Critical Reaction (5 page)

The moment ended with a shuffling of lawyers’ papers, the judge turning away with a slight shrug of surprise, and the jurors settling back to gauge one another’s reactions. Except one older, well-dressed juror at the far end of the box. His eyes moved from the witness to the young lawyer with the dancing fingers, and back again.

The attorney at the podium was stunned. Ryan shook his head.

It was one thing to do what it took to win: nobody should expect the Queensbury rules in court. It was another to pull a stunt like this—even for Melander and Stout. This was why he was getting out.

Ryan was beginning to slide off the bench when an elbow hit his ribs. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the slim woman at his left whispered, her eyes distressed.

“That’s okay,” he answered.

“It’s just that the man at the podium is my boss,” she persisted quietly. “This witness’s testimony was a total surprise. We hadn’t even taken a statement because . . . well, she insisted we didn’t need one. Miss Galbraith seemed so sincere when she told us what she knew about these documents.”

“I’m very sorry,” Ryan whispered back.

The woman nodded, looking inconsolable.

Ryan began to leave again, but made the mistake of glancing up at the woman’s boss, still mourning at the podium while pretending to search for a document. He’d shy away from more testimony from this turncoat witness, Ryan thought: follow the axiom that you never ask a witness a question unless you know how they’ll answer. The young lawyer and his bosses would get away with it.

Ryan tapped the legal assistant’s arm, crooking a finger to motion her to follow. She looked puzzled, but slid off the bench to comply.

In the hallway, Ryan waited until he heard the courtroom door thud shut behind them. “Get your boss to ask for a recess,” he said hurriedly. “Tell him the young Perry Mason at the table nearest the jury box is signaling the witness how to answer.”

The woman’s eyes blanked with shock as Ryan went on rapidly.

“This judge may help you, but there’s no way you can talk to him without signaling the other side what you know—and then it’s too late. Tell your boss to resist letting this witness go, even if he’s afraid of what she’ll say. Because the older juror with the sport coat is catching on. He’s dressed up, paying attention, and at his age likely will get the foreman spot. Tell your boss to keep pushing this witness aggressively—while the youngster keeps signaling her. The sympathetic juror will have a chance to be sure of what he suspects and when it comes time to deliberate, he’ll lead the rest of the jury right into your arms.”

Ryan turned away and headed down the hall, refusing to care if the woman followed his advice.

Twenty minutes later, standing in the courthouse foyer, Ryan heard heavy footfalls approaching across the marble floor behind him. He turned.

“Mr. Hart, don’t see you enough around here these days.”

“Your Honor,” Ryan answered, nodding, relieved that it was Judge Freyling, with graying hair and a thickening frame. If he had to run into someone today, he’d prefer it be his favorite magistrate in the King County Courthouse.

“Say,” the judge went on, “there’s a rumor you were sighted in one of the upstairs halls of justice a short while ago watching some real lawyers at work in Tipton’s courtroom. This true?”

Ryan had tried half a dozen cases in front of Tipton, so the fact that he’d been recognized wasn’t surprising. “Talking to your neighbor in courtroom 431?” he asked.

Judge Freyling shook his head. “No. My bailiff ran into Tipton’s clerk in the hall a few minutes ago. I’m informed you left the courtroom with a pretty young lady who came rushing back a few minutes later to whisper in the plaintiff attorney’s ear—who then asked the judge for an early lunch recess. Don’t know what you told her, but it doesn’t matter: Tipton’s clerk’s taking heavy odds that the jury’s going to find against the plaintiff and his attorney—and Tipton’s clerk’s never wrong.”

Ryan thought for a moment about telling Freyling what he’d just witnessed. But there was no point; there was nothing he could do with a third-hand charge like that.

“Tell your bailiff,” Ryan responded, “to take those odds with a hundred bucks on the plaintiff.”

Judge Freyling’s eyebrows lifted with surprise. “You know, Counselor, that would be highly unethical and I’d have to fire her if she did.” He paused, then leaned close. “But if you’re sure, I’ll call Tipton and take the bet myself this afternoon.”

Ryan smiled as his tension uncoiled a notch. “Have I mentioned how much I appreciated your taking Emily on for that clerkship?” he said.

“Every time we pass in the hall,” the judge said, waving Ryan off. “Which is a lot, given that that was, what—almost three years ago. Is it that long since your daughter finished law school? Anyway, as I’ve told you, it was no favor—she had the grades and was the best candidate to apply. And I hear she’s done a great job in the Public Defender’s office these last two years since she left me. She’s learning her way around the courtroom fast. Like her old man.”

The judge took a step back and surveyed Ryan, his eyes narrowing. “You know, I’m in charge of distributing caseloads this year, and I haven’t seen many King County cases with your name on them.”

“I’ve been throttling back,” Ryan replied neutrally.

The judge nodded. “Um-hmm. You know, I
still
tell people
about that first trial you had in front of me—against Lester Schmidt. Barely out of law school and you pummeled him. He deserved it. I could never figure out what fueled that man’s ego. Whenever I see Schmidt, I figure out a way to remind him about it.”

Ryan smiled again, just as the judge’s look turned serious. “You’re a fine trial lawyer, Ryan. I know this has been a rough few years for you—with Carolyn’s passing and all. But I’d hate to see you hang up your spurs. You’re too young. What would you do with yourself anyway—a hard charger like you.”

