Primary Justice (Ben Kincaid series Book 1) (17 page)

He pounded his fist against the bar so hard that Ben’s beer wobbled and bounced. “I asked if you were in the
goddamn service
!” He was shouting. The smell of beer and booze and tooth rot was thick on his breath.

“Uhhh, no,” Ben said quietly, not looking him in the eye. “Were you?”

“Damn right I was. Damn right.” He pounded the bar again. “I don’t suppose you fought in the war?”

“N-no—”

“Hell, no. Too goddamn good to be in the war!”

Ben had the distinct feeling he wasn’t handling this very well. “I spent a year in the Peace Corps,” he said softly.

“You think that’s an
excuse
?” The man spat as he yelled. He emphasized the last word by knocking over his beer with his fist.

“Let’s go,” Christina whispered in Ben’s ear. She tugged at his sleeve. “Pronto.”

Ben took a step back from the bar.

“You know what I ought to do with you? Do you?” The man followed Ben. They were practically nose to nose. Ben took another step back. The wiry man followed.

A few others at the bar turned around to watch the fun. The man who had been standing to the right of Redbeard jabbed a friend and pointed.

“Leave him alone,” the bartender said as he popped the lid off another longneck. “He’s too young. He doesn’t know. Here, have a beer on me.”

God bless the bartender, Ben thought. But the bartender’s offer didn’t seem to make any difference. The man kept coming. Ben kept backing up.

There was a sudden, loud smashing sound. Ben whirled. He had backed into the nearest table and knocked over the tower of upended shotglasses. The supreme effort of the combined lifetimes of the two bikers lay dashed and broken into a million pieces on the floor.

“
Sonovabitch!
” the larger of the two men exclaimed. He was wearing a jeans jacket with a skull-and-crossbones appliqué on the back and had silver chains looped around his waist. He threw his chair back and stood up, pounding one fist against his hand. A dark-haired woman from the back of the room came forward and laid her hands on his shoulder. Ben couldn’t see either of them clearly in the dark haze of the bar.

“Oh, God,” Ben mumbled, trying not to sound too pathetic. “I was just backing up. I—I—”

“He didn’t mean it,” Christina said, stepping between the larger of the two thugs and Ben. “This brain-dead bully over here was forcing him backward.”

“This
what
?” Redbeard echoed. “Whaddas that mean?” He shoved Christina aside, not gently.

By this time, most of the people in the bar were rubbernecking for a better view of the show. Ben had nowhere left to maneuver. Opposing hands clamped down on both his shoulders. He knew he was finished. What Redbeard didn’t do to him, Skull-and-Crossbones surely would.

“All right, nobody moves,” Ben said, swallowing hard.

Skull-and-Crossbones laughed heartily. “What the hell?”

“Nobody moves,” he repeated, taking a deep breath. “I’m an undercover cop. Kincaid, Tulsa PD, Vice. Badge number 499.”

The two men looked skeptical. “Yeah?” Redbeard said. “So show us your badge.”

“Can’t you see I’m in disguise, idiot?” Ben muttered. “Undercover cops don’t carry badges.”

Skull laughed. “The one that busted me last year did. Nice try, though.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, guys, I got an idea. I think it’s time for a game of darts.”

He dragged Ben into the darts quadrant and shoved him against the wall. Two other thugs wearing matching jeans jackets held Ben in place in the target area.

“I don’t play darts,” Ben protested. “I wouldn’t be a challenge for you.”

“Not true,” Skull said as someone handed him a fistful of darts. “I haven’t played in years.” He aimed a dart at Ben’s face.

“Ben!” someone squealed. It seemed to come from the dark-haired woman hanging on Skull’s shoulder. “It’s Benjy!”

Ben squinted his eyes and peered into the darkness. “
Mona
?” he whispered.

It
was
Mona. It wasn’t a face he was likely to forget. The current spouse of the senior partner in his firm was there, at the Red Parrot, with this biker. She was dressed in a dark-blue denim jacket and a black, hip-hugging, leather miniskirt, with some cheap metal jewelry dangling from her ears and wrists.

Skull asked, “You know this weasel?”

“Yes, yes,” Ben said quickly. “I know her. We go
way
back.”

“You been with my woman?”

Ben stuttered. “Buh … well, no … I mean, not—”

“Hell, what do I care?” A deep and scary laugh erupted from Skull’s lips. “Who hasn’t been? She’s older than this bar!”

