Silent Justice (40 page)

Colby drew in his breath. “Tell us the truth now, Scout. Wouldn’t you do just about anything to get your mother’s attention? To get her back home again?

“No!” Tears began to well up in his eyes.

“You’d say just about anything, wouldn’t you? You’d do anything to make them proud of you. To make them want to be with you.”

Scout remained silent. Which spoke volumes.

“I was told you subpoenaed our corporate financial records,” Blaylock said slowly, gazing across his desk at Mike. “But I was also told the trail was covered. I had no idea you would be quite so …”

“Smart?” Mike suggested.

“Perceptive,” Blaylock replied.

“Hard to miss a sixty-million-dollar disappearance.”

“Not as hard as you might think. We are a half-a-billion-a-year corporation, after all. The loss was written off to various causes and events. We’ve been audited every year, and thus far no one’s so much as raised an eyebrow.”

“Well, down at the station, we’re professional eyebrow-raisers. And we’re very … perceptive.” When Mike returned to said station, much as it pained him, he would have to thank Pfieffer. Maybe even forgive him. It seemed he’d given Mike the silver bullet. “So what happened to all the moolah, Blaylock? D"you decide to build a summer home in France or something?”

Blaylock frowned, his first sign of visible irritation. “I had nothing to do with the loss of funds. The money was stolen.”

“So Pfeiffer had been right. Someone stole sixty million bucks?”

“It’s true.”

“Is it? You see, sir, I’ve already checked the police records. No loss remotely approaching that amount was reported that year. And no lawsuit was filed for recovery.”

“We didn’t report it to the police. Or file suit.”

Mike’s credulity was strained to the limit. “You took a sixty-million-dollar hit—and kept quiet about it?”

“We did.” Blaylock leaned back, steepling his fingers. “We had no choice.”

“I don’t get it. Am I wrong, or is this a business for profit?”

“I’m very fond of profits,” Blaylock said. “But when the money disappeared, we had no idea who took it. It simply vanished—from a numbered Swiss bank account—without a trace.”

“That would be a reason for calling the police.”

“We couldn’t. That was the year we took the company public. We were on the verge of our first IPO—initial public offering of stock. The stock had been registered with the SEC. The prospectus had been written. The day for the offering was set. We couldn’t turn back. Any hint of scandal, or misfeasance, or … incompetence would have destroyed us.”

“Quite a coincidence that the theft occurred at such an inopportune time.”

“It had nothing to do with coincidence. The thief intentionally took the money at a time when we couldn’t afford a full-scale investigation. We had to stay quiet.”

“But sixty million dollars—!”

“I stood to make a great deal more than that from the stock offering—and did.”

Mike’s lips parted. “So you just … did nothing?”

Blaylock’s eyelids fluttered. “Hardly. We initiated our own investigation. Quietly. I used only those executives I felt certain I could trust. And at that point, there were damn few of them, believe me.”

“So the corporate VPs became Junior G-men?”

“Something like that.”

“Was Ronald Harris one of them?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“And you never reported the theft?”

“No. Never.”

Mike wiped his brow. “Jesus Christ. No wonder you clowns never found your money.”

Blaylock straightened a bit. “But we did, Lieutenant. It took months, but we eventually determined that only one man could possibly have committed the theft. Only one man—other than myself—had access to all the information—knowledge of the account, the account number, the password needed to withdraw funds—and was not in Oklahoma at the time the funds were withdrawn. We had the man nailed.”

“Oh, yeah? So you hauled the guy’s butt up and shook him?”

Blaylock paused. “There was one problem with taking any action against our suspect.”

“What was that?”

Blaylock settled back in his chair. His eyes rose toward the ceiling. “He was dead.”

Ben had spent most of the previous night preparing Archie Turnbull to take the stand. After all, he didn’t want a repeat of what had happened to Mr. EPA. Thorndyke had been an ideal witness—aggressive, committed, well-spoken. And Colby had still managed to shut him down. Of course Ben had redirected, trying to bolster his witness as best he could, but the damage was done. Colby had effectively pointed out all the gaps, all the unanswered questions that riddled Ben’s case. And he did it with Ben’s own witness.

