Extreme Justice (11 page)

Ben tried to appear sympathetic, but it took some doing.

“Coming to the poker game tomorrow night, Ben?”

Ben knew that Earl and the rest of the band played poker every Wednesday night, but he’d never joined them. “You’re still going to play?”

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

“I don’t know.” Ben looked down at the floor. “It just seems … disrespectful, somehow.”

“We asked Earl, and he said the show must go on.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. But he said we should dedicate the game to that Lily babe.”

“A memorial poker game?”

“Exactly.” Denny propped the broom against a table. “I need a rest, man. I signed on as a musician, not a chambermaid.”

Theoretically, Ben thought, since Denny was the youngest of them, he ought to have the most energy. That did not appear to be the case, however.

“I guess Earl forgot to include ‘cleaning up after murders’ in the job description,” Ben offered.

“No kidding.” Denny collapsed into a chair, then winced. “My poor little body is sore all over. Sunburn.”

Ben did a double take. “Sunburn? In April?”

“And what of it? You know it’s been hot out.”

“I know it’s been hot, yeah, but I didn’t know it’s been hot enough to give you a sunburn.”

Denny shrugged. “Depends on what you’ve been wearing.”

Ben decided not to pursue this undoubtedly interesting line of thought. “Anyone know where Earl is?”

“Back at the pad,” Denny informed him.

Ben nodded. Earl had an apartment on the back end of the building facing the opposite street. There were no connecting doors between the club and the apartment. It was perfect for Earl; he could live close to work, pay rent to one landlord, but still feel as if he had a life apart from work.

Ben walked outside and around the building. Earl’s front door was open; Ben stepped inside and closed the door. Earl was with the kid Ben had spotted at the club the night before—the one in the flashy African clothes.

The kid appeared to be distressed. “Man, I just can’t get that F to happen.”

Earl patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, son. You’ll get it. Jus’ takes practice, that’s all. Practice, and a little soul.”

“Easy to say.”

“Hey, you got an advantage on most. You already got the soul. I’ve seen some so-called musicians work all their lives and never get it. You were born with it. All you need now is practice.”

Ben looked away, trying to act as if he hadn’t been listening. He couldn’t help wondering if he was one of those
so-called
musicians.

“Ben!” Earl called out. “I want you to meet Tyrone Jackson. T-Dog, to his street buddies.”

Tyrone shook his head. “That was a long time ago.”

Ben shook the young man’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Tyrone here’s been learnin’ to play the sax.”

“Good luck to you,” Ben said. “I never managed to learn anything that required the use of the lips.”

Earl and Tyrone exchanged a look. “We’ll just leave that one alone, Ben.” Earl chuckled heartily. “Ben’s our keyboard for the combo. He’s got a two-hand rhythm style that’ll knock you dead.”

“I know,” Tyrone said. “I’ve seen you play. You do a mean ‘Polka-Dots and Moonbeams.’ ”

Was this sincerity or satire? Ben couldn’t be sure. “Well, thanks.”

“Tyrone’s got some kinda ear for the tunes. Even when he was with the gang, they called him the Music Man.”

“I assume that wasn’t because you were always singing ‘Seventy-six Trombones.’ ”

Tyrone made a snorting noise. “No, man. Back then, I was strictly MTV. I knew all the words to all the tunes. So the homeboys called me the Music Man.”

“Would those homeboys have been the Crips or the Bloods?”

“Matter of fact, Crips. North Side Hoover. You know the gangs?”

“I’ve had some contact with them.”

“Tyrone don’t have nothin’ to do with that no more,” Earl explained hastily. “He’s left all that behind. He’s gonna be a jazzman, right?” He beamed down at Tyrone. “You’re gonna blow.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Ben said. “With any luck, maybe we can get you to join our combo. Keep practicing with Earl and before you—”

Ben was interrupted by a thunderous pounding on the front door. A voice on the other side boomed: “Police!”

Earl looked uneasy. “Uh … whaddaya think they want?” With obvious trepidation, he waddled to the front door and opened it. “Can I help you?”

A plainclothes officer pushed through the opened door, with two uniforms right behind him. “Are you Earl Bonner?”

Earl took several quick steps back. “Y—yes.”

“I’m Lieutenant Prescott,” the plainclothes officer said, whipping out an ID. “I’d like to have a little conversation with you. If you don’t mind.”

