Authors: William Bernhardt
“That’s great!” He walked around the desk and slapped Ben on the back. “That sounds like exactly what we need. By God, I knew you were going to be a winner, Kincaid. What a proactive player. I wish I had ten more just like you.”
“Thank you, sir. Oh, I’ll have to see the missing documents, of course.”
Crichton stiffened. “Why? I already told you what they say.”
“I know. But if I’m going to make representations to the court about their contents—”
“Ben, I don’t have them anymore.”
“Who does?”
“I’m not sure. I think I gave them to Imogene.”
“Imogene says she doesn’t have them.”
“Okay, I’ll instigate a search.”
“Sir, I don’t have time for a search. The hearing starts in less than an hour.”
“Just tell the judge you can’t show them around because they contain trade secrets. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Ben frowned. “Either that or he’ll cite me for contempt.”
“You’ll handle it. You’ll be great.” Crichton started for the door, but stopped just before he passed through the threshold. “By the way, Kincaid…” He cleared his throat, then stared at the floor.
Ben watched this curious spectacle. Crichton, the boss of every room he entered, suddenly seemed…uncomfortable.
“What I’m trying to say is…well, I probably got out of line…calling you a pussy and all that. What you did on the giant’s ladder, when you saved my butt from splatting on the dirt…that was amazing. Most men would’ve been too scared by half to try something like that. Hell, I’m not even sure I could have brought it off.”
“Really, Mr. Crichton, it was no big deal.”
“The hell it wasn’t. And to think you did that just minutes after I was riding your ass.” He shuffled his feet some more. “What I’m trying to say is I think I owe you an apology.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“No. But I wanted to do it anyway. Now get in that courtroom and give ’em hell, tiger.” And with that, Crichton faded down the hallway.
B
EN AND ROB SAT
at one of two counsel tables in Judge Roemer’s courtroom and waited. Roemer’s courtroom was one of the smaller ones tucked away on the seventh floor of the state courthouse at Fifth and Denver.
Ben checked the clock on the wall. “The judge is already fifteen minutes late. I hate waiting around like this, but it seems to happen every time.”
“Is this sort of like being fashionably late to a party?” Rob asked.
“Well, this is more a power-of-the-judge pose. You know: you have to be on time; I don’t.”
“That must be irritating.”
“True. On the other hand, state judges don’t have clerks, much less magistrates. They have to do everything themselves. Roemer’s probably back in chambers reading our brief.”
Ben apparently was not the only person in the courtroom getting restless. Abernathy lumbered over and plopped another business card in front of Ben. “Wanted to make sure you gentlemen had my new card. It’s got my 1-800 number.”
“You have a 1-800 number? For your law practice?”
“Sure. Doesn’t everyone?” He laughed. “It’s the wave of the future, Ben. Mass marketing. Media referrals.”
“So if I want to call you up and talk about the pending motions or something, I can just use this number?”
“Well…er, no…This is really for prospective clients…”
“Ah.”
“Have you seen my new commercial? It’s running during reruns of
Laverne and Shirley
on Channel Six.”
Ben glanced at Rob. “You know, I don’t keep up with
Laverne and Shirley
like I used to.…”
“It’s a great spot.” Abernathy shifted his considerable weight into action, reenacting the commercial. “It starts with the camera tightly focused on me.”
“What a surprise.”
“Then the camera pulls back, and you see I’m wearing a black leather jacket and straddling a great big Harley. I lean into the camera lens and say, ‘If a doctor makes a mistake, I believe he should be held accountable. If you’re hurt On the job, I believe your boss should be accountable.’ Then I rev up the Harley and say, ‘And if you’re injured by some pig on the highway, I believe he should be held accountable.’ By this time, the music is swelling. Really exciting stuff—we looped it from
Top Gun
. It’s very moving.”
“No doubt.”
“And I finish off with, ‘Don’t give up your claim prematurely. Don’t accept a nuisance settlement from someone who owes you more. You need a hot rod in your corner. Call George Abernathy.’ And then the 1-800 number flashes. It’s beautiful. The first time I saw it, I got choked up.”
“Better than
Casablanca
,” Rob said.
“Oh, a hundred times over,” Abernathy replied. “If you ever go back into private practice, you should try TV, Ben.”