Mona’s face seemed to melt. The product of hours of skillfully applied cosmetics disintegrated in an instant.

“I do know him,” she said softly. “You’d better leave him alone. He
is
an undercover cop.” She winked at Ben.

“Really? Christ. Why didn’t you say so?” He turned halfheartedly toward Ben. “I thought we knew all the narcs around here. No hard feelings, huh? Just having some fun.”

“Right,” Ben said, nodding.

Christina appeared behind his right shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Show him the picture. While we’re buddies.”

“Oh, right.” Ben saw that most of the bar’s attention was fixed in his direction.

“Look,” he said loudly, “I’m going to pass around a photograph and I want to talk to anybody who knows anything about this man. And I mean
anyone
.” He cast a mean look in the direction of his former adversaries.

“Don’t press your luck,” Christina whispered.

Ben passed the picture to Skull, who accepted it without saying a word. Mona’s identification of Ben as a cop seemed to have seriously altered the degree of respect he was receiving.

“He’s been here,” Skull said after examining the picture a moment. “Not recently, but he’s been here.”

“Do you remember if he was here Monday night, last week?”

“Yeah. That sounds right. He sat in one of the back booths talking to some other guy. I guess it was a guy—I never actually saw a face. Was wearing a long white overcoat with one of those high collars. They both left together. That’s all I know.”

Why is it, Ben wondered, other strangers come here and go unnoticed and unmolested, but I’m here maybe ten minutes and practically a dead man? He circulated the picture throughout the bar. A few people remembered seeing Adams the night he was killed, but no one had anything to add to what Skull (whose actual name turned out to be Marvin) had said. No one had seen the face of the person he talked with.

Ben returned the photo to his wallet and started toward the door. He saw Mona and stopped.

“Thanks,” he said.

She placed her right hand against his cheek. “I’ve missed you, Ben. Ever since the night of the party. It meant a lot to me. I think about you all the time. You haven’t been returning my calls.”

Ben smiled uncomfortably. He couldn’t tell whether Christina was hearing this.

Mona twirled her finger through a lock of his hair. “You don’t have to run off, you know. The night is young.”

Ben took a step back. “Thanks, but I have a court hearing tomorrow morning.”

“Hey,” Marvin said, stepping beside Ben, “I’m sorry about everything, man. I mean, the darts and the rough stuff. I’ve been drinking. I got a little crazy—you know how it is. I didn’t know you were friends of Mona’s. Maybe we could all get together sometime and double date or something.”

Ben swallowed. “Yeah, or something.”

“Yeah, it’d be fun, huh?” Marvin put his arm around Mona, then slapped her on the backside.

Mona gave him a chilly smile. She clearly had not forgotten his earlier remark.

Ben waved, and he and Christina left the bar. The cool night air was bracing. “I feel like I just crawled away from the edge of a crumbling cliff,” he said.

Christina smiled. “You know, that Marvin dude was kind of scary at first, but when you got to know the real man inside, he was all right. Kind of cuddly, actually.” Ben didn’t say a word.

T
EN AFTER TEN. THE
judge was late.

Probably reading the briefs at the last moment, Ben mused. He hoped the waiting didn’t last much longer. Bertha, sitting in the chair next to him at the defendants table, was already so nervous Ben had serious misgivings about having her testify. But he had no choice. She was his only witness.

He had tried to calm her; he carefully described a domestic proceeding to her as a sort of miniature trial without a jury and most of the procedural hassles. Despite his efforts, the idea of cross-examination and
Perry Mason
tactics sent her into a quiet panic.

Not that Bertha had an exclusive on nervousness. Ben felt a trembling in his knees he feared would not disappear when he stood up to address the court. Derek, of course, was no help at all. He had ambled to the courthouse and now sat in the back row of the tiny spectators’ gallery. Earlier, Derek had opined that it would not be to their advantage to have more lawyers sitting at their table than the Department of Human Services did. The Raven firm already had a reputation for being overpriced big shots—the kind of lawyers state court judges, who typically come from small firms or unsuccessful solo practices, hate. They didn’t want to seem to be overdoing it or trying to strong-arm the judge. Therefore, Derek explained, he would not sit at counsel table with Ben and Bertha.

