“She said it felt like he was toying with her.”
Vaughn chews on what Erin has told him. “We absolutely need Laurie to testify. Without her to authenticate the crash video, the judge won’t let us admit it. It’s as simple as that.”
Erin goes inside and brings out two more bottles. Handing one to Vaughn, she asks how his cousin is holding up.
“When I first saw him inside, he looked thin to me, like he’d already lost weight. His original prison stint destroyed him for a decade. I can’t imagine what it would do to him to serve hard time again.” Vaughn pauses here. “And today, when Nunzio showed him the video—it really rocked him. When Eddy realized that the train wreck had been planned, he looked like a person whose whole worldview was shattered. He told me all he wants to do is to round up Kate and Emma and move back to that dingy little farmhouse.”
“Have you talked to your family?”
“Just my uncle Frank. I brought him up to date on everything, and told him about Nunzio being with us now. That last part was a huge relief for him.”
Erin studies Vaughn. “What’s your feeling going into this?”
Vaughn thinks for a minute. Then he stands and faces Erin. “I’m not optimistic, but I’m not pessimistic, either. I don’t really know how it’s going to turn out. But I know this: I’ve never been looking forward to a fight more than this one. I want to look those bastards in the eye, see the shock in their faces when I lift the rock they’ve been crawling under, and watch them fry in the sun.”
32
WEDNESDAY, JULY 30
Benjamin Balzac paces his office, nervously fingering an unlit cigar. He’s spent the past two days obsessing over Laurie Mitzner’s betrayal. His original thought was to have fun with her, toy with her for a while. But her disloyalty has proved too distressful for him to bear. It’s always been his practice to have infiltrators inside the large defense houses and major plaintiff’s firms. He’s planted moles, and he’s co-opted existing employees. To his thinking, spies are a normal part of business. But the idea that someone else has turned one of his own employees enrages him. Laurie must be made to pay, as a matter of principle. But first, he has to find out what, if anything, she and her conspirators have learned about the train crash.
Balzac lifts his cell and dials. “Badger,” he says when Royce answers, “I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I want my associate taken right away.”
“No problem. Uh, but there’s that issue with disposal. There’s no more room in my basement.”
“That won’t be a problem. I want you to bring her to my place. I want to interrogate her.”
“Interrogate? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Badgett chuckles. “All right, then.”
It’s just before noon, and Vaughn is exhausted. He’s been on the phone for four hours with Assistant District Attorney Christina Wesley, finalizing the scores of evidentiary stipulations she will read into the record at the preliminary hearing. Stipulations as to the identities of the crash victims, the causes of deaths of those killed, and the nature of the survivors’ injuries. And stipulations concerning details of the crash itself.
The purpose of the stipulations is to save time by avoiding the need to present legions of witnesses to testify to each and every one of a thousand facts about which there is no dispute. Without the stipulations, the preliminary hearing would take weeks—something neither side wants and the court would never tolerate. Preliminary hearings are not meant to be drawn-out affairs. On a typical day, a Philly judge could run through three or even four homicide prelims.
Still, Vaughn is far more cooperative with Christina Wesley than he would be on a typical case. He can tell that she’s wary of his easy compliance. She assumes it’s some sort of ploy. And, in a way, it is. Unlike in a normal case, Vaughn wants as much damning evidence admitted onto the record—both the official record and the public record—as possible. That’s because his cousin’s fate will not hinge on the contours of the prosecutor’s evidence, but on the testimony and evidence Vaughn himself presents. Vaughn’s plan is to let the prosecution’s fires burn, then fan the flames himself, let them explode into the laps of Balzac, Day, and their cronies.
“E-mail me the stipulations,” Vaughn says. “I’ll sign them, and you can submit the writings for the record. That way, you won’t have to read them all. The judge wouldn’t be happy with you if you did that.”
Christina pauses. “Okay. But I’m going to read some of the stipulations aloud.”
“I get it,” Vaughn says. “The press will be there. But we both know the judge is going to cut you off.”
“And I’m still going to present the witnesses I told you about.”
“Again, the press will be there, so of course you will.” While being cooperative, he still has to rattle her chain a little bit.
