Higginbotham was the local barrister Gary had hired to unearth records of the Meecham’s call on the Royal Navy base at Portsmouth, on England’s southern coast. The vessel had docked there for a few weeks before leaving for the North Sea, just prior to the alleged collision. Jonathan had never spoken with him before and had just about forgotten about him since nothing meaningful had come out of the London firm’s research.
“Good news, I hope?” asked Jonathan, as his tired head replayed Gary’s frequent complaints about the barrister’s steep fees.
“I’m not sure quite what to make of it, really,” the barrister said. “My associate got his hands on a rather interesting document last week. It was a good bit of luck, I say. May I read you the pertinent part?”
“Please,” Jonathan said, quietly closing the bathroom door behind him.
“It’s cryptic, but I’ll explain,” Higginbotham said. “It says ‘Courier changeover to P-R slot, USN-divert, CDel-Bergen.’”
Jonathan was expecting more, of course. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s a dispatch order from the Royal Mail service at Portsmouth naval base.”
“So?” Jonathan asked, irritated that Higginbotham had woken him up to share this crap.
“Well, as you know, after the Meecham left the U.K., its next scheduled stop was Bergen, Norway. But this dispatch—dated March 20th, the day after the alleged collision—diverted the mail back to Portsmouth!”
“But the ship did make it to Bergen. We have ample evidence.”
“Yes, Mr. Brooks, but it did something strange first.”
Jonathan started to add things up and suddenly felt an exciting rush flow through his veins.
Barrister Higginbotham cleared his throat. “This Royal Mail dispatch seemed awfully peculiar—and I’ll spare you my personal sentiments of our country’s mail service. But suffice to say I hurried my colleague to Portsmouth yesterday afternoon to investigate. You may want to sit for the rest.”
Go right ahead, Jonathan thought, as he sat on the toilet seat cover and listened for what he hoped would be music to his ears.
“He looked around, asked questions and then...he struck gold.”
“Paul, you’re leaving me hanging like a ripe berry on a steamy plantation orchard. Will you please get to the point.”
“Are all you Yanks so impatient?” Higginbotham asked, chuckling. “My colleague got word of a local whose life is centered on, get this: ship-spotting.”
“And you dare call Americans strange?”
“Apparently this man does this for a hobby, spotting ships from his village on Gosport, across from the naval base. He’s got quite the reputation for photographing everything that floats, military and civilian. He’s won prizes, too. Now, as I understand it, he saw the Meecham enter the sound at dusk on March 21, 1989.”
Jonathan’s jaw just about fell to his lap. He quickly calculated the time interval. “Yes, yes...that’s about thirty-eight hours after the collision. Is this ship-spotter reliable?”
“I can’t vouch for anything right now, but I’ll know more soon.”
“Can we make him testify?”
“We’re not there yet. But there’s even better news. Our little hobbyist took a photograph, so I’m told. He apparently caught a very interesting picture of the Meecham. I should have it very soon, and I can send it to you air mail.”
“Does it show any damage to the Meecham?” asked Jonathan.
“I’m not sure,” replied Higginbotham.
“I need it right away,” Jonathan said. “Have it couriered on the next flight out of London. And please fax me a copy as well.”
There was no time to lose. Jonathan would not be able to extend Captain Tucker’s cross-examination much longer, and this incredible piece of evidence could, if proven true, be the miracle he so desperately needed in this pitiful case.
Higginbotham agreed to hurry. He seemed proud of his feat, though Jonathan was tempted to remind him that he’d charged over five thousand dollars for his services over the prior six months and had until now produced zilch.
Jonathan was ecstatic, nervous and completely unaware of the time until he looked up at the clock high on the bathroom wall. It was five-ten. Damn early, but Jonathan was on an adrenaline rush that he didn’t want to lose.
He went downstairs, fixed some toast and plopped a legal pad on the breakfast table. He started writing the questions he would ask Captain Tucker; questions he hoped would impeach the naval officer once he had a copy of the photograph. Only then would the jury give the plaintiff’s team the credibility they deserved.
