Say Nothing

by Brad Parks

  He was now making sure the cameras were all the way zoomed out, ready to capture another day of nothing, when he saw, well, something.

  It was a man, one who probably didn’t belong prowling in the edge of the woods beyond the judge’s house. He was far enough away and small enough that it was difficult to make out much detail about the man, other than that he had gray hair and appeared to be standing very still behind the trunk of a tree, as though to stay hidden from the front of the house. He was smoking a cigarette.

  “Hey, hey,” he called. “Come in here. There’s something you have to see.”

  The older brother appeared immediately.

  “Look at camera three,” the younger said.

  He bent toward the screen. “Who is that?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him before.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He seems to be watching the house.”

  “Can you zoom in on him?”

  “He’s too much on the edge of the screen. If I zoom in, I’ll lose him.”

  “Do you think he’s police? FBI maybe?” the younger asked.

  The older shook his head. “He’s alone. The FBI works in pairs.”

  “We think he’s alone. Maybe there are more we can’t see.”

  The brothers watched the man who was himself watching the house. None of the three moved.

  “Should we make a call?” the younger asked.

  “No. We don’t know enough yet. Why don’t you go out there and see what’s going on?”

  The younger brother didn’t need to be asked twice. He was relieved just to have something to do.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  After the Emmabear episode, I forced myself to wait until Wednesday morning to call Herb Thrift. It took all the patience I could muster. Throughout Tuesday, whenever I had a moment of downtime, I thought of little else: What was Alison doing right now? What surprises was my private investigator capturing on his camera? Were she and Paul Dresser conspiring at this very moment? Would this be our last day together functioning in any way as man and wife?

  My hands were shaking slightly as I dialed Thrift’s cell number that Wednesday morning. They didn’t stop when I got his voice mail. I left him a message. Then I called his office and recorded a message there too.

  I kept my cell phone out on my desk, where I wouldn’t miss its ring, as I continued my lukewarm efforts at work. We had a sentencing the next day—another drug case, sort of like Skavron, except it had not attracted the attention of the kidnappers. They had already made their point.

  It was sometime after my midmorning conference call with the probation officer who had written the presentencing report when Jeremy knocked on my door.

  In an office suite as small as ours—and working as closely together as we did—it was impossible for us to avoid each other completely. But in the two days since our run-in over the Hemans photos, we hadn’t really spoken. We had merely exchanged businesslike e-mails and nodded at each other when we passed in the hallway.

  He was, I assumed, either going to clear the air or forge some kind of detente. We couldn’t continue this way.

  “Come in, Jeremy,” I said.

  But there was nothing placatory about him as he entered. He strode quickly across the room to the edge of my desk, where he remained standing.

  “I just got a call from a roomful of lawyers on speakerphone,” he said. “Denny Palgraff didn’t show up for his deposition this morning.”

  I felt my head tilt to one side. “What do you mean he didn’t show up? He’s the plaintiff.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. He was scheduled for nine o’clock at the Marriott. He never came. They tried calling him. No answer. They went to the hotel where he was staying. He’s gone. He’s completely AWOL.”

  “But . . . why?”

  Jeremy turned up his palms. “Indigestion? How should I know?”

  I looked at the time on my computer screen. It was 12:08. I could imagine a conference room with too many lawyers breathing too little air, arguing over what to do, deciding that if they didn’t hear from Palgraff by noon they’d call my chambers—because maybe Judge Sampson would have an idea.

  My unreasonable deadline for the completion of discovery was the next Tuesday, now less than a week away. I had seen their schedule and it was packed. There was no room for delay. And they couldn’t very well finish discovery without a word or twelve thousand from Denny Palgraff.

  I cursed.

  “I’ve got them on hold,” Jeremy said. “I told them I’d talk to you. What should I say?”

  “Tell them to keep trying to find him. Maybe he just freaked out and is hiding in a coffee shop somewhere. If they can’t produce him, I want Roland Hemans and Clarence Worth sitting right here at five o’clock.”

  I pointed to the two chairs in front of my desk.

  “Okay,” Jeremy said. “You got it.”

  * * *

  I looked at the clock on the far wall of my office a few hundred times that afternoon. A missing plaintiff—and the delays his absence threatened to cause—accounted for some portion of my angst. A nonresponsive private investigator made up the rest of it.

  Even swiping through pictures of Emma on my phone didn’t help my addled mind settle down. Because, inevitably, some portion of the pictures had Alison in them. And that would make me wonder: Was she already planning something when this photo was taken? Can a camera capture the malice lurking in someone’s heart?

  Only Herb Thrift could tell me for sure. I might have rationalized that he was so occupied with tailing my wife he hadn’t checked his phone messages. Except surveillance work entailed an inordinate amount of downtime, when you had nothing better to do than check for messages. Over and over. Just to pass the time.

  I called several more times that afternoon anyway. Both home and cell. No answer.