“This isn’t about the press,” Christina says. Vaughn doesn’t answer, so she continues. “I don’t know what game you’re playing here, Vaughn. But this isn’t the type of case to play fast and loose with. This was a real tragedy. A lot of people lost their lives and loved ones.”
Vaughn considers saying something snarky, but holds himself back. Instead, he takes the high road with Christina. An advocate to the court, she fights hard on every case and believes she’s doing the right thing. He respects her. “You’re right. Everything you said is true. And you’re just doing your job. So I’m going to give you a heads-up. You think this case is big. And it is. You think all those people were victims, and they were. But you don’t know the half of it.”
“The hell I don’t.”
Vaughn hears the heat in Christina’s voice, and he knows right away that’s she’s taking this case personally. And how could she not? Scores dead and hundreds injured—all seemingly because the engineer entrusted with their lives was talking on his phone as his train raced down the track. The scenario is a paradigm for how vulnerable everyone is, how each and every one of us depends for his life on the care and diligence of people we don’t even know: the thousands of drivers traveling with or against us on the road to and from work each day; the pharmacists who fill our prescriptions; the manufacturers who design and produce our cars, planes, trains, boats, lawn mowers, and four-wheelers. And most of all, the people whose jobs involve assuming physical possession of our bodies: pilots, bus drivers, limo drivers, and engineers. For this last group, especially, there must be consequences—criminal consequences—when they betray our trust and place us in peril.
To any good prosecutor, Commonwealth v. Edward Coburn would be a personal mission. To a true believer like Christina Wesley, it’s a holy crusade.
“Look, Christina,” Vaughn says, his voice quiet and even, and devoid of all sarcasm or irony, “I don’t expect you to believe me or even understand me yet, but I’m going to tell you anyway. You and I are on the same side.” With this, he gently hangs up the phone.
For a long while, Vaughn sits, almost motionless, at his desk. He thinks about the monstrous crime perpetrated against the train passengers and the injustice being imposed on his cousin, and his blood starts to boil. It’s time to face down these pricks . . . or at least one of them.
Twenty minutes later, Vaughn enters the Comcast Technology building and walks to the security desk. “I’m here to see Erin Doyle, with Day and Lockwood,” he tells the guard. “I’m not on the list, so you’ll have to call up.”
The guard places the call and tells Erin that Vaughn Coburn is in the lobby. Vaughn’s cell phone rings while the guard is still on Erin’s office line, and Vaughn realizes she must be calling him from her cell.
“What are you doing here?” Erin asks.
“I came to take you to lunch.”
“Why didn’t you call ahead so I could meet you somewhere?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Well, you can’t come up here.”
Vaughn says nothing.
“Vaughn?”
“The guard is waiting for you to cl
ear me.”
“Are you crazy? Everyone here knows who you are. I can’t have them see me with you. It would . . . it would . . .”
“What? Spell the end for you at Day and Lockwood?”
Erin doesn’t answer, and Vaughn can hear her thinking. Then he hears her talking to the guard, from her office line.
“You’re good to go,” the guard tells Vaughn. “Fortieth floor. Middle elevator bank.”
The elevator doors open to Day and Lockwood’s reception area, and Vaughn is dazzled by the sunlight washing through the fifteen-foot floor-to-ceiling windows. The marble floor and blond wood walls reflect the light, which bounces brilliantly off the sparkling crystal statuettes and cut flowers positioned throughout the area—and the Monets and Manets hanging on the walls.
“Well-done forgeries,” Erin says quietly, following his eyes as she meets him. “The originals are in one of Geoffrey’s houses. Come on, let’s go to my office before a crowd forms.”
She leads Vaughn down a series of broad hallways lined with secretarial surrounds on the one side and, on the other, glass walls through which Vaughn can see to the external windows and—far below—the city.
“Home sweet home,” she says as they reach her office. She turns to her assistant, who’s pretending to be busy shuffling documents. “Marie, this is Vaughn Coburn. We went to law school together.”
“Oh, hello. It’s nice to meet you,” Marie says, lifting her head.
Before he has a chance to answer, Vaughn spots Geoffrey Day moving toward him. He recognizes Day’s rigid posture, bald pate, and ready-to-scold look from the press conferences.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Coburn,” Geoffrey says. “I’d have expected you’d be hunkered down, getting ready for the preliminary hearing.”