4
No matter which way he drove toward downtown, there were reminders of Matt. Reminders that six years was still a short time when it came to losing his brother. As he eased to the stop sign at Leake Road and Broadway, he gazed at the levee some distance away. And what a simple, unassuming structure it was, built of earth and shaped in an uncomplicated form to suit its judicious purpose—to keep the waters around New Orleans from inundating its many neighborhoods that stand below sea level.
A plainly constructed oeuvre, a levee need not rise more than a dozen feet above level ground. At its summit, one can always find a beaten path where the grass struggles to grow, its sandy soil revealing the faint tread of sneakers and bicycle tires. And how diverse the vantage seems from such an unassuming perch. On one side flows the lifeblood of countless industries, with a veritable armada of rust-colored barges and foreign-flagged freighters guiding their loads to destinations afar. The acrid, peppery scent of the Mississippi glides over the embankment, filling the air and reminding those on the other side that a mighty river is near. Levees are as much a part of the Big Easy as are jazz, brothels-turned-bistros and jambalaya. But they possess subtle traits, their splendor oft overlooked and only rarely glorified for their utilitarian qualities on those terribly rainy days. No one could call New Orleans home without having had at least one memorable moment on a levee’s crest, whether it was a sweetheart’s first kiss, a favorite pet’s first glimpse at a body of water, or an endearing stroll with a lifelong companion. Surely, if these barriers could speak, they would recount many tales. For Jonathan, these tales would be of a cherished childhood.
Reminders crept forth as he gazed out the window at the long stretch of grass that formed the front slope of the levee. It was where he’d played Frisbee with Matt. Where their dad’s excited Dobermans, Justice and Damage, ran wild. It was a place where time could have so easily stood still.
As Jonathan veered left onto Leake Road, he honed in on the familiar spot. The past now threw itself at him uncontrollably.
“Oh, man,” Jonathan whispered to himself. “Why is it still so hard?”
And the heavens did their bit, too—divine whispers of sorts in the form of familiar sounds that brought back memories of him and his brother as children: the barking dogs frantically circling Matt, his body contorting as he was about to throw the Frisbee Jonathan’s way.
“When I grow up, I’m gonna be an astronaut,” shouted Matt, giggling.
Jonathan laughed before answering. “It’s a little early to think about that.”
Justice raced ahead of Damage. The canine duo, their tongues wagging to one side, charged across the overgrown grass toward Jonathan, who caught the toy with one hand as if it required no effort at all. He loved to show off.
“Then why do you keep saying what you plan to be?” asked Matt.
“Because I’m grown up. I’m fourteen! You’re just a pip-squeak.”
“Then, why does mom pack your lunch every day?
“Because it saves time.”
“She puts milk in your lunchbox and says it’s cuz you’re a growing boy.”
“I throw the milk away.”
“That’s cuz of the girls.”
“No, I may still be growing, but mentally I’m already all matured and ready for life, brat.”
“Nah’ah. Mom says you’re still a kid.”
“If I were a
kid, I wouldn’t think about becoming a lawyer, like dad. I’d be like you, wanting to reach the moon or the stars.”
The levee was a wonderful spot. A place near home where kids can be kids, and the rest of the world disappears, if only for a short time.
But there was yet another place where Matt and Jonathan found even greater pleasure and mischief, a place where they never took the dogs, only their bikes and brave spirits. It was an abandoned lighthouse on the north end of town, on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. It was hallowed ground. Jonathan hadn’t returned in years. He could not face the pain.
* * *
Gary and Allen were standing in the lobby of the courthouse when Jonathan walked through the door.
“Why are you smiling?” Gary asked, his hands resting on his hips. “Is it because you’re on time for a change?”
“Gentlemen,” Jonathan said, raising a manila folder to Gary’s chest. “In here is the torpedo that will sink Captain Tucker’s credibility.”
