Silent Justice (17 page)

He flashed Ben a next-round’s-on-me grin. “Where should I put it, Skipper?”

“Next to the table will be fine.” Ben turned back toward the judge. “This is the evidence we obtained from the EPA under the Freedom of Information Act,” Ben explained. “Before filing suit.” As soon as Loving deposited his load, he scurried back out of the courtroom for more.

“This is the information we obtained from the Centers for Disease Control,” Ben said, as Loving returned with another equally ample load. All eyes in the courtroom watched as Loving returned not once, not twice, but six more times, each time bringing in another load of bankers boxes. “This is the information we obtained from the Blackwood city engineer,” Ben explained. “This is what we got from the state health department.” By the time Loving was done, a mountain of evidence had piled up, so high Ben had to step in front of it just to be seen.

“That’s the evidence we’ve collected to date, your honor.” Ben leaned gently against the Everest of evidence. “And we haven’t even entered the discovery phase yet.”

Judge Perry swiveled. “Do you have a response, Mr. Colby?”

Colby cleared his throat. “I, uh, was not … aware of this additional evidence.”

Judge Perry nodded. “Which suggests to me that this Motion may have been premature. Now don’t misunderstand me.” He turned back to Ben, a stern expression on his face. “I am not in any way saying I believe the plaintiffs will prevail. It appears to me, based upon my review of the pleadings, that the plaintiffs have a very difficult causation problem, and if that is not addressed to the court’s satisfaction, I will not hesitate to dismiss this case. Before it goes to a jury. But to dismiss now, before formal discovery has taken place, would not be appropriate. Defendant’s motion is denied.” Judge Perry rapped his gavel, then left the courtroom.

Ben glanced over at Colby. He was not smiling. Colby had not only lost the motion—he’d been embarrassed in front of his megabucks client. Hard to explain why you’re billing someone a thousand bucks an hour to get creamed in court.

He felt Christina’s hand on his shoulder. “Congratulations, champ. You must be ecstatic. You won the motion.”

“I’m ecstatic not to be spending the night in jail.”

She grinned. “That was a pretty good gimmick, having Loving haul in all those boxes. Did you learn that in law school?”

Ben shook his head.
“Miracle on 34th Street.”

Christina laughed, then moved to the back of the courtroom and sidled up beside Loving. “Nice work, Loving.”

The big man shrugged. “Just followin" orders.”

“Uh-huh. Thing is—I was back at the office when we were packing up all this stuff, and I don’t remember there being quite so many boxes.”

“Well … don’t tell the Skipper, but …” Loving glanced over his shoulder, making certain no one else was listening, then winked. “Half of them are empty.”

Strike two!
Damn!

Calm soul though he was, this was getting irritating.

Maggie wasn’t the one. He had held out high hopes; she had always been a little too clever for her own good.

But it wasn’t her. She didn’t have the merchandise. He was certain. Frankly, he thought she would’ve spilled all before he even started, but certainly by the time he pressed the corkscrew between T3 and T4, she would’ve sold her mother into white slavery if it would’ve stopped the torture. She wasn’t capable of lying at that point. No one would be.

She didn’t have it.

Well, two down, two to go. But good as he was, he had to assume the police were looking for him, and the search would intensify as soon as Maggie turned up looking like a slice of Swiss cheese. He had tried to make this murder distinctive, to create a different M.O., but he feared two torture-murders in the same area in so short a time—no matter how different—would attract attention. He needed to do something to prevent that cop in the grungy raincoat from putting two and two together as long as possible.

Suggestions, anyone?

He rifled through Maggie’s purse. He found an extraordinary quantity of cosmetics. Could he smear them all over her face, try to pass this off as some kind of perverted sex crime? Maybe make it look like she was a prostitute done in by her John? Or perhaps a slumming rich bitch done in by her male hustler?

Nah. She just didn’t look the part. Even cops wouldn’t be stupid enough to fall for that.

He went through her wallet, checking all her membership cards, all the photos of kids he knew weren’t hers, not coming up with anything. Inspiration didn’t strike until he found a thin document on white paper folded into fourths.