Besides, Derek had told Ben, you have to learn to fly solo sometime. Being in court is a long series of tough, quick decisions made by the seat of your pants. It won’t do you any good to have me there to defer to when the hard decisions come. This is your chance to prove you have the fire of a litigator. So Derek sat calmly in the back of the courtroom while Ben prepared to bring the experience of not quite two weeks of private practice to bear before the court.

Ben checked his watch. Ten-fifteen.

What’s taking so long? The trembling in his knees became more pronounced. He looked back at Derek. Derek seemed to be in a perfectly wretched mood, even by Derek’s standards. Rumor had it that he had separated from Louise, was living by himself in an apartment on the south side, and spending entire nights in high-class watering holes. Great. Derek never struck Ben as being all that stable even in the best of circumstances, which these evidently weren’t.

Mercifully, Emily would be spared the full proceeding, although she had to be available if either side wished to call her as a witness. Not very likely. The DHS would assume she wanted to stay where she was, and Ben knew she couldn’t help Bertha’s case. She would not be called.

Ben tried to review his notes while he waited for the judge, but it was impossible. His mind was racing. A snippet of Gilbert and Sullivan kept running through his head: “The law is the true embodiment/Of everything that’s excellent/It has no kind of fault or flaw …”

“All rise.”

Everyone in the small courtroom rose. Judge Mayberry walked into the courtroom and settled himself in the thronelike, elevated black chair. Ben marveled at the amount of ceremony even the most low-level domestic disputes judge could insist upon. Mayberry enjoyed the pomp and circumstance, the black robe, the latinate phrases, the whole legal works. Ben made a mental note to be advocative, but with the most deferential attitude toward the judge possible.

The court’s bailiff read the style of the case. “In the matter of the minor Emily X, case number FS-672-92-M. Two motions are presently before the court. The Department of Human Services has brought a motion to remove the child from her present place of residence to the custody and supervision of the DHS. In response, the court has ordered Bertha Adams to show cause why the child should not be so removed. Also, Bertha Adams has brought a motion to legally adopt the minor child Emily X.”

“Are all the parties present?” Mayberry asked. He spoke slowly, with a hint of a drawl. Ben wasn’t sure if it was the judge’s background showing through or his desire to affect a folksy, good-ol’-boy persona.

The man sitting at plaintiff’s table rose and began speaking.

“The Department of Human Services is present, your honor. My name is Albert Sokolosky.”

Sokolosky was in his mid-thirties and wore round, rimless eyeglasses, probably to affect a lawyerly look and make him appear older than he really was. He was extremely tall and thin, as if he had been held at both ends and stretched.

In a sudden rush, Ben realized he didn’t really know the protocol of the courtroom. Should I stand now? Should I wait for the judge to look at me? Why the hell isn’t Derek up here to tell me these things?

He stood. “My name is Benjamin Kincaid, your honor. I represent—”

“Just a minute, son. Give the clerk a chance to get the first name down.”

Ben waited as the woman sitting beside the bailiff painstakingly scrawled out her best guess at the spelling of Sokolosky. In domestic proceedings, true court reporters, able to silently transcribe testimony at the speed of light, were not used. Instead, a tape recording was made, and for a fee, the court would make a copy of the tape available to any party who wanted to pay a court reporter to transcribe the tape, at an exorbitant rate often exceeding the monetary value of the domestic dispute. Which explains why lawyers rarely had a transcript made of proceedings in domestic matters. Which the judges knew. Which had the unfortunate result of giving the judges carte blanche to indulge themselves in any eccentricity or petty bullying their hearts desired.

The judge at last looked up; he offered Ben a patronizing, frightening grin.

“All right, son, give us your name now.”

“Benjamin Kincaid, your honor.” He swallowed hard. “I represent Bertha Adams in regard to both motions.” His voice shook a bit, but he managed to control it. He hoped.

“Gentlemen,” Mayberry said, scanning the courtroom without making eye contact with anyone, “I don’t see any reason to drag this thing out and complicate what should be a simple, unified matter. If you will give me your basic positions in your opening statements, we’ll hear from Mrs. Adams, and then we should be able to resolve the motions in short order.”

Ben listened carefully. The subtext, he thought, is the judge has something else he wants to do today. Pressing golf game or an attractive piece on the side. Ben made a mental note to cut his presentation to the bare essentials.