After Jonathan explained to his co-counsel the gem he had gotten from Barrister Higginbotham, he pulled out the faxed photograph he had just picked up at the office on the way to court.
At first, his colleagues were amazed, but Gary quickly opened the folder and began to scan the document. A veil of skepticism ran over his face.
“This fax is junk,” Gary said. “It’s a dark and grainy image. Breaux will never allow this in.”
“Perhaps not,” replied Jonathan. “But the original will be here by mid-afternoon. It’s being delivered by courier.”
“That’s too late,” Gary said bluntly.
He had a point. The courier’s flight was scheduled to arrive at two-thirty, but by the time he found this way downtown, it would be closer to four. Jonathan knew Judge Breaux would not easily extend Captain Tucker’s availability beyond the morning.
“We must try,” Jonathan stressed. “If I ask the bastard, he’ll definitely say no. Gary, why don’t you give it a shot? Breaux likes you.”
Gary chuckled. “He doesn’t care much for me. I just don’t give him as much grief as you do.” Gary again glanced at the fax. He then headed to the elevators. “Fine, we’ll see what happens.”
Jonathan waited in the lobby while Allen headed into the courtroom. Jonathan checked his watch nearly every minute. Without the photograph, the case was doomed. With it, he could butcher the defense beyond repair. How he craved to be a fly on the wall in the judge’s chamber.
Nearly thirty minutes passed before Gary reappeared. His smile gave it all away. “We’ve got till four, and not a minute more.”
“Fantastic,” said Jonathan, though he really wanted to scream for joy. All he needed now was for the courier to arrive on time.
In the meantime, Gary offered to work on a new motion dealing with defense exhibits. This gave Jonathan a bit more time to prepare. Gary also asked Allen to wait for the courier at the airport and race back to the courthouse once he had the picture.
* * *
The noble triers of fact plopped down their large posteriors for the late afternoon session. Their seats creaked and squeaked for an annoyingly long time, until the last juror finally settled into a comfortable position. But they were all vicious and restless. Their faces could not have shown greater disdain for the legal machinations surrounding their civic duty. The women looked especially resentful. Hatred beamed out of their eyes every time they glanced at the attorneys, most notably Peyton.
It didn’t matter that they’d eaten lunch. Steak sandwiches, he had heard, from one of the finest delis downtown. Nor did it matter that the day before, the judge had handed them free tickets to the aquarium, the nicest thing he had ever done for jurors in his career. They simply didn’t want to spend another second in that courtroom. Bitches. For a fleeting moment, Jonathan wished they had been sequestered instead, just to punish them. Or worse, that the bailiff, now recovered from his epileptic episode, would simply shoot them out of their misery.
Standing at the plaintiff’s table, Jonathan checked his watch. It was going on four-ten. He glanced at the courtroom door, hoping Allen would walk in before the judge. But Allen had not answered his cell phone minutes ago. Unless he got back from the airport with the photograph, Jonathan was resigned to use the faxed version, which would most likely be excluded. He checked his watch again as the judge took his seat and nodded to his clerk to get the show on the road. There was no more time.
Just as Jonathan called Captain Tucker to the stand, he heard the door open behind him. Thank God. It was Allen, and he’d come in giving a discreet thumbs up at Jonathan, who then returned to face the naval officer.
“Good afternoon,” Jonathan said to the Navy captain as Allen placed the eight-by-ten black and white photograph on the podium. “You should put on your seatbelt; it’s going to get bumpy.”
“Counselor!” Judge Breaux barked, quashing a few chuckles from the jury box.
Jonathan nodded an apology. But it had gotten the jury’s attention, something of a miracle. Now was the time to bring out the artillery.
“Captain Tucker,” he said, “you have testified that on March 20, 1989—one day after the alleged collision—your ship headed north-northeast toward the port of Bergen, Norway, arriving there four days later. Is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you headed there directly, making no detours or port calls between March 19 and 24, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If your vessel had gone elsewhere, and someone were to have taken a photograph of it, you’d be able to tell if it was your vessel or not, correct?”