“I’ll pass. Thanks.”
“Hmmph. You guys who act like you’re too classy to advertise are going to be left behind in the dust.”
“Maybe so,” Ben said, “but at least I won’t be straddling a great big Harley, begging people to sue their friends and neighbors.”
“Since you apparently loathe, litigation so much, we could avoid this whole unpleasant hearing if you’d sit down and talk some settlement.”
“Thanks, but no thanks, Abernathy. I’m not convinced you even have a case.”
Judge Roemer chose that moment to enter the courtroom. Roemer was one of the more laid-back state judges; in fact, Ben reflected, some might call him comatose. He never took an active role, he let the lawyers do whatever they wanted, and he hated to make a decision. “Please be seated,” he mumbled into the microphone.
He glanced at the papers on the bench, frowned, and then said, “I understand we have a discovery dispute today.” His voice was thin and reedy. “I hate discovery disputes. Can’t you boys work this out on your own?”
Abernathy waddled toward the podium and went into his
gosh
,
shucks
routine. “Darn it all, Judge, I’ve talked to Mr. Kincaid about this, but he refuses to produce those ten pieces of paper.”
Roemer addressed Ben. “Is this true?”
“Yes, your honor. We’re claiming privilege as to those documents because they contain proprietary information. Furthermore, they would not be admissible at trial as they contain evidence of subsequent remedial repairs.”
“Any reply, Mr. Abernathy?”
Ben watched as Abernathy struggled for words. Ben expected that he would request the judge to examine the documents
in camera
, or would offer a confidentiality order restricting the dissemination of the trade secrets, or would argue that ultimate inadmissibility should not preclude production during discovery. But Abernathy did none of that. He just stood there, fumbling and foomferalling, obviously unprepared.
Beads of sweat poured down from Abernathy’s hairline. “Well, gosh, your honor. I haven’t even seen these documents. How can I know what’s in them?”
Roemer’s bored impatience was evident. “You’ve just heard an officer of the court make a representation as to their contents. Do you have any reason to dispute it?”
“Well, no, I’m sure Mr. Kincaid is an honest young man—”
“And you do agree that evidence of subsequent remedial repairs is inadmissible, don’t you?”
Abernathy blinked, then wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Now, I don’t see why that should be. If a company repairs something, that’s a darn clear indication that there was something wrong with it in the first place.”
“Mr. Abernathy has, of course, just pinpointed the entire reason for this evidentiary doctrine,” Ben interjected. “If such evidence was admissible, companies would be disinclined to make repairs, even where lives are at stake.”
“Anything further?” Roemer asked Abernathy, tapping a pencil.
Abernathy was steadying himself against the podium. “Gosh, your honor, I’m not sure what to say. This is a new one to me.”
Ben’s eyes crinkled. This was first year law school stuff. Abernathy apparently was so used to settling cases quickly—taking the money and running—that he never had to do any real legal work.
“Can you cite any cases in support of your position,” Roemer asked, “assuming you have one?”
“Uh…Judge, I’m not really prepared to do that at the moment.”
“Then I have no choice but to deny your motion.” Typical Roemer—he didn’t want to take any longer than necessary. And he didn’t want to order anyone to do anything if he could avoid it. “In the future, Mr. Abernathy, don’t waste this court’s time if you can’t defend your motions any better than this.” He reached for the gavel. “This hearing is concluded.”
Everyone rose as Roemer drifted out of the courtroom.
“All right!” Rob said, punching Ben on the shoulder. “You killed him! Crichton’s going to be pumped.”
“I suppose.” Ben watched Abernathy lumber out of the courtroom. “I didn’t win on the merits, though. I won because the Nelsons hired a walking
TV Guide
ad instead of a lawyer.”
“What’s the difference? Man, you’ve been on this case less than a week, and you’ve already turned it completely around. Crichton was right—you’re the greatest!”
Ben smiled pleasantly, but said nothing.
“C’mon,” Rob said enthusiastically. “Let me buy you a chocolate milk. You must be feeling great.”
Ben followed Rob out of the courtroom, wishing Rob were right. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t right at all.
