Capitol Offense (4 page)

“So … they’re particularly attractive action figures?”

“Actually, they make the entire Justice League look like trolls. But they were the first.”

“And they’re valuable?”

“If they’re in good condition.”

Ben tapped his pencil against his lips. “So I’m going to assume the ones you, um, borrowed—”

“Rescued.”

“Rescued from the store …” He checked his file. “Starbase 21, right? They must’ve been in very good condition.”

Anson’s eyes widened. “They were still in their original packaging. That makes them most desirable. So few understand.”

Ben’s brow creased. “What’s the point of having a doll if you don’t take it out of the packaging?”

“It is not a doll!”

“It’s not anything if you can’t take it out of the box.”

“These are not mere toys. These are popular-culture icons. Artifacts of our time.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have over two hundred action figures.”

“All still wrapped in plastic?”

“Of course.”

Ben’s eyes rolled skyward. “And they call me a nerd.”

“If you take them out and play with them, their value diminishes dramatically. Practically worthless.”

Ben glanced at his watch. Marty so owed him one. Possibly three. “You decided to take the action figures for yourself?”

“Those barbarians were going to open the packaging!”

“They deserved to die.”

Anson leapt to his feet. “Yes!”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I—” Anson deflated like a leaky balloon. “Oh.”

Ben rifled through his papers. “You used a paint can to break the window.”

“Had to get in somehow.”

“Red paint splattered everywhere.”

“But I got in.”

“And you took the—action figures.”

“Allegedly.”

“And you went home.”

“I definitely went home.”

“Then the police showed up at your door …”

Anson folded his arms across his chest. “Outrageous. Total invasion of privacy.”

“… asking for the action figures …”

“I had to go to the door in my pajamas!”

“… because they followed a trail of red footprints to your front door.”

Anson looked down at his hands. “Yeah … that wasn’t so good.”

Ben stared at him. “Did you fall asleep during crime school or what?”

“I had a lot on my mind.”

“You’ve got a lot more now. Burglary, theft, and criminal mischief, to be specific.”

“My cellmate says you’re a really good lawyer.”

“You don’t need a good lawyer. You need a change of profession. And some kind of twelve-step program for people addicted to action figures.”

“He said you could get me off.”

Ben closed the file. “I couldn’t get you off if your mother was the judge. The state is offering you six months if you return the figures. Take the offer.”

Anson looked at the wall, sulking. “Any more brilliant advice?”

Ben grabbed his coat and headed toward the door. “Yeah. You’re really too old to be playing with dolls.”

Jones paced a circular path around Christina and Loving. “So, are we all together on this?”

“
Comme ci, comme ça,”
Christina said. “We’re together in the sense that I’m perfectly willing to listen to you try to convince Ben.” It was not a court day, as evidenced by her attire: a sporty white sailor suit, complete with blue kerchief, short skirt, and blue-brimmed sailor cap.

“Me too,” Loving said, with his usual easygoing grin.

“But will you support me, Christina? You’re Ben’s wife. He listens to you.”

“Yes,” Christina said wearily. “He listens. And then he goes right on doing whatever it is he wants to do. As far as influence goes—well, I can’t allow myself to believe that even for a moment.
La grande illusion
.”

“Oh, come on now,” Jones said. “We all know wives have ways of persuading their spouses. Ways of … withholding favors.”

“Do you know how long it took that man to propose?” Christina brushed her long strawberry-blond curls behind her shoulders. “I’m not withholding anything.”

“Maybe you should!”

“I dunno about that, Jones,” Loving said, “but I think this gives me a lotta insight into your relationship with Paula.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

“I wondered how she managed to score that big rock on her ring finger. Now I think I know.”

“I gave that to her because I love her!”

“Or hoped to.”

Jones leaned right into Loving’s face. The office investigator was twice as wide and almost a foot taller than the office manager, but that didn’t intimidate him. “Now you listen to me, you big … galoot!”

“Who’s a galoot?”

“You’re a galoot!”

“Do you even know what a galoot is?”

“Well … not exactly. But I know you are one!”

