by Kenneth Eade
“Well, if you’re up for it, I want to bring in a friend of mine from my bureau days to talk to your father. She’s a psychologist and has already reviewed your father’s records.”
“I suppose that would be alright, but I don’t know what you’re going to get out of it.”
“We’d like to interview your father as soon as possible. Say, tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure, that’s fine.”
***
Brent had convinced Angela to meet him for lunch at The Gallery Café right across from the Santa Barbara Art Museum. The Gallery Café was a small art gallery with a nice collection of paintings by local artists, but its finest attraction was not the art, but its beautiful stone paved courtyard, which was like a little grotto with vines and orchids climbing the rock walls. The chairs and tables were positioned around a three-tiered fountain, whose cascading water added another dimension to the dining experience. Angela was already seated at one when Brent walked in, and waved to her.
“Hello Angela,” he said, smiling, as he took the seat opposite her.
“Hello Brent.”
“I thought this would be a nicer way of meeting me than me always barging in on you, demanding information about Rick.”
“I’m actually very glad that you did it,” she said. “It’s very pleasant.”
“Me too, and since it’s your lunch hour, I’m going to refrain from talking business so you can have a real lunch break. Just a little update before you go back to the office is all I ask.”
“Well, we…”
“Angela, I do want to hear it, believe me I do, but I also mean what I said. What would you like for lunch?”
Angela was flattered and relaxed. Flattered because of the attention she was receiving from Brent and relaxed because it wasn’t a “date.” They tended to be too stressful; kind of like a job interview.
Brent watched Angela daintily sip her avocado cucumber gazpacho, as he tried his best not to make slurping sounds with his. Nothing was more unnerving to him than someone who ate with sound effects, like a Hollywood Foley artist.
“So what makes a nice girl like you join the FBI?” he asked, then suddenly realized that, in his eagerness to impress, he had come up with a cliché that sounded like a pick-up line. Angela graciously allowed him to sidestep it. She liked this rogue lawyer who showed no fear in facing down the “too big to fail” banks.
“Actually, I was going to be an attorney.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Went to law school and everything. The guys at Quantico used to call me Amicus Curiae.
“You never tried the law? Never took the Bar?”
“No. I just got tired of seeing it being broken. So I decided to go after the bad guys.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the Waiter, who set before them two fresh sea bass with potato puree and a French ratatouille.
“What about you Brent? What made you decide to go into law?”
“Instead of law enforcement? A healthy distrust for the police.”
Brent was just kidding, of course, but he instantly worried that he may have offended her.
“All kidding aside, my dad recommended it. He said you can be your own boss, work anywhere you want, see the world.”
“Sounds good.”
“It has been, so far. Dad said he got up to the top stair of the law school, then changed his mind. Went into business school. Said it was the biggest mistake of his life.”
Time passes by quickly, especially enjoyable time. Finally, it was Brent who looked at his watch. He had the afternoon interview of April’s father at the convalescent home. As much as he wanted to stay, it was time to go back to work.
“Angela, I’m glad we did this, but I’m afraid it’s time for me to get to work.”
“Me too, actually.”
“Just let me ask you, is there any hope for a break in Rick’s investigation?”
“Nothing earthshattering yet, unfortunately.”
“Anything; something miniscule maybe?”
“Well, we did find something strange. We never found Rick, or any of his personal effects. But we did search the hard drive on his Mac and we found that it had been accessed from a remote location and all the data wiped clean.”
“Rick would never erase his hard drive.”
“That’s what I thought. We’re trying to recover anything we can from it now.”
***
On the way to the convalescent home, Brent’s mind was occupied. Then he saw them. The same two goons in the white Mustang that had followed him from the Sheriff’s Office were again on his tail. This time, he turned around immediately, made his way back to Angela’s office, and parked in front of the building. Luckily, Angela was just coming in. Brent got out and waved to her. The goons sat tight in their car.
“Those are the same two guys who followed me right before Rick went missing,” he told her.
“They could have something to do with the case. Wait in your car until I call you. I’ll get my car and follow behind them.”
“I’m headed to the rest home to interview April’s father, and I really don’t want them following me there.”
“Okay, I’ll get SBPD to pull them over for a traffic offense or something, and then interrogate them. I just want to get behind them long enough to establish that they really are following you.”
Brent did as he was told, pulling out after he received Angela’s call. The goons pulled out after him, as expected, but he didn’t see Angela’s car anywhere. Obviously, she was better at her job than they were.
As Brent passed La Cumbre Road, about halfway to the Oakview Extended Care Home, he saw a pair of red lights pop on behind the goons’ car. They pulled to the side almost immediately.
21
George Marsh was a shadow of his former self. Once a tall, strong, rock of a man, he was now broken and frail. With a thin veil of skin stretched over his skull, it looked like the Angel of Death had already come to call on him. April was sitting next to his bed, holding his hand, as if she were sitting a vigil.
