Cruel Justice (47 page)

So what indeed? Ben wasn’t sure, but it was a hell of a coincidence.

“Did you know her?”

“No, not at all.”

“Never?”

“I never laid eyes on her till the police brought around pictures of her corpse.”

This was getting Ben nowhere. He rethought his approach. What was it his mother had told him? Give the man something to brag about, that was it. Hmmm.

“What sort of business do you do in Peru?”

“All kinds of things.”

“You must be a very enterprising individual, to build a successful business enterprise in a third-world nation.”

Pearson seemed to relax a bit. “I’ve done all right, yeah.”

“From what I’ve seen, you’ve done extremely well. What inspired you to instigate operations in Peru? Most people would never have thought of that.”

Pearson leaned back in his chair. “Well, the advantages aren’t obvious, but after a lot of hard work and bare-knuckles research, I realized there was some serious money to be made. Labor down there is cheap, and the government tends to stay out of your way, unlike here.”

“I see. Could you briefly describe the scope of your business empire?”

Pearson turned to the jury and shrugged his shoulders. Now that he was on a subject he loved, he actually seemed to be enjoying himself. “Most of my work is energy-related. I’ve invested in oil wells. Bought some oil fields. Operated a gas processing plant for a while.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh, hell. I’ve bought and sold small businesses. Bought some polo ponies. Real estate. I’ve made investments for myself, and I’ve acted as a broker for others.”

It was the word that triggered Ben’s memory. The same word Rachel Rutherford had used when she referred to the unnamed lover who had assisted her in her time of need.

“What kind of broker?”

“Oh, hell. I don’t know. Land. Leasehold interests. Stocks. Bonds.”

“What about babies?”

Pearson’s sudden silence resounded through the courtroom. The air seemed suspended, as if time had decided to stand still.

“Don’t bother lying,” Ben said, bluffing his way through. He was putting all his chips on one roll of the dice now. “She told me all about it.”

“I did that on one occasion,” Pearson said quietly.

It
was
him. “How did you get into the baby business?”

“I was requested to … by a close personal friend.”

“A lover?”

Pearson looked back at him blank-faced. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

Ben decided to leave well enough alone. “Why were you looking for babies in Peru?”

“You probably know how hard it can be for certain people to adopt in America,” Pearson explained. “Birthrates are down. Abortion is up. No one seems to care if a kid is illegitimate anymore. For every American baby put up for adoption, there are four couples waiting in line. Obviously, a lot of those people are going to be disappointed.”

“So you looked overseas?”

“Exactly. Ten years ago the foreign market for babies was just opening up. Today, it’s a steady supply source. I’ve been told that, on average, twenty American couples adopt overseas babies every day.”

“How did you go about this … brokering?”

“I contacted an outfit in Houston called the Santa Clara International Adoption Agency. I filled out the forms, ran through all the hoops. Eventually they turned down the couple I represented for the same reason the American agencies had. The father was too old, too inexperienced. But I got friendly with one of the men who worked there, spilled a little cash, bought him a few shots of tequila, and got some information.”

“About what?”

Pearson breathed heavily, as if resigned to telling his story but not at all happy about it. “La Flavita.”

“And what is that?”

“That’s a hotel in one of the scuzziest parts of Peru. A neighborhood I would’ve never dreamed of visiting otherwise.”

“And what was at the hotel?”

“A baby farm.”

“Your honor.” Bullock rose to his feet. “This story is appropriately lurid and distracting—Mr. Kincaid’s specialties—but it has nothing to do with this case. The court has been very patient, but enough is enough.”

“Judge,” Ben said, “I promise this will connect up.”

Hawkins squinted. “I don’t see how.”

“Your honor, my client is on trial for his life. I ask for the widest possible latitude.”

Hawkins glanced at all the reporters in the gallery, then sank back into his seat. “Proceed.”

Ben stood directly before Pearson. “Did you go to this … baby farm?”

“Of course. It was a pathetic sight, believe me. Not just Peruvian kids. They had castaways and bastards from all over the world. Kids no one wanted. The dust of life.”

“Did you have to fill out forms?”

“Nope. All I had to do was open my wallet.”

“Did you obtain parental consent?”

