Impact (56 page)

Brenda tries to speak, but words won't displace her shame. A moment later she retreats from the witness stand and, quickly, from the room. Amid the rumble in the crowd, Hawley Chambers rests his case.

“Rebuttal?” Judge Powell asks.

Tollison nods. “One witness, Your Honor.” He turns to speak to the only audience that needs to hear him. “I call John Charles Donahue, the plaintiff in the case.”

The door at the rear of the courtroom opens. Spitter disappears. When he returns a moment later, he is pushing a wheelchair. Strapped in it at the waist, the patient—slouched like a drunkard, tilted like a broken puppet—wears an afghan across his lap and a sweatshirt around his chest Hair sparse, body frail, skin as colorless as soapsuds, he sails down the center aisle on a lake of shock and silence.

At Tollison's instruction, Spitter wheels the chair to a position just below the witness stand, removes the afghan from the wasted legs, and rotates the chair so Jack can face the jury. The clerk stands. With the help of his other, Jack raises his right hand and nods his understanding of the oath. After a further instruction, Spitter retires to the front row of spectators.

“Will you state your name please, sir?” Tollison begins.

“Jaaack … Don … a … hue.”

The words are slow but firm, the spaces between them large and full of effort. Given the evidence they have heard, the jury seems amazed that he has managed to do that much.

“What is your address?”

He puffs at air, his lungs reedy and loud. “Oak-view … Acres. Al … toooo … na.”

“Are you married, Mr. Donahue?”

“ … Yes.”

“Is your wife in the courtroom today?”

As though he has lost something precious, he searches for it frantically. “I. Don't. See. Her.”

“Do you see anyone else you recognize? Take your time and look around.”

So toxic that it itches, Jack's gaze eventually singes every candidate—Chambers, his assistant, Spitter, even the detective.

“No,” he says finally. “Except. You. Keith.”

By prearrangement, Tollison motions for Spitter to stand. “How about this young man? Do you know him?”

Donahue frowns, for the first time uncertain. He has been asked so much and has failed so often, in some deep uninjured recess he knows questions are frequently a trap. “I. Don't. Think. So. Do. I?” He blinks to clear his vision, as though the problem could be cured by eyeglasses.

Tollison smiles and shakes his head, then gestures toward the jury. “I'd like to show these people how well you're doing, Jack. If you can, I'd like you to raise your left hand and open and close it, like this.”

Tollison demonstrates, and Jack does as he is told, slowly and inexorably. After a moment Tollison thanks him and picks up a book from the counsel table. “I want to read you something, and later we'll talk about it. Okay?”

The nod is as slow as time.

Tollison opens the book. “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me …'”

Smiling giddily, Jack answers without a question. “Biiii … ble.” In the meantime his left hand, like a distant beacon, has kept opening and closing, beyond the reach of his senses. Tollison walks to his side and squeezes the hand until it stops, then guides it back to his lap.

“That was very good, Jack. In a minute I'm going to ask you about that Bible passage, but first, please tell the jury how you're feeling.”

“ … Fine.”

“Are you happy?”

He nods.

“Are you happy or do you hurt?”

“Hurt.”

“Are you doing good or are you in pain?”

“In pain.”

“How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

When he is certain the jury has made a match with Dr. Ryan's listing of the frontal lobish symptoms, Tollison reaches for his prop. “I'm going to hand you this little device here and ask if you've seen it before. There. Do you know what that is?”

Jack frowns. “Toy?”

“That's right.” Jack's pleasure is extravagant. “Do you know how to work it?”

The pleasure vanishes. “I …” He fiddles with the pieces, sliding them to and fro in aimless pokes, then throws the puzzle to the floor.

“That's okay; that one's almost impossible.” Tollison picks up the puzzle and takes it away, making sure the jury sees it is the one Laura Donahue has told them her husband has solved more than twenty times. “Do you know a woman named Carol Farnsworth?”