  Was what he had seen that bad? Could he simply not find a way to tell me that Alison was involved in kidnapping her own daughter? Or was he not calling back because he suspected that was the case but didn’t want to make the accusation until he was sure? The uncertainty was consuming what little I had left of my wits.

  By a few minutes before five P.M., when I started to hear the noises of lawyers arriving at my chambers, I still hadn’t heard back from the man. My feelings about it had transitioned from wonder to outrage: How could he leave me twisting in the wind like this? Didn’t he realize a man who had his wife being tailed would be slowly dying inside the whole time?

  I did my best to put it out of my mind and focus on mediating the mess at hand. Out in the reception area, I could hear Mrs. Smith doing her hostess routine, offering the lawyers water and coffee. I suspected they all wanted something a lot stronger.

  There were three of them: Hemans and Worth, whom I had requested; and Vernon Willards, in-house counsel for ApotheGen, whom I had not.

  I invited them into my office, along with Jeremy. We were all appropriately grim-faced as we shook hands. With five people, sitting in front of my desk was going to be unwieldy. So I pointed us over to a small conference table by the window.

  “All right. Let’s get to it,” I said. “Could someone please talk me through what has happened today?”

  Worth, his slender fingers crossed, nodded toward his opposing counsel and said, “He’s your client. Go ahead.”

  Hemans straightened himself in his chair. Even without the benefit of his legs, he was half a head taller than anyone else at the table.

  “Speaking plainly, Judge?” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “My guy was supposed to come at nine this morning for his deposition, and he didn’t.”

  “Did you have any indication he was going to be a no-show?” I asked. “Was he nervous?”

  “Judge, I’m not comfortable discussing my client’s state of mind in front of
the—”

  “Cut the crap, Mr. Hemans,” I said. “We’re not in court right now and we’re not on the record. Just answer the question.”

  He actually recoiled a little. I’m sure outside a courthouse, no one would have dared bully Roland Hemans. But the fact was, inside the limestone walls of the Walter E. Hoffman United States Courthouse, I was the six-foot-eight stud.

  “Well, yeah, I’d say he was nervous,” Hemans said. “Shouldn’t he be? He’s a scientist, not a lawyer. He’s never been deposed before. He’s never been involved in a lawsuit. And the defense has, what, fifty-two lawyers?”

  “It’s less than that,” Worth said primly.

  “You get my point, Judge. Yeah, he seemed like he was a little anxious. And he’s a weird guy to start with. But I didn’t have any indication he had something like this in his head.”

  I sighed testily. Judges sometimes played up their impatience, simply to compel action out of a justice system that wasn’t designed with speed in mind. In my case, the display wasn’t affected.

  “All right, so he didn’t show up for his deposition and I assume he hasn’t answered his phone,” I said. “Please tell me you’ve had people looking for him.”

  “I sent one of my associates over to the hotel where he was staying—he was at a Motel 6 near the highway. We’re not on a Marriott budget on the plaintiff’s side, Your Honor. I thought maybe he overslept or was having car trouble. But he wasn’t there and neither was his car.”

  “The vegetable-oil car?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay. After that?”

  “Well, my associate called me, reported what she had found. At that point, I told Mr. Worth what was happening and he was kind enough to volunteer some of his people to help us look.”

  “As an officer of the court, I felt it was my duty,” Worth interjected, pleased with himself for the points he felt he was scoring with me. “We’ve had approximately twenty people fanned out around the city looking for Mr. Palgraff today; that’s along with”—he looked toward Hemans—“five or six from Mr. Hemans’ firm. We thought for sure Mr. Palgraff would be . . . Well, let’s just say we thought he’d be findable. We’re now assuming he’s not in the area.”

  Yes, with twenty-odd people looking for him, a fat, bearded, John Lennon–bespectacled scientist riding around Norfolk in a vegetable-oil-burping station wagon should have been easy to spot.

  I turned my attention back to Hemans. “So what you’re telling me is that, at this moment, you have absolutely no idea where your client is?”

  “That’s right, Judge,” Hemans said, slouching a little more.

  I let that settle in for a second as I tried to stanch the explosion of temper I felt coming on. If I could have found Denny Palgraff, I’d let him give his deposition. But first I’d choke him.

  It was Vernon Willards who broke the silence.

  “Your Honor, under the circumstances, I think it’s only right to delay the completion of discovery. As a matter of fact, my client would like to see the whole discovery schedule thrown out and have—”

  “Mr. . . . Willards, is that right?” I cut him off.

  He nodded. I wanted to choke him too.

  “I don’t recall asking you to come here today. And I don’t recall asking for your opinion. But now that you’ve given it, let me set you straight: There will be no delay in this case. There are millions of people out there whose lives could be dramatically extended by this drug. Are we understood?”

  “Yes, Judge,” he said.

  “Now, as for you, Mr. Hemans, I’m going to make this very simple. You have exactly forty-eight hours to produce your client and get him seated for a deposition, or I’m holding you in contempt. You will find Mr. Palgraff or you will spend the weekend in jail. Am I clear?”