It was some kind of legal thing, he realized immediately. He recognized the name of the case:
Elkins et al. v. H. P. Blaylock Industrial Machinery Corp.
It was a case with which he was, of course, familiar, as was probably everyone in Tulsa.

Now that had some potential. If he could get her well-ventilated corpse out of the hotel without being seen …

And he knew he could. He could do anything, couldn’t he? And he would keep on doing anything, anything at all. Anything necessary. Until at last he found what he wanted.

B
EN BRUSHED AWAY THE
bits of eraser nub and tried again.

Drafting written interrogatories for the other side was not his favorite activity. Although it was a time-honored discovery procedure for civil lawsuits, it was a difficult process and rarely a productive one. He would spend several hours trying to come up with specific airtight questions that could lead to useful information. But even though the interrogatories were technically addressed to the opposing party, Ben knew perfectly well that they would in fact be answered by the opposing party’s attorneys. Whether through laziness or a deliberate effort at obfuscation, the lawyers would go to extreme lengths to avoid providing any concrete information. Lawyers had vast banks of excuses for not answering: “The question is too vague, too narrow, too unclear, not relevant, yada, yada, yada.” Or that time-honored chestnut: “The documents to be provided by Defendant will be the most reliable source of information on this subject.” In other words—look it up yourself. Of course, Ben could object to any incomplete or evasive answer, but by the time they got a hearing, they would be taking depositions, so it seemed simpler just to ask the witnesses. Interrogatories could be a simple, inexpensive discovery tool, but lawyers had made them worthless.

So why was he bothering to draft them? Ben asked himself. Hope springs eternal, he supposed. And he would feel negligent if he didn’t, even if he knew it to be a futile process.

Document production might be more helpful. There was a time when drafting requests for documents was just as complicated as the interrogatories, but today, in the Northern District of Oklahoma, anyway, document production was automatic and mandatory. Parties had an obligation to produce all relevant documents as soon as the suit was active. Anyone who failed to do so could be severely sanctioned, either monetarily or by having judgment entered against them. Written requests were only necessary to request specific documents that, for one reason or another, had not already been produced. Which was good. Ben would be very anxious to read any documents relating to Blaylock’s waste-disposal procedures.

Just to make sure he didn’t miss anything, Ben drafted a few requests for physical examination. He wanted to tour the Blaylock plant, and particularly to examine that ravine behind the property. And he wanted to send in his experts to test the soil and water. It was possible that Blaylock might cooperate voluntarily, since refusal would only lead to a court order, but Ben thought it best to have his formal request on file, just the same.

And finally, there was the matter of taking depositions. Of all discovery procedures, depositions were the most time-consuming, the least pleasant—but by far the most productive. Ben could require any witness to appear and answer his questions under oath in the presence of a court reporter who would take down every word the witness said. Pretrial depositions were usually the best opportunity to learn what the other side had up its sleeve. Although opposing counsel could be present, they were not allowed to prevent the witness from answering, with a few very rare exceptions, such as when the questions impinged upon the attorney-client privilege.

No one liked giving depositions. With attorneys sitting all around the table, unfriendly questions, and a reporter taking it all down, it became a high-pressure affair. Almost as bad as testifying in court. But it was essential. Deposition answers could lead to new evidence, new theories, other witnesses. And the transcript could be used to impeach a witness should the person attempt to change his or her story at trial.

Ben was unsure where to begin. He knew he wanted to talk to the president of the company, and anyone responsible for waste disposal, but after that, he was unsure. He couldn’t talk to everyone who worked at Blaylock; they had thousands of employees. But at this early stage of the game, it was hard to know who was important and who wasn’t.

Ben felt a shadow pass over him, as if a mountain was approaching. Which, as it turned out, was correct.

Loving was on the other side of his desk. “Christina said you wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Thanks.” Ben set down his pencil. “How’s the research coming?”

“Slow, Skipper. No one at Blaylock wants to talk to me. They all seem to think they might lose their jobs if they talk.”

“A distinct possibility.” He thought for a moment. “How about former employees?”

“S’possible. How would I know who’s a former employee?”

“I’ll request a list in these interrogatories. They surely have some computer files they can print out without too much trouble.” He made a note on the draft. “That isn’t why I wanted to see you, though.”

