Silent Justice
A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense (Book Nine)
William Bernhardt
A MysteriousPress.com
Open Road Integrated Media
Ebook
Dedicated to F.W. “Steve” Stephenson, bookseller for more than fifty years, and a treasured friend to anyone who ever wrote a book
A good person once said, that where mystery begins, religion ends.
Cannot I say, as truly at least, of human laws, that where mystery begins, justice ends?
—Edmund Burke (1729-1797)
Prologue
Six Months Before
WHO LET HIM IN here? Ben Kincaid wondered.
He peered across the study quad at the scruffy-looking older man hovering near the front double doors to the University of Tulsa College of Law. Ben’s attention was drawn by the fact that the man was wearing a long overcoat; it was ill-fitting, wrinkled, and stained. The man’s chin was covered with salt-and-pepper stubble. His eyes were red and ringed, as if he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. He was looking for something, or someone.
Ben couldn’t imagine who or what that might be. The man did not look as if he belonged here. Even the lawyers-to-be with the most rudimentary grasp of personal hygiene did not rise to this level of dishevelment. Ben wondered if maybe the man had gotten lost on his way to …
To what? The homeless shelter? Come to think of it, there wasn’t anyone or anything anywhere on the TU campus that was likely to welcome this visitor. Ben wondered if he should ask the man what he wanted. Or perhaps whisper a word into the ear of Stanley Robinson, the security guard he’d just seen outside the dean’s office.
Ben was distracted by a petite, attractive woman making her way toward him. She had a creamy complexion perfectly accented by two tiny patches of freckles on either side of her aquiline nose. Her engaging gait not only spoke of extreme self-confidence but, as an added bonus, did remarkable things to the curly strawberry-blond hair dancing just above her shoulders. As she sidled up to Ben, he admired her crazy-quilt miniskirt, which had more colors than a jumbo box of Crayolas.
Ben arched an eyebrow. “Is that a dress or a cry for help?”
Christina McCall didn’t bridle. “It’s ethnic chic. I’ll have you know this pattern is all the rage in Mozambique.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It is.”
“I haven’t kept up with Mozambique fashion trends the way I used to.”
“More’s the pity.” Christina tilted her head back, sending her hair bouncing behind her shoulders. “I hear you’re teaching The Tiger’s class this afternoon.”
“True.” Although Ben had been practicing law for years, only recently had he begun teaching classes at the local law school as an adjunct professor. As he had quickly learned, The Tiger was Professor Joseph Canino, a curmudgeonly Ichabod Crane who’d been teaching Civil Procedure since the dawn of time. “Apparently he was called away at the last moment. Some kind of emergency.”
“Probably heard of a law student somewhere he hadn’t publicly humiliated and rushed off to remedy the omission.”
“Quite possible.”
“I don’t know where such a student might be, though. Mozambique, perhaps.”
Ben smiled. Professor Canino was of the old school; he used the Socratic method like a dagger to slit the throats of the unwary or unwitting. “I gather you’re in this class?”
Christina had worked as Ben’s legal assistant for as long as he’d been in solo practice in Tulsa. Two years before, she’d decided to expand her horizons and start law school. Since they worked together and knew each other personally, they both agreed it was best that she not be in any of Ben’s regular classes. But it looked like this morning they were going to be in the same classroom whether they liked it or not.
“I am,” she replied. “So don’t be cruel.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself.”
Christina scampered off toward class, leaving Ben to admire once again her seemingly inexhaustible high spirits. It had been almost ten years since Ben finished law school, but it hadn’t been so long that he’d forgotten how much he’d hated it. Egomaniacal professors, arbitrary subjective grading, unrelenting pressure to succeed, unrestrained favoritism—a hideous gauntlet one was required to run in order to practice the world’s least respected profession. What a deal.
As Ben crossed the study quad, he observed that most of the students" sentiments were aligned with his own, not Christina’s. The sweaty brows and twisted grimaces of those purporting to study told him that law school had not changed much over the past decade.
In a carrel just off the main hallway, Ben spotted the grizzled man in the overcoat he’d seen near the front doors. What was he doing? Certainly not studying; he wasn’t even carrying a book. His eyes were still roaming about. Who was he expecting to see?
Or maybe he had it wrong, Ben reasoned. Maybe his first impression had been correct. Perhaps the man was homeless and he was just looking for a place to lie down where security guards wouldn’t hassle him. Ben considered recommending one of the cushioned sofas in the library. It was quiet in there, and if he covered his face with his hands, the staff would take him for another student who had fallen asleep while reading the rapturous words of the distinguished Learned Hand.
“Which class did you draw this time?”
Ben turned and saw Professor John Matthews, the leading tort law expert in the state of Oklahoma. He’d written texts and hornbooks on the subject; he was the unquestioned authority.
“I’m filling in for The Tiger.”
Matthews stroked his beard and smiled. “Ah. Lucky man.”
“How do you figure?”
“If those kids are expecting to see The Tiger walk through that door, they’ll be virtually orgasmic when they see anyone else. Even you.”
“You sure know how to flatter a guy, John.”
Matthews laughed and headed down the corridor.
Ben entered the classroom. All at once, the students fell silent, shifted around, and turned their eyes front and center.
What a marvelous ego trip, Ben thought, not for the first time. This must be how judges feel when they enter the courtroom.
The classroom was designed in the Greek theater style: three tiers of elevated seats and continuous tabletops formed a semicircle around the podium, which was on the lowest level. Ben took his place in the center, opened his teacher’s edition of the textbook, and started.
“My name’s Ben Kincaid, and I’m filling in for Professor Canino this morning, as I expect most of you already know. So let’s get to it. Who can tell me what a JNOV is?” He glanced at his seating chart. “Mr. Brunner?”
A middle-sized man in his early twenties pushed himself unhappily to his feet. “Uh … what were those letters again?”
“JNOV,” Ben repeated, enunciating clearly.
“JNOV,” Brunner repeated thoughtfully. “Is that a rock band?”
There was a tittering of laughter throughout the classroom. This would never happen if The Tiger were present, Ben knew. Apparently Ben had a less imposing reputation. He wondered what his nickname was. The Titmouse, perhaps.
“No, Mr. Brunner, you must be thinking of Run-DMC. Or perhaps, ELO, if you’re as old as I am.” He turned his attention to the rest of the classroom. “Who can tell me what a JNOV is?”
The first hand up rose above a very familiar head of red hair. Ben supposed he was obliged to call on her. She shouldn’t be penalized for knowing the substitute prof. “Ms. McCall?”
Christina bounced to her feet. “A JNOV is a judgment notwithstanding the verdict.”