Ryan was relieved to see Emily coming down the hall from the elevator bank. This was a subject he wanted to avoid just now.

“Just considering a little break, Judge,” Ryan replied in a low voice. “But keep it to yourself.”

The judge glanced in the direction of Ryan’s look, then nodded knowingly. “All right. Well, I’d better get going. I’m off this afternoon—picking up my nephew at the airport. The boy’s expecting me to grill salmon for him. Like they can’t buy it in Minneapolis. Have a good lunch.”

The judge waved at Emily with a smile, then walked away as she arrived.

Her blond hair usually fell naturally across her shoulders, but today it was pulled back from her face with a clip. It made her look more serious, Ryan thought, especially with her dark suit. Like her mother when she’d dressed for court. He considered mentioning it, but he doubted the intended compliment would be welcomed from him.

She approached, stopping short of an invitation to a hug.

“Thanks for doing this,” she said, smiling congenially. As she might to a client, he thought painfully. “I’ve got to rush, Dad; things are crazy upstairs. How about we go to Ivar’s for a quick bite and I can tell you why I called.”

It was unusually cool for mid-June and the wharf around the restaurant was uncrowded. Ryan found an empty bench looking out on the Sound. Emily came out of the shop a moment later with their orders of clam strips; she’d insisted on buying today.

She approached, walking with her mother’s grace. “You move like a dancer,” he said as she drew close. She barely acknowledged the familiar line he used to tell her at breakfast each morning.

“How’s the practice, Dad?” she asked, sitting with her back to the water.

“Great,” Ryan replied, looking away. “Just great.”

It felt lousy to start their first conversation in months with a lie.

Emily tried, over the next half hour, to ignite a conversation. Their small talk proved desultory and unsatisfying. That’s what came from not seeing one another more than quarterly, Ryan thought, saddened.

But then he hadn’t reached this place of twilight with his only child by accident. He’d done it by slow neglect. He merited no absolution simply because their final breaking point had resulted from the year and a half he was trying to save Carolyn. Emily had desperately needed him at the time, too. And that period was only the crown on a lifetime of neglect by distraction.

He finally turned the conversation to the point of this surprise invitation to lunch. “So what’s the problem?” Ryan asked, starting into the strips.

Emily hesitated a moment, moving a strand of hair that blew across her eyes. “I have a friend from college who needs a lawyer.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No,” she said, then paused. “I mean, I probably mentioned him. But I never brought him home. I only knew him for a year, when we were juniors at UW, back when Mom had just gotten sick. His father had cancer, too, so he really understood what I was going through. But he left college to help his family before
his dad died that spring. We talked and texted after, but I haven’t seen him since.”

“What’s his name?” Ryan asked.

“Kieran Mullaney. He left a message, and it doesn’t sound good. I’d heard he was working out at Hanford. You remember that explosion last fall?”

Ryan nodded.

“I think maybe he was in it. All I know so far from his message is that he thinks he was exposed to radiation. Apparently he started a lawsuit and his lawyer’s withdrawn right before trial. He’s looking for a new lawyer with civil experience—product liability if possible. I’ll call him later today, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

Ryan looked up at a trio of gulls fluttering only a few feet away. Biding his time, he watched their aerial choreography of begging—then picked up a French fry and flipped it in the air. One gull stabbed at the offering, catching it in its beak.

Emily was waiting for an answer. “I could make a few calls if you’d like,” he said carefully.

Her face was stony. It wasn’t the response she’d hoped for. “With your experience and all, I wanted to tell him you’d take a look at it, Dad,” she said. “He sounded pretty desperate. I know it’s tough jumping in so late, but Melissa told me you’re not as busy these days.”

So Emily’s still in touch with Melissa, he thought . . . curious. Then he considered her request. Rescuing a case in the late stages of demise—any trial lawyer’s definition of torture. And stepping back into the gladiator ring—his own definition of torture. Besides, despite her words, Emily couldn’t imagine the price of jumping into a case like this at the last minute—the hours and the pace. Like zero to sixty in three seconds. And there usually was a good reason a client and lawyer divorced on the courthouse steps: attorneys quitting last minute were one of nature’s warning signs to the rest of the bar to stay away.

“You know, Ems,” he began, “I’m sure your friend would be better served with an attorney from eastern Washington. They know the judges, the lay of the land. They know opposing counsel.”

His daughter’s voice was part impatience, part plea. “Dad, I’ve got a feeling he’s tried that. He wouldn’t call me out of the blue if he hadn’t already tried to land other lawyers himself. Won’t you just look at it? You should have heard how he sounded.”

She looked him in the eye. “I’ve got a lot of leave, and Frank told me I’ve got to take it,” she went on. “I could even ask for a leave of absence if that wasn’t enough. I thought if you took the case, maybe you and I could work together on it.”

The breeze off Puget Sound was chilly, especially as the sun drifted behind a low bank of clouds.

If they’d been in touch, he would already have told her he was easing out of the practice. Carolyn’s life insurance made every day in the office a choice, and he was choosing to stay away. If he’d told her that before, she might not have believed him—but it would have been out there. If he raised it now, it would just sound like an excuse not to help her.

He looked back at Emily. Oh, those eyes. Reminding him how little he’d been around. Enticing him with the possibility of a détente between the two of them—or better. Broadcasting a belief, despite her words, that it would be as simple as driving together over the mountains, picking up the file, and marching into the courthouse to save the day.