by Kenneth Eade
“And may I remind you, Mr. Stein, that this may be your deposition, but any pressuring of this witness will result in my seeking sanctions.”
“Please swear in Mr. Marsh and Dr. Senlon,” Brent said to the court reporter. “Mr. Marsh,” said Stein, ignoring Brent, “Can you please state your name for the record?”
Senlon began pointing to symbols on the symbol board and stated, “George,” and then, “Marsh. My name is George Marsh.”
“Excuse me, Madame, but Mr. Marsh must speak for himself,” said Stein.
“He is speaking for himself,” said Brent. You knew full well that we are using Dr. Senlon for augmentative and alternative communication. You have a copy of her CV right here.”
“That is something that will never pass in court, especially after my motion in limine,” snorted Stein.
“You can make whatever motions you want, Mr. Stein, but there being no judge for this deposition, I suggest you continue your questioning.”
The deposition went on for a grueling two hours until Brent requested a recess. Each answer took an incredibly long time for Marsh to answer, and Stein had not even finished the preliminaries. Brent saw that Stein’s main objective was to break Marsh down.
“Mr. Marsh needs a break.”
“If we break every two hours, we’ll never get done at this pace,” said Stein.
“Off the record,” said Brent, and Senlon wheeled Marsh out.
“Marks, do you really want to torture this old man?” asked Stein.
“You’re the one torturing him.”
“You know what I mean. The judge is never going to allow this. You think I like making hamburger out of this poor guy for no reason?”
“Grind away, Mr. Stein. Mr. Marsh is not a well man. His testimony needs to be preserved. The federal rules give you seven hours with him. At that point, I’m going to have my direct with him.”
***
Stein ran the marathon with Marsh, exhausting him physically and mentally. What made it even more difficult was that everything seemed to be in slow motion. Marsh had to listen to the question, and then Senlon had to interpret the answer, which took the longest amount of time. The process must have been most frustrating for Marsh, who had a story to tell, but was limited by the means. Throughout the ordeal, Bernstein kept his intimidating eyes trained on Marsh. Thankfully, Stein ran through his communications with Bernstein, who proposed the loan, and identified Marsh’s loan application, which was made out in Bernstein’s handwriting. Finally, on the last minute of the last hour, Stein, although not finished, was obliged to turn over the witness to Brent, but at that time, Marsh was exhausted and his brain was nothing but Swiss cheese.
“Mr. Marsh, Exhibit A is your loan application – is this in your handwriting?”
Marsh indicated to Senlon and Senlon said, “No.”
“Did you see who wrote this application?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“Mr. Bernstein.”
“Was it done in his office?”
“Yes. I brought my papers to his office, he made the application and I signed it.”
“Did you propose that Mr. Bernstein help you with a loan on your home?”
“No, Mr. Bernstein proposed it.”
“What did he say he could do for you in terms of making a loan?”
“Objection,” said Black. “Hearsay.”
“You can answer, Mr. Marsh.”
Marsh looked at Bernstein, who regarded him with a cold, dead stare.
“He said that we could get into a sub-prime loan, but not to worry, because the property value was strong enough to refinance it in 24 months.”
“And were you able to refinance in 24 months?”
“No. Mr. Bernstein said we didn’t qualify and that we would have to be delinquent in our payments to apply for a loan modification instead of a refinance.”
“And did you stop making payments?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it was the only way to get a lower monthly payment.”
“Mr. Marsh, I’m going to show you a document and ask if you can identify it.”
Dr. Senlon held the papers for Mr. Marsh to slowly read, then he indicated, “This looks like the loan modification request.”
“And what was the result of that request?”
“It was denied.”
“After the denial of your loan modification, did you resume making payments?”
“Yes, but we were always behind.”
“Mr. Marsh, do you remember getting a letter from Prudent Bank in September 2008, telling you where to send your new payments?”
“Yes.”
“Does this look like the letter?” asked Brent, holding it up for Marsh to read.
“Yes.”
“And who did you understand your lender would be after this letter?”
“Prudent Bank.”
“So, in reliance on this letter, you made your monthly payments to Prudent Bank.”
“Objection,” said Stein.
“Correct,” said Senlon.
“Mr. Marsh, do you remember the night of November 25, 2008?”
Marsh’s eyes started to twitch, and tears welled up in them.
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you remember about that night when you and your wife were attacked.”
“There were three of them who came at me,” said Marsh. “They were all wearing masks, but I was able to pull one off right before I was knocked out.”
“Did you recognize the man whose mask you pulled off?”
Marsh’s eyes began to twitch again, and tears flowed down his cheeks.
“It was you!” he exclaimed.
“Who?”
“It was you!”
“I wasn’t sure at first, but now I’m positive it was you.”
