Maggie nodded and took the brief.
“But, Mr. Derek,” Ben said hesitantly. “If you ask the court for leave to amend our brief, the other side will do the same. We could end up reopening the entire motion. And we’ve already won!”
Derek raised his chin. “I’d rather lose a motion than live with this blight on my record.”
Ben fell back against his chair. It was impossible.
“Maggie, you and Miss McCall may leave now. I’d like to speak to Mr. Kincaid in private about another matter.”
Maggie found her feet and walked to the door. Her knees seemed weak and barely able to support her. Tears had finally sprung forth and were rolling down her cheeks. Christina quietly followed her out of the room.
“And shut the door behind you.”
Christina shut the door.
Derek scrutinized Ben in silence. Ben wondered what his punishment would be. Copying dictionary pages, perhaps, or maybe he’d have to stay in during recess.
Several uncomfortable seconds elapsed before either of them spoke.
“How old did you say you are, Kincaid?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Mmmm.” He sank back and stroked his chin. “I think I was older than you when I was twenty-nine.”
Ben bit his tongue.
“You grew up in Nichols Hills, right? In the suburbs.” Derek chuckled. “I’ll bet your father never spanked you when you were a kid.”
Ben kept on biting.
“I’ll get to the point, Kincaid. I don’t think you’re going to cut it here. This isn’t something that just occurred to me. I’ve been concerned about this since you arrived. I try to help the people I work with, Kincaid. I care about people. But I look across at you and I think: does this kid have the fire to be a successful litigator? And every time, I come up with the same answer: no.”
Ben continued to stare back in stony silence.
“It’s as if you don’t know how to fight. You’re not willing to be mean. I’ll put it to you blunt, kid—in litigation, sometimes you have to be a bully, an out-and-out asshole. When you’re a litigator, you’ve got to remember that every second of misery you can bring to the opposition is a second that will make them consider settling. Being an asshole is always in your client’s best interest.” He shifted positions. “But I don’t see you doing that. You’re too damn nice.” He shook his head and formed a steeple with his fingers. “I guess I just don’t see the fire.”
After a few silent moments, Derek continued. “You know the adoption hearing is tomorrow morning.”
“Yes.”
“I want you to handle it. I don’t mean just on paper. The whole shebang. Witnesses, argument, everything. Start to finish.”
Ben’s eyes grew to twice their normal size. “But, sir, I’m not prepared—”
“You see, Kincaid?” Derek sprang forward from his chair. “That’s exactly what I mean. Most young associates would be chomping at the bit to do a hearing on their own. But not you. You hang back.”
“It’s not that, sir. It’s just that it’s an important matter and I haven’t prepared—”
“So start preparing! You’ve got almost twenty-four hours. How much time do you need?”
Ben didn’t say anything. He and Christina already had plans for the evening, but he could hardly reveal them to Derek.
“This is your big chance, Kincaid,” Derek said, smiling. He propped his hands behind his head and stretched. “Prove me wrong.”
22
BEN AND CHRISTINA STOOD on the front porch and rang the bell. The sun was setting on the other side of the Arkansas, a spectacular pyrotechnic display that Ben barely noticed, much less appreciated. His mind was on the other side of the door, and on the next stop after this one.
No answer. Ben rang the bell again.
“Is this really necessary?” he asked.
“Yes,” Christina said. “Don’t be a wimp.”
“Maybe we should wait a few more days.”
“We’ve waited too long already. We need to go tonight.”
Ben frowned. “We probably won’t learn a thing.”
“Probably. But we have to follow all our leads. Particularly the ones we risked life and limb to get.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Inside the house, Ben could hear music playing at full volume. Something symphonic. Beethoven’s Ninth, unless Ben was mistaken. He rang the bell again.
Someone had to be home. They probably just couldn’t hear the doorbell over the loud music. He tried the door; it wasn’t locked.
No harm in poking my head in, Ben thought. He opened the door and stepped inside. Christina followed.
“Hello,” he said loudly. Still no response.
In the center of the living room Ben saw Emily, sitting on the floor, eyes closed, listening to the music. Listening was an understatement; she was completely absorbed. It wasn’t the pretentious, show-off absorption exhibited by snobs at the Philharmonic, Ben realized. She wasn’t even aware they had come in.
The movement ended. Slowly coming out of her reverie, Emily opened her eyes, looked in Ben’s direction, and screamed. The scream was uncommonly piercing, more than Ben would have thought possible from an eight-year-old girl!
Bertha Adams came running from the back room, her heavy legs thumping against the carpet, her right hand pressed against her chest. “Mr. Kincaid,” she said, flushed and breathless. “I didn’t hear you come in. Afraid I was napping again.”
She saw Emily cowering on the floor. “It’s all right, Emily. I’m here now. Remember me?” Emily responded to her voice by crawling across the carpet and clinging to Bertha’s legs.
Ben crouched down to Emily’s level. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “We’ve met before. I’m Mr. Kincaid. I’m your friend.”
Emily looked pensively from Ben to Bertha. Bertha nodded and stroked the girl along her shoulders.
“You remember Mr. Kincaid, don’t you, child?” She smoothed down the tiny girl’s hair. “It’s always hard when she comes back from the music. She’s at her happiest when the music’s playing. She’s at peace. But when the music’s over, it’s like dragging the poor girl back from another world.”
Emily still clung tightly to Bertha’s leg.
“We came for a specific purpose,” Christina reminded Ben.
“We came,” he said hesitantly, “because I need … a photograph.”
Bertha looked at the floor and said nothing. Poor woman, Ben thought. I bring it all back to her.
“You mean of my husband,” Bertha said quietly after a moment. “You can say it. I won’t turn to mush. You want a picture of my dead husband.”
Ben nodded. “For identification purposes.”
Bertha’s brow wrinkled slightly. “I already gave a snapshot to the police.”
“Yes, I know. I need another one.”
Bertha surveyed the living room. “I’ve always said this is the best picture he ever took.” She removed a sepia-toned photo in a gold frame from a tabletop. In the picture, she stood next to her husband—she in a lace-covered white dress, he in a double-breasted brown suit. The picture was at least thirty-five years old. It was obviously their wedding picture.
Ben cleared his throat. “I think, perhaps, something more contemporary might be appropriate. …” His voice trailed off.
“Well, I have these wallet-size black-and-whites that were taken about a year ago. A photographer came to the office to take pictures for a Sanguine public relations brochure. Took a lot of personal photos while he was there.”
She withdrew a photo from a drawer beneath her china cabinet. “Not very flattering, but you can tell it’s him.” She continued to stare at the photograph and seemed lost in thought. After a moment, she passed it to Ben. “I do miss him,” she said simply.