S
ERGEANT TOMLINSON SAUNTERED DOWN
Eleventh Street, his hands shoved in his tight pants, his tattered jeans jacket hanging open. If there was anything he knew from the days when he walked this beat regularly, it was how to blend in. He was like a chameleon; he could walk the walk and talk the talk. He could come off as sleazy as anyone.
It had taken him far too long to get out here and follow up on the lead Koregai had provided. After the fourth corpse was discovered, all hell broke loose. Everyone on the force was in demand, even more so than before, even people with lowly switchboard duty. All efforts had been intensified; he’d even heard a rumor that Chief Blackwell was riding around in a squad car. Unfortunately, for all their efforts, they appeared to be no closer to figuring out who the victims were, much less the killer.
Now that he finally had a few hours off, Tomlinson planned to do some investigating on his own. He knew he had seen the tattoo on the second victim before—at the Rainbow Boutique, just off Eleventh near Cincinnati. Since he had already linked the body dump site to the Eleventh Street subculture, this connection seemed all the more likely.
The Rainbow Boutique catered to the varied professionals of the district: prostitutes, pimps, drug dealers, and assorted other hoodlums. It was a combination drug store, head shop, and tattoo parlor. Something for everyone.
Tomlinson maneuvered past a group of tattered winos hovering around a shared bottle of stoop booze and entered the boutique. He walked briskly through the shop, heading for a small room in the back. He pushed away the strings of beads hanging in the doorway and stepped inside.
A white-haired man sat behind a table cluttered with tattoo needles. The man was withered and drawn; he couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. Around him, posted on all four walls, were countless multicolored tattoos. Hearts, anchors, cherubs, flags—a lifetime of illustration and design.
Tomlinson examined a series of tattoos on the wall just inside the door. There it was, just as he remembered it—a lovely blue butterfly with a garland of pink flowers around its wings.
The man’s eyes darted around the room, then peered up at Tomlinson.
“How’s business?” Tomlinson asked.
“Not bad.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “It’d be better if I could keep the police off my tail.”
So much for the chameleon. Tomlinson had to hand it to him—the man was nothing if not quick. “Don’t worry. This isn’t my beat. I’m here…unofficially.”
“I’ll believe it when you leave.”
“Police been giving you a bad time?”
“Constantly.”
“I didn’t realize tattooing was illegal among consenting adults.”
“It isn’t.” He rubbed his tongue against yellow teeth. “Just disfavored.”
“They confiscate your needles?”
“Of course. Want to make sure I’m not spreading diseases, like everyone else on The Stroll.”
“I’m sure everyone else gets hassled, too.”
“Everyone who can’t afford not to.”
Tomlinson decided it was best not to ask what he meant. “I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo myself. I thought maybe one of these colorful butterfly jobs.”
“You some kind of queer?”
“No. Why?”
“I never had no man ask for a butterfly before. It’s the ladies that like them.”
“Really? Is this a…popular design?”
“Some of the street girls like it.”
“Anyone recently?”
The man looked at Tomlinson, a suspicious expression on his face. After a brief hesitation, he answered. “Did one not more than three weeks ago for a girl named Suzie. Pretty little Suzie.”
“Does Suzie have a last name?”
The man reared back his head and laughed.
Point taken, Tomlinson thought. “Don’t you need parental consent to tattoo a minor?”
“Suzie don’t have no parents. Not around here, anyway.”
Let it drop, Tomlinson told himself. This is not the time. “Is Suzie still working The Stroll?”
The man pondered a moment. “Can’t say for sure. Haven’t seen her for over two weeks.”
“Really.” That would tie in nicely with the murder of the second victim. “Do you normally see most of the street girls on a regular basis?”
“I live here, don’t I? Sometimes they take off suddenly, though, and we never see them again. Never know why they were here, or why they left. Runaways are like that.”
“Yeah.” Tomlinson absently glanced over some of the other tattoo designs. “Do you know where she lived?”
“Lived?”
“Lives. Or lived before she blew town.” What a stupid slip. Damn, damn, damn.
“No. But Trixie would.”
“And who’s Trixie?”
“Her best friend. On The Stroll, anyway. They worked together, if you know what I mean. Did a lot of joint jobs. Whenever the opportunity arose.”
Great. An honest-to-God lead. “What does Trixie look like?”