The tears continued to flow down Marsh’s cheeks and he began to cough and sputter, like a boiled over coffee pot.
“I think he needs a break,” said Senlon.
“Mr. Marks, your time is up anyway,” said Stein.
“But I’m not finished.”
“Yes, you are. This is my deposition and the seven hours are up. I will not stipulate to more. Off the record please, Ms. Court Reporter.”
Stein, Bernstein and Black got up in unison and walked out of the conference room.
“Stay on the record please, these gentlemen are still here. I am going to move for a protective order to continue this deposition. The motion will be filed tomorrow.”
“File what you wish,” said Stein, as the three left Brent’s office.
27
Brent left the office around 2 a.m., after having finished the motion and filing it electronically. The nagging grief that was always on his mind since Rick Penn went missing was like a horrible weight on his head – a weight he had to drag around every day. He had been ignoring the pangs of hunger from his stomach until his body was too tired to pay attention to them anymore. When he had finally caught himself reading the same passage over and over again in the same case, he had decided to call it quits and go home to get some sleep.
Brent exited the office, laptop slung over his shoulder, and fished in his pocket for the keys to lock up. Suddenly, he was slammed up against the wall, face first, like he had been hit by a truck. He tried to turn and look at his attacker, but two strong gloved hands grabbed his head and smashed it into the wall. Then he was bailed through the doorway, like a baggage handler would throw a suitcase. When Brent was brave enough to raise his head, he saw two men in ski masks, who began to kick him and stomp on him, as if they were trying to kill a snake. Then, the lights went out.
When Brent came to, he felt the pain that so permeated his body, it was impossible for him to assess his injuries. He surveyed the office as best he could under the circumstances. His laptop was gone, as was Melinda’s computer, and file folders and their spilled contents wallpapered the floor in a kind of collage of ye
llow and white paper. The file cabinets were all open and askew.
Brent tried to get up, but only got as far as his knees, which screamed in pain, and he fell back to the floor. He crawled to Melinda’s desk, and climbed up the leg of it. As he reached the top, searing pains shot through his right rib cage. He reached the phone, dialed 911, and then passed out again.
***
As objects were coming into focus in Brent’s hospital room, a few blocks away, in Sunny Acres Assisted Living Home, two shadows slipped into the room of George Marsh.
It was like the creepiest nightmare – hearing something in the room – but not being able to scream. As the two dark figures came into view, a surge of adrenalin rushed through George Marsh’s arteries. He tried to run, but he could not get up. His eyes recoiled in terror as one masked figure raised his ski mask over his forehead, his lips stretched over his yellow teeth. And George Marsh pissed himself.
“It’s us, old man,” said the thug. “We’ve come to finish the job.”
George’s eyes wildly scanned the room, looking for help. He tried to scream, he tried to run, but it was no use. His brain commanded, but the body could not obey. The dark shadow of the pillow was the last thing George Marsh saw, as it was pushed against his face, taking the last bit of life he had.
28
To Jack, Brent appeared to be babbling, as he attempted to speak through the pain killers.
“Don’t try to speak, buddy,” he said.
“Not safe,” said Brent.
“You’re safe, you’re safe– everything will be alright.”
“No, no, no, not safe!” Brent struggled to form the words with his dry, broken swollen lips.
“Just try to calm down, you’ve been beat up really bad.”
A male doctor in a white gown entered the room with a nurse. “Ah, Mr. Marks. You’re up,” he said.
“Not… not safe. George not safe.”
“Don’t try to speak, Mr. Marks. Just relax,” said the doctor. “When you’re ready to talk, there are some gentlemen from the police department who want to talk to you.”
Brent, animated, tried to scream. “Not safe. George not safe…tell…police!”
Suddenly, Jack realized what Brent was trying to say. “I’ve got it, we’ll make sure he has round the clock protection,” he said, and he quickly left the room.
Brent fell back against the hospital bed, reeling from the pain, and the aching in his head, which was swimming in a cocktail of pain killers. The doctor made some notes as the nurse checked Brent’s vital signs on the monitor. “You’ve got four broken ribs, a broken nose, and a lot of bruising, but we are going to take care of everything. Don’t worry, you’ll be back to normal in no time,” said the doctor, as he shot the syringe into Brent’s IV tube. Brent looked up at the doctor, and tried to speak, but he slowly faded into sleep.
***
Sharp pangs of pain accompanied the blurry face of Jack Ruder as Brent came to.
“George, is he?” Jack shook his head.
“They’re saying it’s an accident. Passed away in his sleep.”
“Of course they are,” said Brent, trying to sit up, then he fell back, grimacing.”
“Here, use the controls,” said Jack, handing him the bed controls. “The cops picked up that religious lunatic for beating you up.”
“Banks? It’s not him.”
“That’s not what he says.”
