Blind Justice Read Online Free PDF Page B

the refrigerator and scanned the contents. Nothing there that would traditionally be called breakfast, but there was an unfinished carton of Vietnamese. Why not? Ri Le’s was the best carryout in Tulsa, even three days after purchase.
    Just as he got the double-delight cashew chicken in the microwave, the phone rang. “Yeah?”
    “Boss, this is Jones. Have you read the newspaper yet?”
    “Not yet. You think I could train Giselle to bring the paper to me in the morning?”
    “Boy, do you have a lot to learn about cats. Check out the front page, Boss. The FBI picked up a woman on a murder rap last night.”
    “What do you expect me to do? Run over to the jailhouse and give her my business card? Look, Jones, I know you’re anxious to be paid—”
    “This isn’t just any woman,” Jones said. “Take a look at the paper.”
    Ben felt the short hairs on the back of his neck rise. Surely…
    He put the phone down, walked to the front door, and retrieved the morning edition of the Tulsa World. There it was, right on the front page. The woman was arrested at the scene of the crime, crouched beside the corpse, and charged with the murder of a man the paper linked to organized crime and South American drugs.
    The photograph accompanying the article removed all doubt. Red hair, freckled face, yellow leotards.
    It was Christina.
    Ben knew the way from the Federal Courthouse on Fourth and Denver to the holding cells so well he could walk it with his eyes closed. He’d been a frequent visitor during the past year, since he was unceremoniously dismissed from the world of high-tone, blue-chip corporate litigation at Raven, Tucker & Tubb. Unable to find a job with anyone else, Ben opened his own office, but he soon found that building a practice from scratch was hard work, especially since he had no contacts, no connections, and worst of all, no money. Ben refused to advertise; he considered that bad form—low class and lousy lawyering. He’d build his practice the proper way or not at all.
    Ben had rented a small office on the North Side of downtown—not a great location, but the best he could afford. He put a listing in the Yellow Pages and opened shop. His practice consisted principally of debt collection, divorce, and penny-ante felonies. His clientele was increasing somewhat—word of mouth was spreading—but customarily one drunk driving case led only to another drunk driving case. His chances of breaking into the big time, of working for rich corporate entities that could be billed out the kazoo, seemed pretty slim.
    Ben pushed open the bullet-proof glass door that led to the holding cells. Lester Boggs was standing guard in the outer office. Lester had thinning black hair and was more than a little overweight—too many years at desk jobs like this one. He looked silly in his extra-large sheriff’s uniform, with the slick black leather belt and holster. There really should be restrictions, Ben thought, on the people permitted to pack guns. He wondered if Lester had ever even held it, much less fired it.
    Lester looked up from the black-and-white Watchman on his desk. “Morning, Kincaid.”
    “Morning, Les.”
    “You must be bailing out those two drunks we picked up on Osage territory last night.”
    Ben steeled himself and tried to seem convincing. He hated lying, and he wasn’t particularly adept at it. “No. I’m here to see Christina McCall. I’m representing her.”
    Lester’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I’m impressed.” He fumbled around in a desk drawer for his keys. “A drug-related homicide. You are coming up in the world.”
    “She’s a friend. Any chance they’ll O.R. her? I brought my Bar card.”
    “ ’Fraid not. You’ll have to make bail.”
    Lester opened the clanging barred gate separating them from the holding cells. He led Ben down a long concrete corridor; his footsteps echoed as Lester brought his considerable weight down on his patent leather shoes. The derelicts and assorted