Ben groaned. Why did it have to be Prescott? The man was Mike’s archenemy on the force, and for a reason. He was the most incompetent kiss-up ever to work his way onto the detective squad.

“What—what do you wanna talk about?” Earl asked.

“What do you think?” Prescott snapped. “The murder of Lily Campbell.”

“But why me? I didn’t kill no one.”

“Well now, that ain’t true, is it? You did twenty-two years for the murder of one George Armstrong.”

Ben’s eyes flew open to the widest extreme. “What!”

Prescott laid his arm on Earl’s shoulder and lowered him into a chair. “Didn’t think we’d find out, did you? Wrong. And as soon as we ran the M.O. through the computer and got the files out of storage, this case was over.”

“But—that was different—”

“Was it? Allow me to refresh your memory.”

With a sudden flourish, Prescott whipped out a black-and-white glossy photo. Ben didn’t need a detailed explanation to realize this was a picture of a murder victim. He also didn’t require an explanation to tell him what aspect of this victim most interested the police.

In the photo, the black male victim was stretched out across the floor, face up. His body and face had been horribly burned and disfigured. Despite the charred exterior, however, one aspect of the victim’s appearance stood out immediately.

On the victim’s face, someone had carved a broad, bright red smile.

“A
LL RIGHT THEN
,” Prescott said, “now that we understand each other, let’s talk turkey, okay?”

“But—I didn’t kill Lily!”

“Really? Well, if you didn’t, you should’ve.” Prescott sat in the chair beside Earl and leaned forward, like they were two old chums having a little chat. “But if you didn’t do it, you won’t mind answerin’ some questions, right?”

“I don’t know nothin’ about it.”

“I know, I know. But you gotta admit—this murder looks a lot like the one you did time for.”

Earl didn’t respond.

“And you knew the lady—Lily Campbell. Didn’t you?”

“I—did.”

“Fact is—she was your girlfriend, wasn’t she?”

Earl’s mouth barely seemed to move. “A long long time ago.”

“Right.” He leaned even closer. “ ’Cause she dumped you, didn’t she?”

Earl gave him a curt nod.

“Well, I appreciate you clearin’ all that up for me. Look—since you didn’t do it, you won’t mind if me and the boys take a look around your apartment, will you?”

Ben’s jaw tightened. He knew Prescotts tactics all too well. First he’d play nice-nice, and get whatever he could out of Earl that way. Then he’d play the bad guy, and see what that produced. He’d wait till the last possible moment to arrest Earl, because as soon as he did that, he’d have to read Earl his rights, and all this amiable chitchat would likely end.

“So whaddaya say, Earl? Can we have a little looksee?”

“Jeez … that’s hard to—”

“Whaddaya know. I just happen to have some consent forms with me.” He whipped some papers out of his coat pocket. “Just sign here and we’ll be able to go about our business.”

Earl winced. “You want me to sign somethin’?”

“Sure, why not? You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then there’s no problemo.” He handed Earl a pen. “Just sign on the dotted line.”

Ben watched as Earl’s hand hovered over the forms. He didn’t want to get involved, but he couldn’t just sit still and allow this travesty of justice to take place. “Earl, don’t sign.”

Earl looked up. “What?”

Prescott pressed his lips together. “Butt out, kid.”

Ben stepped forward. “Earl, listen to me. Don’t sign the forms.”

Earl rose quickly, rubbing his hands together. “Maybe Ben’s right. I think I’ll be going now. I got work to do.”

“You don’t got jack shit.” Prescott pressed himself under Earl’s nose. “Listen to me and listen good, chump. You’re going to answer our questions. Every single one of them. And you will tell the truth. And if you don’t, we’ll tear this place down around your ankles.”

Ben felt his teeth clench. The “bad cop” had arrived. Prescott’s whole routine was loathsome. Mike might be willing to put pressure on a witness to extract the truth, but Prescott was willing to ignore the law and violate rights just to make things a little easier for himself. The man would probably still be using thumbscrews if he thought he could get away with it.

“So don’t give me any lip, understand, Bonner?
Understand
?”

Earl stood staring at Prescott, trembling, sweating bullets, blubbering without managing to actually say anything.

“All right, Bonner—come clean. Where’s the knife?”