“I’m sure,” the captain answered before giving Peyton a subtle, puzzled look.
Jonathan glanced at the photograph and suddenly noticed something odd. The picture was a wider image than what had appeared on the faxed page. Wider because it showed something strange behind the USS Meecham. An odd-shaped object. Jonathan crowed his head forward to examine it more carefully. His hands gripped the edge of the podium as he realized what it was. Shivers ran down his spine.
A barge, a fucking barge.
Jonathan’s mind ignited a whirlwind of thoughts. He was piecing it all together faster than he could scribble words on his notepad.
“Your Honor,” he said, grasping the significance of what rested before his eyes: proof not only that Tucker had lied about his ship’s whereabouts, but damning proof of the actual vessel that hit the Cajun Star. “At this time, I’d like to ask the witness to identify this photograph.”
“Please show it to defense counsel first,” the judge said, and Jonathan did as he was told.
Peyton stood up but didn’t say a word. He casually glanced at the photo, but he didn’t seem to spot its relevance, so he calmly sat back down.
Jonathan walked closer to the witness and held up the photo a foot away from him. “Is this the Meecham?”
Captain Tucker’s face seemed to rapidly lose its color. It was a glorious moment that Jonathan wished he had captured on film. The man was dumbfounded, frozen in his chair, nervously licking of lips, his eyes shifting edgily—all tell-tale signs of a lying scoundrel. And slowly a response finally exited the man’s mouth. “I think it is.”
“Your Honor, it’d like to introduce this picture into evidence.”
Peyton seemed to sense the captain’s discomfort and so he asked for a sidebar, which Judge Breaux granted.
But before Peyton could say a word, Jonathan walked to the bench with enough adrenaline to get himself another sanction. “Judge, we just received this image from a witness who saw Captain Tucker’s ship at a time and place that contradicts his testimony. So, we’re about to impeach this witness and set the record straight in this case. We have been lied to for months, and now, Your Honor, we respectfully ask that you remove the smokescreen and let these jurors see for themselves.”
“This is out of left field,” Peyton complained, gesturing like a man about to be put into a straitjacket. “He can’t spring this on us
like this, Judge. They didn’t produce this in discovery, and—”
“May I explain?” Jonathan asked, leaning forward and raising his voice to a loud whisper. “This original photograph shows the USS Meecham entering the port of Portsmouth, in the United Kingdom, during the same time our dear Captain Tucker is trying to convince the court he was headed to Norway.”
Peyton’s eyes were as large as balls on a pool table.
“And we can get a signed affidavit from the photographer confirming its authenticity and timing. He is also ready to testify in person. The photograph is electronically time-stamped on the film itself, and we have a Royal Mail document corroborating our claim.”
Judge Breaux was silent for an agonizing thirty seconds, but his eyes intently examined the photograph. He must be equally shocked, Jonathan thought. As a judge and former Marine, Breaux didn’t tolerate dishonesty. For Jonathan, this case would live or die by Breaux’s next words.
The judge handed the photograph back to Jonathan and said, “I don’t like this.”
Peyton’s patently offensive smirk returned to his face, as he seemed to think the judge would side with him.
Jonathan knew better.
“I’ll allow it, if done properly,” the judge said. “Proceed.”
“But Your Honor...” said Peyton. “We have no way to verify this. This is grossly unfair.”
“You’ll have your chance to challenge the assertion later,” the judge said and then turned to Jonathan. “Will plaintiff produce the witness this week?”
“That’s our intent,” replied Jonathan. “Friday, I think.” Jonathan knew that was a stretch. He hadn’t yet gotten a definite answer from Higginbotham, let alone from the photographer. But it was imperative that he nail the captain to the wall, while he still could.
Peyton flung a poorly camouflaged look of disdain at his opponent before he returned to his table.
Jonathan was now free to unleash his inquisition. After describing the photograph for the record and circulating the copy to the jury, he again held it in front of the captain and asked, “Do you recognize this ship?”
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