Jack Ruder, dressed in a two piece gray suit as always, and looking very FBI-like, had brought Dr. Beverly Senlon, a middle aged woman, with light brown hair, eyes the brown of fine cognac, and a pleasant plump face with rosy cheeks. She looked very calm and friendly, and was wearing a two piece mustard yellow skirt suit. She had, apparently, formulated her personal style in the 90’s and her fashion remained stuck in time.
“Talk to your father, dear – introduce him to us,” said Senlon to April.
April hesitated. “Go ahead, dear,” said Senlon.
“Dad, I’ve brought some people here who are going to help us,” said April. “This is our lawyer, Brent Marks. He’s taking our case against the bank. And this is Jack Ruder, our investigator, and Dr. Senlon, who is going to help you talk to us.”
George Marsh’s face remained fixed, his mouth drooped open, and his eyes stared into a point in time that nobody else knew. Maybe not even him.
“Now, dear, your father is still very much with us. We know that because there is plenty of brain activity showing up on his CAT scans. We just have to figure out how to get through to him wherever he is.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Because of the brain damage, he may not be perceiving his environment the same way we do. We’ve hooked up to this machine to measure his vital signs, which could help us know if he’s trying to communicate with us, so we’re going to try to get through, okay?”
“Okay.”
Dr. Senlon shined a small penlight into each of George Marsh’s eyes. His pupils reacted to the light.
“Now, Mr. Marsh, I know you can see me because your eyes are working just fine,” said Senlon. She clipped her penlight onto her pocket. “Can you hear me?” She clapped her hands loudly and Marsh blinked.
“Very good, Mr. Marsh. It looks like you can hear me too. Blink your eyes if you can hear me.”
George M
arsh did not blink, and just kept staring into space.
“It’s hopeless,” said April. “I told you, I’ve tried so many times to talk to him.”
“Now, now, dear. We don’t give up that easily. Mr. Marsh, this is my friend, Jack Ruder. He’s going to talk to you about Prudent Bank.”
“Mr. Marsh,” said Jack, “Do you remember Steven Bernstein from Prudent Bank?”
Marsh showed no reaction at all. Jack held up an 8x10 photograph of Bernstein. “Do you know this man?” he asked.
Just then, Marsh’s monitor began beeping, as his heart rate increased from 80 bpm to 130 bpm, and his breath came in pants.
“I think we have something,” said Senlon. “Mr. Marsh, do you know who this man is in the picture?”
Marsh’s heart rate continued to rise, as did his blood pressure.
“We have a reaction,” said Senlon. Don’t worry, Mr. Marsh, your daughter is safe. Mr. Ruder here used to work for the FBI. She’s in very good hands. But we need your help.”
A single tear streaked down George Marsh’s left cheek.
22
The discovery phase of litigation was the most boring, and, of course, Brent’s least favorite. Discovery methods included requests for admissions, which were used to ask the opposing parties to admit that a fact was true, interrogatories, which allowed you to pose written questions to them, and requests for production of documents and physical evidence.
The entire process reminded him of the cartoons where one character would throw in his line, and the fish would take the bait off, replace it with an old boot or tire, then tug on the line to make the fisherman think he had caught something. Responses to written discovery were inevitably filled with objections rather than information.
The most effective tool in discovery was the deposition, which allowed a lawyer to actually question a witness under oath, in the presence of a court reporter. Even if the witness was lying, you could still get a good look at his or her demeanor, and it was a good indication of how his or her testimony would play out in front of a judge or jury. Jack Ruder had been helpful in gathering evidence in the form of documents, which aided Brent in identifying witnesses and streamlined the written discovery process. At this point, Brent had exhausted all forms of written inquiry over the past two months, and it was now time to conduct depositions. First in line was the deposition of Steven Bernstein.
***
The small conference room in Brent’s office, which was usually empty, was now brimming with activity. The court reporter had set up her recording equipment, and the videographer had set up his video camera. A wire with a small lapel microphone had been set out on the table in front of every seat. The only thing that was missing was Steven Bernstein, his personal lawyer, and the lawyer from Stein, Stewart and Rothstein.
Jack Ruder had already come and gone. He had a very small role in the deposition process, but it was a very important one. Bernstein’s seat was right next to the court reporter, so she could take down every word that he said, and right across from the videographer’s camera. It was a high backed leather chair; the kind that Bernstein had in his own office. But the point of having such a chair was not so Bernstein would be comfortable.
Normally, Brent would want him to be as uncomfortable as possible. Ruder had cleaned and outfitted the back of the chair with the smallest of electrical charges, designed to pick up any loose hairs, which would stick to the chair like iron fibers to a magnet. Ruder would come during the lunch break and after the deposition was over to sweep the chair back with an adhesive roller, to see if he could pick up any hair samples that could be used for DNA comparison with the hair fibers found at the Marsh crime scene. Since this was not a criminal case, Brent didn’t have to worry about violating Bernstein’s civil rights. April sat on Brent’s side of the table. Her job would be to keep her eyes trained on Bernstein as an intimidation tactic. It was an unpleasant role for her, but her disdain for Bernstein gave her the power to fulfill it.
