Cruel Justice by William Bernhardt Page A

stepping into an oven, Ben thought.
    He heard the screaming while he was still on the opposite sidewalk. He broke into a sprint, raced across the street, and threw open the front door.
    Joey was on top of Jones’s desk, wailing at what had to be the top capacity of his tiny lungs. His face was red and blotchy; his nose was running. Jones hovered over the infant, his hands pressed against his head in abject frustration.
    “I don’t know what to do!” Jones screamed, easily matching Joey for high-pitched audibility. “I’ve tried everything I can think of. I hold him; I don’t hold him. I talk to him; I don’t talk to him. I rock him; I throw him up in the air. Nothing makes any difference. I’m pulling my hair out, but he just keeps on crying!”
    Jones gripped Ben by the lapels. “I even tried singing to him, for God’s sake, and I don’t sing! I think that’s in my employment contract. But here I was, singing every dumb little ditty that came to mind—and it still didn’t help! I don’t know what to do!”
    “So …” Ben ventured. “How’s the baby-sitting going?”
    Jones’s face bore a crazed expression. “This nephew of yours is pushing me over the edge, Boss.”
    “Sorry to hear that.” Ben had to shout to be heard over the bawling. “What’s wrong with him?”
    “I wish I knew. I’ve been asking for over an hour, but he never says anything.” Jones’s left eye twitched; by all appearances, he was just shy of a nervous breakdown.
    “He’s only seven months old, Jones. He doesn’t talk.”
    “Couldn’t he at least nod?”
    To their mutual relief, Christina entered the office, her arms loaded down with files. “Good Lord, what a brouhaha! What have you two done to that poor baby?”
    “I suspect it’s more a matter of what we haven’t done,” Ben murmured.
    She threw the files down on her desk. “Well, don’t just stand there. Pick him up.”
    Ben looked at her blank-faced. “Who? Me?”
    “Yes! He’s your nephew. Pick him up.”
    Ben stared down at the squirming infant. “To tell the truth … I don’t really know how.”
    “Haven’t you ever held him before?”
    “Well, once, but Julia put him in my arms …”
    “Criminy. Didn’t you ever baby-sit for spare change when you were a kid? Never mind, don’t answer. You probably just had your banker wire some funds.” She wedged herself in front of Jones’s desk. “Look, he’s seven months old. He’s not that fragile.” She lifted the baby up and plopped him into Ben’s arms. “See? Just put your hand behind his little neck. That’s right.”
    Ben wrapped his arms around the baby. The volume of the screeching seemed to diminish.
    “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Christina asked.
    “No,” Ben said, “but I notice the baby is still crying.”
    “Good point. What did you feed him?”
    Jones and Ben looked blankly at one another. “Feed him?”
    “Yes, feed him.” She pressed two fingers against her temples. “Regular Mr. Moms you guys are.”
    “What do you think he eats?”
    “I’m not sure.” Christina foraged in Joey’s red diaper bag. “He may still be breast-feeding.”
    “Now wait just a minute,” Ben said. “There’s no way I’m going to—”
    “Keep your masculinity in check.” She pulled a quart can of Isomil out of the bag. “Formula.”
    “Thank God,” Ben said. “Can opener’s on top of the mini-fridge.”
    Christina pulled an empty bottle out of the diaper bag and poured in the Isomil. “He’d probably prefer to have his formula warmed, but this will have to do for the moment.” She passed the bottle to Ben. “Here, give him this.”
    “Here? Now?”
    “Yes! Tout de suite! ”
    Ben shifted the baby around in his arms, took the bottle, and tried to hand it to Joey. “Here you go, chum. Eat up.”
    Christina shook her head sadly. “I don’t think so.” She took the bottle and aimed the nipple in the general direction of Joey’s mouth. Joey eagerly began to