“It ain’t?” Loving pulled up a chair.

“No. Loving, you’ve met my landlady, haven’t you?”

“Sure. That’s Mrs. Marble … Marmalade …”

“Marmelstein.”

“Yeah. That’s it. How’s the old girl doin’?”

“Not well, I’m afraid. I’m worried that …” His voice drifted. He didn’t like to think about it, much less say it. “Anyway, all these years I’ve lived in her house, I’ve thought she had no living family. But now, crazy as it seems, I think she may have a son. And I’d like you to find him.”

“A son? Didn’t she ever mention him?”

“No. Not when she was lucid, anyway. Which suggests to me there may be some bad blood, on one side or the other. Maybe both.”

“That’s too bad. You know his name?”

“I think it’s Paul. Paulie, she called him.”

Loving tore a scrap of paper off Ben’s legal pad and made a note. “Okay. Got anything else for me?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve tried to get more information out of her, but …” He sighed. “Her Alzheimer’s is pretty bad. I’ve got a picture.” He passed the brown-tinted photo he’d taken from Mrs. Marmelstein’s photo album. “It’s dated, of course. But it’s better than nothing.”

Loving appeared skeptical. “I’ll see what I can do. If there is a son, there should be a birth certificate around somewhere.”

“Thanks, Loving. I appreciate it. I know it’s a long shot, but I think it’s important.” He paused. “It’s think it’s important that we find him as soon as possible.”

About thirty minutes away from Ben’s office, in the tiny town of Blackwood, a meeting took place on the top floor of the H. P. Blaylock headquarters building. Myron Blaylock, looking particularly crochety this morning, sat at the head of a long conference table. Charlton Colby, lead counsel for the defense, sat at the other. Several vice presidents and other functionaries sat in between, including Ronald Harris.

Mark Austin sat behind Colby, legal pad at the ready, anxious to perform whatever task his master wanted, whether it be handing him exhibits or making him a sandwich. The faithful associate didn’t ask questions; he did what he was told. And Mark wanted very much to make a success of this assignment. This was his ticket to the big time.

“Thank you for coming,” Colby said. He leaned forward, making it clear that, despite his placement at the table, he was running this meeting. “Since it appears that the lawsuit will be proceeding, I wanted to gather everyone together and discuss our strategy.”

“I hate this, damn it all,” Blaylock barked. “I hate wasting our time and money on this lawyering. I’ve got a business to run.”

Colby took it all in stride. “And the purpose of this strategy session is to insure that you continue to have a business to run.”

Blaylock folded his arms in a huff. “The whole idea is ludicrous. Blaming us because the well water is poisoned. Can’t we get rid of this thing?”

“We have attempted to do so,” Colby patiently explained, “and will do so again. But for the time being, the case will continue. We’re entering the discovery period now, and I want everyone to be prepared for it.”

“Goddamn it, I’m not going to have to give another deposition, am I?”

“I fear that is inevitable, Myron.”

“Blast! Don’t these idiots know I have better things to do than waste an entire day answering their fool questions?”

“Nonetheless, they will insist upon it. Unless I miss my guess, the plaintiffs will want to depose everyone in this room. They don’t really know what they’re looking for or who knows what, so they’re likely to use a shotgun approach. Aim their guns at everything in sight.”

“Excuse me,” a balding man named Gregory Steinhart said, “but would that include me? I don’t see how Personnel relates—”

“They will. Probably they’ll subpoena your records. Try to find out everyone who worked in waste disposal, or might’ve come into contact with hazardous materials.”

“Oh.” Steinhart appeared to find this a sobering prospect.

“Of course, they’ll want everyone and everything to do with waste disposal. They’ll want everyone who ever ordered, used, or handled the chemicals listed in their Complaint—TCE and perc. Maybe some others as well. I know Kincaid’s been talking to chemists and geologists. I need to know what Blaylock’s official policy is with regard to disposing hazardous materials.”

A short, slight man on the other end of the table cleared his throat. “Ronald Harris here. Our official policy has always been to store potentially dangerous chemical waste in steel drums, then to have the drums transported to authorized waste-disposal sites.”