In the hush of the room, the question reverberates like a curse in a cathedral. Everyone is aghast but Jack. His face is without affect, not possibly disingenuous. “Carol?”

Tollison nods. “When's the last time you saw her?”

He shrugs casually. “Long. Time.”

“Where was it, do you know?”

“Al … toooo … naaa.”

Tollison approaches the chair. “Mr. Donahue, did you ever have an extramarital affair with Carol Farnsworth?”

Amid the gasp from the audience, Jack's eyes spring wide and his head shakes violently.

“So your answer is no.”

Jack nods repeatedly, his eyes roaming the room to be certain all have understood.

Tollison addresses the judge. “Let the record reflect the witness has affirmed that his answer is no, that he has not had an affair with Ms. Farnsworth.” Judge Powell nods, and Tollison turns back to his client. “Thank you, Mr. Donahue. I assume, then, that you love your wife.”

“Of. Course. I. Do.”

“I don't mean to embarrass you, but I think it would help the jury to know just how your relationship with your wife is going. For example, have you and your wife been able to have sexual relations since the crash?”

Jack's face goes blank. In another moment he begins to cry; he shakes his head as relentlessly as he has opened and closed his hand.

Hot with shame, murmuring a brief apology to anyone who can hear him, Tollison makes himself continue. “Do you know why you've come here this morning, Jack?”

He frowns again, helpless. “I. For. Get.”

“Have you ever heard people talk about a plane crash?”

Listless, he shakes his head.

“Has anything happened to you that makes you need medical help?”

He shakes his head again. Suddenly uninterested, Jack seems exhausted—Spitter has executed his assignment.

Tollison continues. “I'm about finished, Jack. I just want to ask you about your wife once more.”

His face brightens, the reference obviously a balm.

“Have things always been good between you and Laura?”

His nod is firm and automatic.

“Never had any problems; never accused her of being unfaithful; never threatened to kill her lover?”

His anger is quick. “You. Bad. Keith.”

“Yes,” Tollison says slowly. “Yes, I am.”

It is time to quit, for the sake of everyone, but he has to try for one thing more. “Do you remember the words I read a little while ago?”

The nod is quick but insincere.

“I'm having trouble remembering what it was. Was it this?” He reads the psalm. “Or was it this?—‘Fourscore and seven years ago, our forefathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.…'”

Tollison proceeds through the entire address. By the time he approaches the end of Lincoln's eulogy, Jack Donahue is, as Tollison has hoped, asleep. Tollison pretends not to notice, letting the condition persist until all six jurors are aware of it.

As though conscious of the situation for the first time, Tollison puts down his notes and looks to the bench. “In order to speed things up, I'll terminate my questioning at this point, Your Honor, but I'd like a brief recess before the cross-examination to, ah, let Mr. Donahue rest a little longer.”

The judge peers across the bench, then excuses the jury. Tollison beckons for Spitter to come forward, suggests that he take jack to the room across the hall, and asks if he needs help. When Spitter shakes his head, Tollison looks across the courtroom, expecting to see Hawthorne but seeing only Brenda Farnsworth. As Spitter pushes Jack Donahue down the aisle, she falls in behind her son and helps them through the door. When she looks back, her eyes are drained of all but anguish. “I quit,” is what he thinks she says.

Stupefied by self-reproach, during the recess Tollison tries to escape his deeds by looking over the checklist in his trial notebook, to make certain he has given the jury everything he has. He is still trying to decipher his notes when he senses Hawley Chambers is sitting beside him.

“Pretty effective. In my younger days I'd have had him hauled to the hospital and tested for sedatives.”

Tollison returns to his list.

“Let's talk settlement.”

Head still lowered, Tollison enjoys a gust of ecstasy. “How much?”

“Medicals and therapies—any out-of-pocket for Jack—plus half a million mad money.”