“He confessed? Shit, Jack, he’s a nut.”
“Well, did you see who it was?”
“No, they had masks.”
“Well, then…”
“I know it’s not him. He’s not big enough. Besides, he threatened to shoot me, not beat me up. These guys were big – strong.”
Brent coughed, and a searing, burning pain shot to his head from the rib cage through the spine.
“This hurts like hell. So they got my files, identified George as a viable witness, and took him out.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Right. Where’s April?”
“At the cop shop now, pleading her case.”
“I should go to her.” Brent tried to move again, but his body was not cooperating.
“Whoa, wait a minute. You’re not going anywhere. I’ll go.”
“Take Angela with you. She might be able to help somehow.”
“I’ll ask.”
“Everything’s gone? My hard drives, the laptop?”
“Yeah. Here,” said Jack, holding out a brand new laptop. “I picked up one for you. Knew you’d want to get right back to it.”
“Thanks. What about my phone?”
“Found it on you. It’s on the table by your bed.” Brent looked over and saw the phone.
“Great.”
“And I loaded the back-up drive you gave me into the new laptop.”
“Well, then all is not lost. I’m only missing a month of work now.”
“If anyone can…”
“Right. Bring April over to me as soon as you can.”
“I will.”
One of the rules of the lawyering game that Brent had learned from his mentor, Charles Stinson, was not to get emotionally attached to a case or a client. But, God damn it, this had gone too far. So far he had lost his best friend, had the shit kicked out of him, his star witness had been killed and his case entirely screwed up. Fuck the rules, he thought, someone has to pay.
29
On a rare cloudy day for Santa Barbara, before the elegant altar under the golden cupola of the appropriately named Our Lady of Sorrows Church, lay the coffin of George Marsh; devoted father, husband, and the latest victim of Prudent Bank. The tearful ceremony was highlighted by the poignant eulogy given by April Marsh, who described a great man whom Brent had never really known, followed by a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
As Brent and Jack held the rails of George Marsh’s casket on the way out of the church, they each made a silent promise to him that justice would be done.
***
The clang of the sally port door slamming brought back unpleasant memories to Brent as the first door closed and he waited for the second door to open to the visiting room at the Santa Barbara County Jail. After Brent had passed the bar exam, Charles Stinson put him on the public defender’s list for appointed counsel for parole violators. The memory of the scummy feeling that he felt looking into the empty eyes of thieves, rapists and child molesters came creeping back like a black shadow as Brent walked into the visiting room and took a seat at a window. After about five minutes, a deputy led Joshua Banks, dressed in scrubs, to a small stool on the opposite side of the glass and handcuffed his ankle to it.
“Hello, Mr. Banks.”
Banks cocked his little head right, then left, as if he was examining Brent. The grey stubble on his chin matched the fuzz on top of his skull cap, and his stormy grey eyes seemed to focus somewhere in the distance, instead of on Brent’s.
“Ah, the heathen has come. What say you, non-believer?”
“Mr. Banks, I know you weren’t the one who beat me up.”
“I am sworn before God to strike you down, heretic.”
“But you didn’t strike me down this time, did you, Mr. Banks? Why did you confess to something you didn’t do?”
Banks continued to speak in riddled verse. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. God sends His angels to do His bidding.”
“So, were you or were you not one of t
he two men who attacked me in my office?”
“Be gone, demon, I must continue my quest.”
“Mr. Banks, this is not a game. People have been killed. You need to tell the truth.”
“Of course. The truth shall be revealed to every man.”
That meeting was about as helpful to Brent as another punch in his already tender ribcage. One thing was for certain, and that was that the police had closed the case and nobody would be looking for the two who really beat him up.
***
Brent rose as Angela entered the patio at the El Paseo restaurant, and held her chair as she sat down. She graciously slipped into her chair, keeping her soft, sympathetic eyes trained on Brent.
“There’s really no need to be so formal, especially for an injured man,” she quipped.
“A lovely lady such as you mandates a sacrifice.”
“How are you feeling? I see the black eyes are fading away.”
“The ribs are the worst thing. I can’t seem to find a comfortable position to sleep in.”
The Waiter brought an iron platter of steaming, sizzling fajitas to the table, along with a generous accompaniment of rice, beans and cheese. Angela prepared one for each of them as Brent nursed his Margarita.
“Brent, I think this case is becoming much too dangerous.”
“It was dangerous from the start.”
“But I worry for you if it continues this way.”
“I can’t quit, Angela, not now. Too much has been lost.”
“I know.”
“I think we should try to match those hair fibers you found to the two men who followed me,” said Brent.
“Is this another hunch?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
“The problem is that we have no probable cause to search them.”
“What if they were to get arrested for something?”
“Brent, what’s bubbling in your brain besides that frozen Margarita?”