By contrast, Turnbull was not aggressive, well-spoken, or confident. But he had resisted all the pressure Colby and Blaylock could bring to bear and given an honest deposition. Ben could only hope that courage continued to serve him on the witness stand.

By some miracle, Turnbull was still employed at the Blaylock plant. Actually, it wasn’t a miracle—it was probably a direct command from Colby. A retaliatory firing might appear to give Turnbull’s testimony too much credence—like they were trying to hush up a whistle-blower. Better to appear to be gently tolerating him, perhaps even humoring him, sort of as one might do with a wacky uncle who was slightly tetched—but not dangerous.

On the stand, Ben did his best to draw out Turnbull’s story—how he had dutifully worked in the machinery department, how he had supervised the waste disposal, how the company had established disposal procedures—but had periodically not followed them, in order to save money. He tried to reemphasize the most important parts—that Blaylock had systematically buried waste, creating a health hazard, either with full knowledge that they endangered lives, or with reckless disregard for others" lives.

At almost every turn, Colby was on his feet objecting. Some of the objections were so frivolous even Judge Perry had to overrule them.

“What’s with Colby?” Ben whispered to Christina, during a break. “Has he lost his marbles?”

Christina shook her head. “Far from it. Don’t you see? He’s just trying to interrupt your flow. Turnbull is probably your best fact witness and he knows it.”

“But his objections are stupid!”

“Stupid or not, they interrupt the testimony. Break it up. Keep you from gaining any momentum. Make the story less coherent. Make it harder for the jury to follow what’s going on.” She tossed her red hair behind her shoulders. “The jury should be shocked and appalled when they hear Turnbull explain what the company has been doing. Colby is trying to prevent that from happening. He doesn’t care about his objections. He just wants as little of what Turnbull is saying to sink in as possible.”

Ben resumed his direct—and Colby resumed the frivolous objections. Ben approached the bench and asked the judge to intervene. Judge Perry refused. “Opposing counsel has a right to object when he thinks it proper. As do you.”

As a result, the direct examination that should have taken one hour ended up taking four, interrupted by lunch, two bathroom breaks, and a record seventy-nine objections. Ben had no idea whether the jury understood Turn-bull’s story. After that, he wasn’t sure whether he understood it himself.

And then it was Colby’s turn.

“First of all, let’s talk about what you didn’t say. You don’t know specifically what was stored in the drums that were allegedly buried, do you?”

Turnbull licked his lips, mustering his strength. “I know we used TCE on a regular basis. And perc.”

“Mr. Turnbull, I know you’re determined to get back at your employer in any way possible, but I must ask you to simply answer the question. You don’t know what was in those drums, do you?”

“I can’t specifically tell you what was in each one, no.”

“And you don’t know if the buried waste leaked, if it traveled half a mile downstream to the aquifer, or if it polluted the water supply. And you certainly don’t know if these chemicals—which may not have even been present—could cause cancer!”

“Objection,” Ben said. “Compound, confusing, and”—his voice dropped a notch—“stupid.”

“That’s all right, your honor,” Colby said hastily. “I’ll withdraw the question. I think we’re all aware of the gigantic gaps in the plaintiffs" case.”

“Your honor!”

“I’ll move on,” Colby said, raising his hands. “Mr. Turnbull, are you aware that your testimony directly conflicts the testimony of every other Blaylock employee—including many who worked with you on a regular basis?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you’re asking this jury to believe that you’re telling the truth—and that dozens of other people are lying?”

“What I said was true. I wouldn’t lie.”

“Well, now, that isn’t exactly so, is it?” Colby leaned toward counsel table and retrieved two thick bound deposition transcripts. “You gave two depositions prior to trial, didn’t you, sir?”

Turnbull squirmed. “Y-yes.” Even a blind man could see Turnbull was becoming uncomfortable.

“And your testimony in the first is … well, rather different from your testimony in the second. Isn’t it?”

“I … made some mistakes the first time. I wanted to correct them. I volunteered—”

“You did a great deal more than simply correct your previous testimony, didn’t you? You directly contradicted it.”

Turnbull pursed his lips. “I suppose. In some instances.”