So he can end it here. They will tell Judge Powell, the jury will be dismissed, and they can all go home. Interest on the money, with luck, could bring fifty thousand a year. Laura could live on that. Laura and Jack both. He would have done his duty.

Tollison shakes his head.

Chambers swears. “How much, then?”

“A million, plus Jack's expenses, plus a quarter-million for my fee.”

“It's not worth half that. If you knew your ass from your elbow, you'd realize it.”

“Get away from me, Chambers. I've got a summation to prepare.”

Chambers stomps off, grumbling. Tollison goes to the conference room to check on Spitter and Jack. Along the way, he sees a stranger beckoning.

“Looks like you're about to wrap it up.”

“I didn't even notice you in there.”

“I'm getting pretty good at this disguise thing.”

Tollison laughs. “Well, have I done all the damage I can do?”

Hawthorne nods. “I tried to get you some help on proximate cause, but the witness died. A stewardess on the flight. Seemed to have come through fine, then zap, a stroke. Dead in a minute.”

“Too bad.”

“But you did fine without her. Nice job with Donahue, by the way. He your last witness?”

Tollison nods.

“Well, good luck.”

Tollison puts out a hand to stop him. “Chambers just offered me five hundred thousand plus the medicals.”

“Going to take it?”

He shakes his head.

“Why not?”

“I've come too far to quit, I guess. Think it's a mistake?”

Hawthorne shrugs. “We'll know by tonight.” He pats his old friend's arm. “Give 'em hell, champ. See you in the locker room.”

Hawthorne disappears down the hall. Tollison rounds up his troops and ushers them back to the courtroom.

The afghan again across his lap, Jack looks happy to be back onstage. The judge invites Chambers to cross-examine. The task is delicate, potentially disastrous, and Chambers knows it.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Donahue?”

“Okaaay.”

“Are you worried about anything today?”

Jack shakes his head.

“In any pain at all?”

“… No.”

“Good.”

Chambers hesitates. Jack is not someone he can bludgeon, but he needs a final thrust that will save his case from this poor creature. “Tell me this, Mr. Donahue. Do you like to fly?”

The question is answered in a hush. “I. Don't. Mind.”

“Never had any problems with the airlines?”

He thinks Jack is smiling. “Lost. My. Bags.”

“That's all?”

Jack nods a single time.

“Thank you, Mr. Donahue. You've been very helpful. No more questions, Your Honor.”

Chambers sits down. Powell looks inquiringly at Tollison. Tollison shakes his head—he couldn't ask a question if his life depended on it Spitter wheels Jack Donahue from the room.

The judge eyes the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence is in. There remains only closing argument and your instructions, then you will retire to reach your verdict. Are you ready to sum up, Mr. Tollison?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

And he does, alone before the jury, stating his case as best he can, giving the speech he gave a dozen times in the wee hours of the night before:

“They could have built a safer plane,” he argues after reminding them of what the facts and figures show. “They knew
how
to do it and they knew what would happen if they
didn't
do it, yet they wouldn't spend the money. The FAA. didn't
order
them to, so they didn't. As a result, Jack Donahue can't even recognize the man who wants to deprive him of a decent life.” He accuses Chambers with a glance.

“Mr. Chambers will argue that his clients did all they were required to do. And he's right, in a sense—we offered no proof that any regulations were violated. But the question is, did SurfAir and Hastings meet their duty to the passengers on flight 617 merely by following the rules?

“In his instructions, Judge Powell will tell you that proof that the regulations were followed
does not automatically mean
that the defendants engaged in reasonable conduct. You can find otherwise. You can decide that following the rules was
not
enough, that the defendants should have done more. If you
don't
do that—if you find that what Hastings and SurfAir did was adequate—there are going to be
more
Jack Donahues in the world, I'm afraid, victims of rules that are decades out of date, victims of airlines that follow them not because they're right but because it is profitable to do so. Put a
stop
to it, ladies and gentlemen. Make them change their ways in the only way that works—make them
pay
, and make it
hurt
.”