Christina eased herself between them. “Would you two stop acting like third graders? You work for an important attorney and U.S. senator, for Pete’s sake. Show a little
je ne sais quoi.”
She paused. “Besides, the client might hear.”

“I don’t care if—” Jones stopped short when he heard the jangling bell that told him someone had opened the front door to the seventh-floor offices of Kincaid & McCall. Jones waited a good three seconds until their titular boss reached them.

“No more pro bono cases!” Ben said, flinging his briefcase on Jones’s reception desk.

“Ben!” Christina replied. “You’ve always said it was a lawyer’s duty to help those in need.”

“I’ve had a change of heart,” Ben groused. “I draw the line at morons who leave the police a map to follow.” He did a double take. “What are you wearing?”

She did a little pirouette. “Just a little something I picked up. Do you think I look sexy?”

“I think you look like Donald Duck.”

Loving cut in, presumably to prevent an incident requiring medical attention. “So, Skipper, are you sayin’ you’re too important for cases like that one?”

“I think everyone’s too important for cases like that one. I’m going to call Marty and tell him to take me off the referral list.”

Christina gently laid a finger on his cheek. “Now, Ben. Isn’t that a bit drastic?”

“Do you have any idea how much stuff I have to do right now?”

“Probably better than you, since I look at your calendar occasionally. But you have an obligation to others, don’t you?”

“Well, of course, but—”

“Haven’t you talked about the importance of reaching out a helping hand?”

“Well, yes, but—”

She ran her fingers through his hair and talked in baby talk. “You don’t want to become an old sourpuss, do you?”

He frowned. “All right. I won’t call Marty.”

“Thank you, snookums.”

“And thank you,” Jones muttered, “for demonstrating how he never listens and you have no influence over him.”

Ben’s brow creased. “Why are you three standing around? Don’t you have work to do?”

Jones stood at attention. “I have something I want to discuss with you, Ben. We all do, that is.”

“I don’t like the sound of this already.”

“I’ll cut straight to the chase. We want you to go back on the billable hour.”

“No.”

“Ben, everyone does it.”

“My mother used to say, if everyone jumped off a cliff—”

“Oh, spare me the homilies and look at it from the standpoint of your office manager. You’re a U.S. senator. You’ve defended cases that received national attention. And we still barely make ends meet!”

“The billable hour is the worst thing that ever happened to the legal profession. All it does is stir up a lot of dissatisfaction and suspicion. And it destroys lawyers’ lives. Leaves them no time for pro bono work or mentoring. Drives women out of the profession. Justice Breyer wrote, and I quote, ‘The profession’s obsession with billable hours is like drinking water from a fire hose. The result is that many lawyers are starting to drown.’”

“Excuse me, did I ask for a Ben rant? I’m just trying to put a little change in the Christmas fund.”

“Lawyers got along fine without the billable hour until the nineteen-fifties. They will again. Many corporations are refusing to pay them, demanding flat fees. Consequently, the smart up-and-coming firms are giving them what they want and stealing business from the old guard. Pretty soon—”

“We’ll all live in Cloud-Cuckoo-Land and eat bonbons all day! Honestly, Ben, when are you going to get a clue?”

Ben assaulted Jones with his deadliest weapon, the raised eyebrow. “I think the firm is doing just fine. We charge a fair fee without milking clients with billable hour charts. We make ourselves affordable to those who need help.”

“Oh, I give up!” Jones said, throwing his arms into the air. He marched back to his desk, the usual exasperated expression on his face.

Ben stared at his wake. “He seems upset.”

“Yeah,” Loving agreed, “but he’s happier that way.”

“Think I’ve heard the last of this?”

“Sure. Till tomorrow.”

“Ben,” Christina said, tapping him on the shoulder, “Harvey wants to talk to you about the campaign.”

“Ugh. Can’t I just be a lawyer for a little while?”

“For a very little while, yes. But he has to start making plans.”

“Have him do that. And send me a memo.”

“Also, there’s a client waiting for you in your office.”

“More Legal Services referrals?”

“No. This guy has a little money.”