  “But, Judge, how am I supposed to—”

  “Would you like to be held in contempt right now?” I asked. “I could have the US Marshals Service arrange accommodations for the evening. If you think the Motel 6 is a step down from the Marriott, you should try the Hampton Roads Regional Jail.”

  It was a naked and blatant abuse of my authority. And I hated myself for resorting to it. But I also wasn’t going to back down. And Hemans must have known it, because he said, “No, thank you, Judge. I’ll find my client.”

  “Very good,” I said. “Now, I think you’ve all got work to do. Get to it.”

  The three lawyers shuffled out. Jeremy, who hadn’t said a word the entire time, sat quietly until they were gone.

  “What?” I finally said. I could barely look at him. He, on the other hand, wasn’t letting his gaze drop.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “There’s a compelling public interest to keep this lawsuit on schedule and to get it resolved quickly.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “I know.”

  I got tired of being stared at, so I left the conference table and returned to my desk, where I sat heavily and pretended to busy myself with my computer screen. My tantrum now over, I felt a little shaky.

  Jeremy eventually stood and walked over.

  “Judge, what’s going on?” he asked. “Seriously. This isn’t . . . None of this is like you. It’s Wednesday. Why aren’t you swimming with your kids?”

  I pretended to busy myself with my phone, where there was a photo of Emma from the summer. She was on our little beach, wearing a new bathing suit we had just gotten her, pleased as pleased could be, posing like a beauty queen. I can remember thinking when I snapped the picture: Where do little girls learn how to stand like that? Do they learn it from watching other women? Or from Disney princesses? Or is it just in the air they breathe?

  “Hello? Judge? Maybe I can help?”

  “Just go,” I mumbled.

  Then I got up and went into my bathroom. I stayed in there until I was sure he had left.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  There was no reason for my continued presence at the office, but I spent the next half hour at my desk anyway, pretending to prepare for the sentencing the next day.

  Finally, I admitted to myself that I was stalling and the reason for it: I wanted to visit the home/office of Herbert Thrift & Associates to see why the man wasn’t returning my calls. I couldn’t go through another night of guessing at what he was witnessing.

  Alison would be expecting me at home any minute, which wasn’t going to happen. So I called her on our landline.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Hi,” she said. There was a clipped edge to her voice. I could hear cartoons in the background.

  “I’ve gotten hung up here. We’re having a little crisis.”

  “How soon can you wrap it up?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because I . . . I’d really like you to come home.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Hang on,” she said. The sound of the cartoons grew faint, then disappeared.

  In a hushed voice, she said, “I heard gunfire earlier today. It sounded really close. I’m sure it was on our property. I’m scared to let Sam out. I’m scared to go out myself.”

  “It was probably just hunters.”

  “There were two shots,” she went on, ignoring my suggestion. “They were maybe five seconds apart.”

  “One shot to bring the animal down and then another to finish it off.”

  “We have NO HUNTING signs posted.”

  I couldn’t very well suggest she call in a complaint to the game warden. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I’ll be home as soon I can. There’s just one thing I need to finish up. I’m sorry.”

  She signaled her feelings about this by hanging up on me.

  It was now twenty minutes to seven. Herb Thrift had ended his surveillance of Alison at six. If he
went straight home, that would put him back at six forty-five.

  I collected my things and was soon out into the early evening, with my Buick rolling toward Herb Thrift’s place. Ten minutes later, I pulled off Northampton Boulevard and into the small client lot by the side of his shabby old house. I walked up the front steps and pressed the buzzer three times without an answer.

  Where was this guy? Why was he ducking me? I swore loudly and tromped around to the back of the house. If Herb Thrift was anywhere on this property, I was by God going to find him.

  At the end of the driveway, there was an old, detached garage. I peered in through a cracked windowpane. There was a small pickup truck parked there.

  So was he actually home? Had he even been following my wife at all? I swore again.

  The back side of the house had its own entrance. I stomped noisily up the steps and knocked on the door. From inside, I could hear voices. It was either a television or a radio. I knocked again, harder.

  “Mr. Thrift?” I said loudly, and stood on the landing, my fists jammed into my sides.

  No answer.

  This time, I pounded on the door with the butt of my hand. “Mr. Thrift, this is getting very aggravating,” I hollered. “I paid you in cash.”

  From next door, a gray-haired woman briefly appeared on her deck and fisheyed me.

  “Mind your own business,” I snarled.

  She retreated back into her house. I gave the door another thumping and hollered his name again.

  Fuming now, I stalked back to my car, went into my briefcase, and tore a sheet off a legal pad. I hastily wrote, “Mr. Thrift—CALL ME.” I underlined it three times, then added my name and phone number.

  I returned to the back door and wedged the note into the crevice just above the handle, where he couldn’t miss it. Then I drove off in a righteous huff.

  FORTY-NINE

  It was well after dark by the time the older brother saw headlights on the driveway.

  They did not blink twice to signal all clear, like they were supposed to. But it was clearly the van, clearly being driven by the younger brother. And nothing seemed to be out of order.