“Or to put it another way—you lied.”

Turnbull’s face stiffened. “I gave the company line. Like everyone else is still doing.”

Colby leapt on that. “So now you admit you consciously lied.”

“I said what you wanted to hear.”

“And then you changed it.”

“My conscience bothered me. I felt that someone ought to tell the truth.”

“How noble. So you took it onto yourself to contradict … virtually everyone else.”

“I told the truth.”

“Eventually. But you admit you lied.” Colby drew himself up to his full height. “The question is … which time?”

Turnbull’s brow creased. “I don’t follow you.”

“It’s obvious that you were lying at one of these depositions, but which one?

“I told you—”

“You admitted to this jury that you lied. The only thing we don’t know is when—and why. Or how much. Or how often.” He snapped his folder shut. “That’s all, your honor. I have no more use for this witness.”

“
Dead?
” Mike said leaning practically out of his chair. “You’re telling me the man who stole the sixty million bucks was dead?”

“So it appeared.” Blaylock’s calm demeanor belied the bizarre nature of the story he was telling. “I assure you, we had researched it quite carefully. An employee named Tony Montague, a senior supervisor in the accounting department, was the only man who could have committed the crime.”

“But for the minor inconvenience that he was dead.”

“Or so we believed, anyway.” Blaylock stood on his spindly legs and opened the shutters on the bay window behind his desk. “There had been an accident. A tragedy. Several of our employees were on a company outing. A trip to an amusement park in Oklahoma City. There was an accident on the drive home. The bus they were traveling in caught fire and … well, everyone was killed. Incinerated. It’s been years now. But you may recall reading about it in the papers. I’m told there was something defective about the bus. I don’t know all the details, but I know our lawyers were tied up with it for years, suing Ford on behalf of our employees" families. Seems Ford—then led by a young man named Iacocca—had decided to place the fuel tanks on this model of school bus’s chassis on the outside of the frame, rather than the inside. They saved money—but the bus was much less safe, caught fire more easily. And there were inadequate emergency exits. No breakaway windows.”

“I remember reading about it,” Mike said. “What a nightmare.”

“You may also remember that school bus in Kentucky that killed numerous children about the same time. Same model. Iacocca should be ashamed, reviled; instead, the masses act like he’s a hero. Some people have no sense of corporate responsibility.”

Mike bit his lip, trying not to laugh at the irony of hearing these sentiments from Myron Blaylock. “You said everyone was killed.…”

“So we believed. The officials counted bodies—what was left of them. The remains were far too charred to identify, even by dental records. But they did determine that the number of bodies was exactly the same as the number of passengers who went on the trip, plus the driver. So everyone had died.” He paused. “Or so we assumed.”

“But if everyone died—”

“Do you want the short version, Lieutenant? Or all the details?”

Mike thought for a moment. “I guess I’ll start with the short. You can fill in the details later.”

“Montague wasn’t dead. He managed to escape by breaking open a window at the last possible moment. He was the only passenger who survived. What we didn’t know was that he had picked up a young woman at the amusement park, and that she was riding home with him.”

Mike was beginning to follow. “So there was an extra body.”

Blaylock nodded. “And after he escaped, the number of bodies was exactly what we expected it to be.”

“But surely when he turned up—”

“He didn’t turn up. He disappeared. I don’t know how long he’d been planning this theft, but he took this as his golden opportunity to implement his plan. From his standpoint, it was perfect. The imminent IPO would restrict our ability to investigate. And even in the best of circumstances, how could we catch a ghost?”

Mike marveled. It was just about perfect. “So Montague kept out of sight, and when the time was right, swiped the loot. And no one the wiser.”

“Exactly.”

“How did you finally find all this out?”

Blaylock’s brow knitted. “Don’t you know?” He smiled slightly. “It seems you’re not as … perceptive as you thought, Lieutenant. Once I became certain Montague was the only man who could’ve committed the theft, I spared no expense having him tracked down. By that time, he’d burrowed himself in but good. He was practically a hermit. But we still found him. Eventually.”

Mike was almost disappointed. It was such a perfect crime, even a law enforcement officer hated to see it go sour. “But not the money?”