“How refreshing. Know what he wants?”

“Nary a clue.”

“Well, life is either a great adventure or it is nothing at all. Want to sit in?”

“No, I think the distinguished senator from Oklahoma should meet clients on his own. Besides, I have an appointment to see my personal shopper.”

Ben blinked. “You have a personal shopper?”

Christina took his arm and rubbed her nose against his cheek. “Just since I married you, my little sugar daddy.”

Loving bristled. “I’m so outta here …”

“Why do you need a personal shopper?” Ben asked.

“Because I’m a busy important lawyer woman. Besides …” She grinned. “You think I could pick out clothes like these on my own?”

Ben peered through the window in his office door, stealing a look at the client before the client saw him. His first impression was favorable; the man was not wearing orange coveralls. In fact, he was well dressed and groomed neatly and seemed like a perfectly normal urban professional, the sort you saw hustling about downtown all around Bartlett Square, even now that they had removed the fountain and allowed traffic to drive through it. Ben got the impression that he was smart and educated, which would be a refreshing change of pace.

Too bad Christina hadn’t come in—she was always so good at sizing people up. Then again, he had been practicing law for—how many years now? He was not without intuition. Perhaps he had become too dependent on her. Perhaps it was time he flexed his own muscles …

The man sitting in his office had an air of confidence about him, which suggested that he was not here on a criminal matter. Some sort of business affair. Judging from his dress, his briefcase, and especially his shoes, Ben surmised that he owned his own business. He was wearing glasses and had two pens in his shirt pocket. No pocket protector, but still, he screamed computer industry. A software company, probably. That was the avenue many young go-getters had traveled to recent success. So what was his problem?

If he wasn’t in trouble, it must be an employee. Contract dispute? Sexual harassment? No, Ben had it—immigration law. Not long ago, Oklahoma’s extremely conservative legislature had passed the strictest immigration laws in the country, much to the dismay of most local businesses. Thanks to 1804, as the law was called familiarly, it was a felony to transport or shelter illegal immigrants. Employers could have their business licenses revoked for hiring illegal immigrants, even if they subsequently became legal to work. They were forced to fire employees, even when they weren’t sure if they were legal. Since the law passed, more than twenty-five thousand immigrants had left Tulsa County alone, many of them legal citizens with illegal family members. With a smaller pool of workers, higher prices and wages soon resulted. Some predicted this would spur the greatest economic disaster for the state since the Dust Bowl.

Yes, that had to be it. And that was fine. Ben would be happy to deal with anything as calm and rational as an immigration problem. It would be a welcome change of pace, in fact.

“Good afternoon,” Ben said as he entered the office, extending his hand. “I’m Benjamin Kincaid.” They exchanged introductions.

“How can I help you?” He grinned a little. “An immigration difficulty, perhaps?”

The client leaned forward. “I was wondering if you could arrange a pardon for me.”

Ben stared at the man. “You say you want—a pardon?”

“Yes. Someone killed my wife. And no one is doing anything about it. So I wondered if you could arrange a pardon in the event that … someone does.”

Ben fell into his chair. Maybe it would be better to leave the character assessments to Christina, after all.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Thomas, but I don’t have the power to grant pardons.”

“I thought maybe you could put in a good word with the governor who appointed you. Or the president. You worked with him on that constitutional amendment, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but I don’t think he liked the way it came out.”

“The governor would be sufficient.”

Ben stared at the man, wondering where to begin. He had been right on one point—Dennis Thomas was smart and was well educated. He taught Victorian literature at the University of Tulsa, which had one of the finest English faculties in the nation. But on this subject, he was clearly not objective. Possibly not even rational. “I hope you’re not contemplating doing something … extreme.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not here to help people get away with crimes of revenge.”

“Aren’t you a lawyer?”

“Yes …”

“And you handle murder cases?”

Ben felt his heart speed up a beat. “Well, yes …”

“You got that senator off.”

“He was innocent.”

“Yeah. Look, all I want is a pardon. I don’t think I should have to spend the rest of my life in jail because some bastard cop killed my wife.”