted to talk, Ben reasoned, he must be planning to offer a deal. Thank goodness. Even if Ben didn’t like the offer, even if he turned Moltke down cold, the fact that it was proposed indicated the prosecution perceived some weakness in their case, some possibility of failure. That alone would make Ben breathe a lot easier.

At 8:35, Ben pushed open the library door. Before he had a chance to get his bearings, a stark white light blinded him. He could hear Moltke’s voice, reverberating through a microphone somewhere at the front of the room.

“Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, that in this court of law, this ingenious device by which we mortals achieve some measure of earthly justice, the guilty will be punished.”

Ben blinked his eyes, wiped away the tearing caused by the stinging lights. His vision began to clear. He was surrounded by reporters, armed with microphones and minicams and plastic hairdos.

The realization dawned on Ben slowly but certainly. It was a sucker play. This was a press conference, goddamn it. A press conference!

“I see my worthy opponent has arrived,” Moltke said, in his bombastic oratorical voice. “I must say, I sometimes despair of the direction our youth are taking. So much energy is channeled into pursuits of such little moral value. My opponent formerly practiced with one of the most distinguished firms in this city, but after that relationship was terminated, Mr. Kincaid was forced by economic circumstances to take cases such as this one, assisting certain liberal judges in their quest to return the guilty to the streets.”

“I resent that,” Ben said. The reporters parted, letting him move to the front. “The Constitution guarantee every accused person the right to counsel.”

“I’m not challenging the right of your client to counsel, son. I’m just glad I don’t have to be the one to do it. I don’t know how I’d live with myself, much less sleep at night.”

Ben’s face flushed with anger. “How can the court of law be an effective device to achieve justice if cheap politicians like you try to pressure lawyers to not represent the accused?”

The reporters pressed forward, minicams whirring. Someone from Channel 2 shoved a microphone under Ben’s nose. They were loving it—great fodder for the six o’clock news.

Moltke looked calmly into the cameras. “Now don’t get all riled up, son. You do your job, and I’ll do mine.” He leaned forward, his eyes steely and determined. “But rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, that justice
will
be done in Tulsa. The pernicious taint of South American drugs, destroying our children and poisoning our society, will be eliminated. That’s my promise to you.”

He straightened and smiled. “That’s all for now. I’ll answer questions after the hearing.”

Ben wasn’t normally given to bouts of claustrophobia, but he could swear the walls of the magistrate’s hearing room were closing in on him. The room was small to begin with, and was even more so now, with bailiffs, clerks, court reporters, newspaper reporters, and members of the U.S. Attorney’s office all jockeying for position. Everyone was talking at once; the cacophony was giving Ben a headache. He was queasy, sweaty, and nervous. And Christina was late. Again.