“I was told they had done so. Of course, you have to realize this is a third-world country. Parental consent is a whole different animal there. Some poor schmo who has six kids he can’t feed might well give consent to sell his seventh, if it enables him to feed the rest of the brood for a few weeks. He might not like it, but he’ll do it.”

“Because he has no choice.”

Pearson nodded slowly. “That’s basically correct. Look, I didn’t make this world—”

Ben cut him off. “And so—you bought a baby?”

“Eventually. We did quite a bit of bickering over the price. They’re tough, and they have an advantage because they’re used to dealing with people who are desperate and emotionally involved.” Pearson leaned back on one elbow. “But I’m a pretty damn good horse trader myself. We struck a deal, and I brought home a beautiful baby boy.”

“Who were the baby’s birth parents?”

“I had no idea. I didn’t want to know.”

“Did you ever hear from … La Flavita again?”

“Yes. About six months later. There was some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“With the mother. Claimed she hadn’t given her consent, or had done so while under anesthetic, or some such sorry thing. I don’t recall the details. Anyway, they were trying to track the kid down.”

“So how did you respond?”

“I asked my client what she wanted me to do.”

“And what did you do?”

Pearson hedged. “What she told me to do.”

“And what was that?”

“I—” Pearson gazed out into the gallery. “I threw the telegram away. I contacted the sender and informed them that the persons in question had moved to another state and I didn’t know how to contact them. Didn’t even know their names. Couldn’t be traced.”

“Did you ever hear from La Flavita again?”

Pearson looked down at his shoes. “No.”

Ben took a deep breath. “Mr. Pearson, who was your client?”

Pearson gazed out into the gallery.

“Mr. Pearson? I’d appreciate an answer.”

“I really don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Unfortunately, sir, you are not the judge. Please answer.”

Pearson gazed up at the judge. Ben had a sneaking suspicion that if Hawkins renewed his application for country-club membership at that moment, it might be accepted. “The witness will answer the question,” the judge said solemnly.

“It’s confidential,” Pearson said. “I made a professional promise I can’t violate.”

“Yes you can,” Ben said. “Answer the question.”

“I object,” Bullock said. “We can’t ask the man to violate a confidential relationship.”

“Why not?” Ben asked.

“Well … it’s a privileged matter. It’s like the attorney-client privilege, only—”

“Only for baby brokers?” Ben said. “I don’t think so.”

“Overruled,” Hawkins said unhappily. He turned to face Pearson. “Now answer the question!”

Pearson’s shoulders rose and fell heavily. “Rachel Rutherford.”

B
EN SPOKE OVER THE
buzz that swelled through the courtroom. “Nothing more for Mr. Pearson, your honor.”

“Cross?”

Bullock rose slowly to his feet. “No, your honor. Mr. Pearson told some interesting stories, but as far as I can tell, they don’t have a blessed thing to do with this case.”

“I share your mystification,” Judge Hawkins said. “But I’m sure Mr. Kincaid will clear it up soon.” He glanced at his watch, then Ben. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”

The judge instructed the witness to step down. Pearson crawled out of his seat, glaring at Ben the whole time.

Ben saw Rachel moving toward the back door. He had to speak quickly. “The defense calls Rachel Rutherford.”

She froze in her tracks. She looked back over her shoulder, as if wondering if anyone had spotted her. Then, suddenly, she started moving again.

Ben alerted the court. “Your honor, that’s her.”

The judge gestured to the sergeant at arms, who sidestepped in front of the door. Rachel froze again, then turned about, a look of utter resignation on her face.

“Let me guess,” the judge said. “You’ve had no advance warning that you would be called to testify. That seems to be one of Mr. Kincaid’s trademarks.” He sighed. “Please come to the front to be sworn.”

Rachel hesitated, then grudgingly faced the inevitable. She stepped slowly to the front of the courtroom.

Ben watched her every movement. He had admired her figure before, back at the spa. Tall, broad-shouldered, statuesque. With short hair. A person looking at her from behind could be fooled into believing she was a man.

“Pssst!”

Ben turned back toward the gallery. Mitch Dryer was leaning over the rail, trying to get his attention.

“I got the papers you wanted,” Mitch hissed.