Bernstein walked in with his personal lawyer, William Black, who sat on the left side of him, and John Reiser, the junior lawyer from Stein, Stewart and Rothstein took up the other space next to him. Black looked to be in his 50’s, dressed in the traditional lawyer uniform – a two piece light brown suit. The junior looked about 35, and wore the same uniform.
Brent could be sure that they had both skillfully prepared Bernstein to keep him from answering any questions they did not want him to answer. But those types of questions were very limited. Brent had to tread rather carefully. If he pushed him too far, Bernstein could “take the Fifth;” claim his Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination; and refuse to answer any question that could implicate him in the murder of April’s mother and the attack against her father.
Bernstein leaned back into the tall chair, looking smug, moustache twitching. He had, no doubt, been through mock depositions with his lawyers, and was prepared for the scrutinous eye of the video camera. After giving a set of dry and boring instructions, and going through a huge set of equally boring documents to set a foundation, Brent embarked on a hunt to capture his prey. He went for shock value.
“Mr. Bernstein,” said Brent, having placed several graphic photographs of April’s murdered mother before him, “You do recognize this woman, don’t you?”
April glared at Bernstein with burning eyes, as Bernstein avoided the photograph.
“Not really, no.”
“Come on, Mr. Bernstein, you know that this is Elena Marsh, isn’t that correct?”
“I can’t really say.”
“Mr. Bernstein, where were you on the night of November 25, 2008, from about 12 midnight through 3 a.m.?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Isn’t it true that you were at the Marshes’ home in Hope Ranch on November 25th, Mr. Bernstein?”
April’s face expressed disbelief. She continued her stare down.
“No.”
“Let me go back in time, a bit, Mr. Bernstein,” said Brent. “Mr. and Mrs. Marsh were customers of Tentane Mutual, isn’t that correct?”
“Yes, they were.”
“And, in August 2006, you recommended a loan product to them, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Bernstein, this loan product had an initial interest rate lower than the prime rate at the time, isn’t that true?”
“Yes.”
“And it had an adjustable rate rider allowing the interest rate to adjust every year, isn’t that also true?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Mr. Bernstein, I’m showing you a copy of the note and deed of trust. Take a minute to look it over please.”
Bernstein leafed through the copy. “Yes?”
“Does that look like the loan you sold them?”
“It looks like it could be, yes.”
“And isn’t it true that Mr. Marsh was worried that he wouldn’t be able to make the payments in the event of an interest rate increase.”
“That was a concern of his.”
“And he was qualified for the loan based on the initial payments, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Bernstein that, in June 2007, the mortgage payments increased to $8,500 per month, as set forth in the tables in front of you, marked as Exhibit 34?”
“That looks about right.”
“Mr. Bernstein, isn’t it also true that, given Mr. Marsh’s income when the loan was initialized, he would have not qualified for payments of $8,500 per month?”
“Objection, irrelevant,” barked John Reiser.
“You can answer the question, Mr. Bernstein,” said Brent. “There’s no judge here.”
“I don’t know if he would have qualified or not,” said Bernstein.
“Don’t lie, Mr. Bernstein…”
“Objection argumentative,” said Black.
“Join,” said Reiser.
“The tables we’ve identified as Exhibit 31 were used by you to do rough quali
fying, isn’t that true?”
“Yes.”
“And based on Mr. Marsh’s income in Exhibit 26, there is no way he would qualify for the increased payment, isn’t that true?”
“He was hoping for an increase in his business,” said Bernstein.
“Mr. Bernstein, you know that is not true…”
“Objection, argumentative!” said Black.
“Join!”
“You knew that George Marsh’s business was in the dumps, didn’t you?”
“Objection!” said Reiser.
“It wasn’t doing that well,” said Bernstein.
“He told you that was why he needed the loan, isn’t that true?”
“That was one of the reasons.”
“And you told him not to worry about the increases in interest rates, didn’t you Mr. Bernstein?” asked Brent, raising his voice an octave.
“I don’t remember.”
“Of course you remember, Mr. Bernstein,” said Brent, raising his voice even higher. “In fact, you told Mr. Marsh not to worry about increases because you would just refinance the mortgage for him, isn’t that true?”
“I don’t recall. We may have mentioned some refinancing opportunities down the road.”
“Of course you did, Mr. Bernstein.”
“Objection, argumentative and asked and answered,” said Reiser. “Counsel, are you going to continue this line of questioning?”
“Of course I am, Mr. Reiser, don’t interrupt me. Mr. Bernstein, you told Mr. and Mrs. Marsh not to worry about rate increases because they could always refinance, isn’t that true?”
“Like I said, I don’t recall.”
“Maybe this will refresh your recollection,” said Brent, throwing down a new exhibit. “This is a sworn statement given by Mr. Marsh that, at the time of signing, he initially refused to sign and that you convinced him to sign by telling him that you could always refinance the loan to avoid higher payments, isn’t that correct?”