“The knife? But—I don’t got—I mean—I—I got a butter knife in the kitchen. For makin’ sandwiches—”

“Search the kitchen,” Prescott barked to his assistant.

“Please,” Earl pleaded pathetically, “I ain’t done anything.”

“Shut up, Bonner. Just answer the questions.”

Ben felt his rage boiling. This was unforgivable. And unprofessional. And unnecessary. And …

And exactly why people need lawyers. But—

“C’mon, punk,” Prescott growled. “Talk!”

“But—but—” Earl was practically in tears. “Can’t I call—or, or—”

“
No
! You’re under arrest!”

Ben couldn’t stand it any longer. “Excuse me,” he said, addressing Prescott. “Do you have a warrant?”

Earl glared at him. “Ben! Whatta you think you’re doin’?”

“Who the hell are you?” Prescott barked.

“You haven’t answered my question.” Ben had learned the best response to hyperbolic bluster was to remain absolutely cool. “Do you have a warrant?”

Prescott steered Earl toward the door. “I’m not going to stand here and be interrogated by some idiot.”

“I gather from that nonresponse that you don’t. I assumed as much, since you tried to con Earl into signing consent forms. There are no exigent circumstances present, this arrest isn’t based on evidence discovered at the scene, you haven’t witnessed a felony, and you’ve bullied your way into the suspect’s place of residence. You don’t have the right to make a warrantless arrest, much less to abuse the suspect or search his home.”

Earl’s eyes were wide and worried. “Ben, we don’t wanna make the man mad. Maybe you should just stay quiet.”

“Yeah, maybe you should just stay quiet,” Prescott echoed, still shoving Earl toward the door. “I don’t have to answer questions from you, punk.”

It was now or never. “Actually, you do.” Ben pulled out his wallet and flashed his OBA membership card. “My name’s Ben Kincaid. I’m a lawyer.”

Earl’s eyes widened. “Ben! What you talkin’ about?”

“I’m a member in good standing with the state bar. My bar number is 11756. You can check it out if you like.” He paused. “You may remember me—I handled the Barrett case, which I believe you had some tangential involvement with. And now I’m representing Mr. Bonner.”

Prescott raised a finger. “Kincaid,” he whispered, his brain abuzz. “You’re Morelli’s friend.”

“That’s right. And I’m very familiar with the Tulsa authorized arrest procedures, none of which you’re currently observing. If you don’t back off immediately, I’ll be lodging a formal complaint. You could end up on the bad end of a lawsuit, Prescott.”

“Ben,” Earl whispered, “stop foolin’ around. You could get us into trouble.”

“The lieutenant here is the one in trouble,” Ben said. “He’s been trampling all over your constitutional rights, apparently for no reason other than that he thought he could get away with it.”

Prescott sneered. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you attempted to interrogate my client without reading him his rights. I know you attempted to take him out of his domicile by force without a warrant, although you came here with the intent of making an arrest and had plenty of time to get a warrant. I know you told the sergeant to search his kitchen, also without a warrant. Basically, I’d say you totally screwed this prosecution before it even happened.”

Ben and Prescott stared at each other for a protracted moment that seemed more like hours. Their eyes burned into each other’s; neither one flinched.

“You know,” Ben said, giving strong emphasis to each word, “the best thing I had going for me on the Barrett case was the fact that you had totally bungled the pretrial investigation. Are you going to make the same mistake again?

His lips pursed, Prescott spat out his reply. “This ain’t over yet, Kincaid. Don’t think it is.”

Ben nodded. “We will anxiously await your return.”

“You know, I heard you’d retired. Quit the lawyer game for something respectable.”

“I guess the reports of my death were premature.” Ben glanced at Earl. “Are you all right?”

Earl was still too flustered to speak coherently. “Well … yeah. I mean, I guess. But—”

Ben held up his hand. “My advice is that you don’t say a word in the presence of these officers. Although Lieutenant Prescott failed to mention it, you have the right to remain silent, and you should exercise it.”

Earl buttoned his lip.

Prescott looked as if he’d just sucked acid. “You haven’t accomplished anything here. We’ll get a warrant, and we’ll be back. All you’ve done is make us jump through some hoops.”

“Those hoops are there for a reason,” Ben muttered.

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

“To protect people from assholes like you.”