“What? What papers?’
⁷

“What papers? The country-club records reflecting contacts between the board members and foreign countries, remember? It was your idea! I’ve been staying up all night working on it. You wouldn’t believe how many there are.”

“Great,” Ben said. “That may be just what I need. But I can’t look at it now. Could you wait until the judge calls a recess?”

“Do you know how much stuff I have here? It isn’t going to do you a bit of good till you’ve gone through it and organized it.”

“Damn! I can’t possibly do that now. Look, I hate to impose, but would you mind delivering this to my legal assistant?”

“Is she here?”

“No. She’s at my place taking care of a baby and a young boy. She’ll probably be grateful for the distraction. If she finds anything useful, she can prepare exhibits for trial.”

“Okay. Where is she?”

Ben gave Mitch his address. “Tell her to get on it right away.”

“If you say so. She’s not going to be mad at me, is she?”

“Nah. But she may try to get you to sing the Flintstones song.”

Mitch looked at Ben strangely, then picked up the document box and left the courtroom.

By this time Rachel had been sworn and had settled into the witness box. “Would you state your name, please?” Ben asked.

“Rachel Rutherford.” The surprise of being dragged to the stand was deeply affecting her. She seemed unnerved.

Ben established that she was married to Harold Rutherford, a member of the Utica Greens board of directors, and that she often went to the club herself.

“You have one son, isn’t that right?”

“You know it is,” she said softly.

“What’s his name?”

“Abraham Martin. We call him Abie.”

“Could you describe Abie?”

“Describe him?”

Ben nodded. He was doing his best to be gentle. If he pushed too hard, he knew she’d crumble. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Rachel shrugged. “Well, he’s … around four feet tall. Maybe a little more … I don’t know. …”

“Dark black hair, right?”

She ran her fingers through her own sunny blond hair. “Right.”

“Dark complexion?”

“True.”

“Prominent nose.”

“Y-es.”

“Your honor,” Bullock protested. “What could possibly be the point of this?”

“Let me ask one more question,” Ben said, and he didn’t wait for a response from the bench. “Abie doesn’t look much like you, does he?”

Rachel’s lips drew together. “No.”

“And he doesn’t look much like your husband, does he?”

“If you’re trying to prove that he was adopted, let me make it easier for you. He was. I’ve already told you that.”

“That wasn’t actually my point, ma’am. My point is that his features could be considered somewhat … South American.”

A flicker of light shone in her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to tell Ben he was right.

“Ms. Rutherford, is Captain Pearson the …
broker
… who arranged the adoption of Abie?”

No answer.

“Please, Ms. Rutherford. I need an answer. Is your Abie the boy he bought at that baby farm in Peru?”

All at once her carefully composed veneer dissolved. She pressed her hand against her face. Tears spilled out between the fingers.

“You have to—” Her voice broke. More tears fell. “You have to understand.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Understand what, Ms. Rutherford?”

“How—desperate we were. How desperate I was. I wanted a baby so much. My body ached for one, can you understand that? I
ached.
And yet, a baby was the one thing my body denied me. We tried everything. Fertility treatments. Drugs. Counseling. You name it. None of it helped.”

“So you decided to adopt?”

“Yes.”

Slowly, haltingly, Rachel took the jury through the five years of pain she had endured as she and her husband undertook the adoption process. All the American agencies that rejected them because her husband was too old. The con-man lawyer who repeatedly took their money promising them a baby, but delivering nothing. She told them about her suicide attempts.

‘That’s when you turned to Ronald Pearson, isn’t it?” Ben asked.

“I—I didn’t know what else to do. Ronnie always seemed so … capable, so efficient. Like he could accomplish anything. So I asked him to do this for me. And he did.”

“Why would he go to so much trouble for you?”

Rachel glanced down at her hands. “I rather like to think it’s because he loved me.”

Ben nodded. “How much did you know about how Mr. Pearson got the baby?”

“Until today, next to nothing. I knew some money changed hands. I knew he was using his South American connections. You have to understand—when I went to Ronnie—I didn’t want to live anymore. I had tried to kill myself twice and I knew I would try again. I didn’t know he
bought
the baby exactly, but—”