Free Blind Justice by William Bernhardt

sure you know how that kind of arrangement works, Kincaid, and who ends up doing all the work. I understand you worked as an associate in a big firm. For about fifteen minutes.” Abshire shouted out the door. “Hey, Roger, get in here!”
    An older man wearing a white shirt and half glasses on the end of his nose walked into the cubicle. “Yes?”
    “Check this out,” Abshire said. “I caught Morelli here opening our files to counsel for the defendant.”
    Stanford pursed his lips. “The defense is entitled to review exculpatory evidence.”
    “Then, Christ, let him file a motion,” Abshire said. “That’s why we have procedures.”
    Stanford gave his protégé a long look. Ben got the impression he had been down this road with Abshire before. “I see little harm in cooperating to the extent of sharing evidence we will probably be required to produce at a later date.”
    “Yeah?” Abshire said, a bit stung. “Maybe that’s why you’re still a middle-level paper pusher.”
    Ben shook his head back and forth, trying to confirm that his ears were still working properly. This guy really knew how to win friends and influence people.
    “FBI directors aren’t interested in cooperation,” Abshire continued. “They’re interested in results. And that’s what I plan to give them. This case is a reputation-maker.”
    He took a step toward Ben, poking a finger into his chest. “So watch your step, Kincaid. If you screw up my case, I’ll take you apart like a Tinker Toy. That’s a promise.”
    Ben cast his eyes toward Mike. He had hoped, in fact, expected Mike to intercede, to tell this pompous FBI twit to back off. But Mike just stood there, stone-faced.
    “Well,” Ben said, stepping away from Abshire’s finger, “I think I might as well be going.”
    “Agreed,” Abshire said. “And nothing personal, Kincaid, but I don’t want to catch you around here anymore. Cards-on-the-table time? If we have something to give you, we’ll do it in court.”
    “Be seeing you,” Ben said. He walked out of the cubicle.
    Ben felt a bitter taste rising in his mouth. He needed to disappear before he said or did something he would regret, before his frustration overwhelmed him. Everything seemed increasingly hopeless. Everyone seemed determined to sign Christina up for a lethal injection, the sooner the better, and for all the wrong reasons. Abshire was the scariest one yet. He was determined to make his mark. He had to get a conviction, whatever the cost.
    Which, in this case, was Christina.

10
    B EN TAPPED HIMSELF ON the chest again. “C’mon, Giselle. Listen to me. Jump.”
    Giselle was sprawled across the easy chair in the living room, peacefully licking herself clean. She glanced up at him, wriggled her nose, then returned to her bath.
    “Giselle, this book Jones gave me says cats can be trained, just like dogs or dolphins or other smart animals. When I tap myself on the chest, I want you to jump into my arms and act like you’re glad to see me. Got it?”
    Giselle didn’t even look up.
    “C’mon, cat. I don’t have all day. I have to get ready for tomorrow’s hearing. So jump already.”
    Giselle shifted herself languorously to the other side of the chair. She stretched, meowed, and otherwise went about her business, totally snubbing him.
    “Giselle, pay attention. I’m talking to you. I’d like to see some cooperation.”
    Giselle jumped down from her chair, strode into the kitchen, perched herself beside her food bowl, and stared at Ben.
    “Forget it, Giselle. It’s not going to work that way.”
    Giselle shook in a manner that Ben thought looked much like shoulder shrugging, except of course that cats don’t have shoulders. She plopped down beside her bowl and waited.
    “I’m not kidding, Giselle. I’m not going to let some overstuffed feline boss me around.”
    Giselle absently resumed her bath.
    “All right already! I give in!” Ben threw down the book and stomped into the kitchen. “I’ll