Vaughn pauses to size up his adversary, look him in the eye the way two boxers do before a fight. He wonders if Geoffrey Day has figured out that’s why he’s here. Wonders whether the man even thinks in those terms.
“Vaughn just stopped by to pick me up for lunch,” Erin says.
“Is that right? I didn’t know you were friends with Mr. Coburn, too.”
“Too?” Erin furrows her brow.
“Mr. Nunzio,” Day says. “You must have a very large social circle.” Day’s thin smile fails to disguise his disapproving gaze. He turns to Vaughn. “I must say that this seems more than a little inappropriate—your being here. You know I represent many of the train-crash victims.”
Vaughn leans into Day. “I represent one of them myself.”
At this moment, Corey King hurriedly approaches. “It’s gone,” he says. “The drone. Somebody’s taken it.”
Vaughn turns, and King’s jaw drops.
“Wow,” Vaughn says, “you guys have your own drone? Like the CIA uses to kill people in Afghanistan?”
Corey casts Vaughn a furious glance and is about to say something when Day jumps in.
“That’s impossible,” Day says. “Why would anyone want to steal our drone? And how could they get it out without being noticed?” A queer look forms on his face. He turns to Erin and stares.
“What’s he doing here?” asks Corey, now also looking at Erin.
“He’s picking me up for lunch. Speaking of which, we’re late.” Erin grabs Vaughn’s arm and pulls him to the elevator.
Day watches them leave, then strides quickly to his office and places a call. Balzac keeps him on hold for a full five minutes.
“Unacceptable,” Day mumbles, watching the minutes tick off.
“What’s unacceptable?” Balzac says, having picked up the phone.
“He had the gall to come to my office—”
“Who are you talking—”
“The engineer’s lawyer. Coburn. And you were right about him and my associate. They’re thick as thieves. Speaking of which, my drone is missing, and I believe that she—Erin Doyle—took it.”
“You and that fucking drone.”
Day hears something crash in Balzac’s office. “Something has to be done, Benjamin. I’m concerned those two are digging far too deeply.”
The silence feels like a tangible thing as Balzac broods on the other end of the line.
“Did you hear me, Benjamin? Something must be done.”
“I’m working on it,” Balzac growls, and the line goes dead.
33
THURSDAY, JULY 31
In Philadelphia, preliminary hearings in homicide cases are held in Courtroom 306. It’s a high-security space, the visitors’ gallery separated from the well of the court, where the judge and lawyers preside, by a wall of bulletproof Plexiglas. Because of this, Courtroom 306 is known as the “fishbowl.” Entry to the well may only be gained through a metal security door that must be buzzed open from the inside.
Vaughn is sitting at the defense table, which, from the perspective of the gallery, is on the left side. The prosecutor’s table is on the right, and between the two is the podium. A door in the wall to Vaughn’s left opens, and Eddy, wearing the prisoner’s garb of white T-shirt and jeans, is led to the defense table by a sheriff’s deputy. Vaughn reaches over to his cousin, clasps Eddy’s forearm, and speaks near his ear.
“You ready?”
Eddy nods.
Vaughn straightens the papers on the table, then looks behind him, through the Plexiglas partition. The gallery is a dark space with gray walls, no windows, and dim high-hat lighting. Eight rows of pew-style seats finished with scratched and dented black lacquer are jam-packed with members of the press, crash victims, and their families. Sitting in the pews behind the defense table are Eddy’s and Vaughn’s own family members: Frank and Claire Coburn; Vaughn’s parents, John and Kathy; Eddy’s sisters, Jean and Peg. And, of course, in the front row, Kate, holding baby Emma and bookended by her two parents. Vaughn looks through the glass and acknowledges the family.
Directly across from Kate, behind the prosecution table, on a two-person pew, are Geoffrey Day and Benjamin Balzac. Day sits with his head tilted back, nose in the air. Balzac scowls. Looking through the glass, Vaughn tosses each of them a hard look, then starts to turn away when he spots, directly behind them, two more familiar faces: James Nunzio and Johnny Giacobetti. Vaughn does a double take, and it troubles him that they are sitting behind the prosecution. He also doesn’t like that they register nothing when he looks at them.
Vaughn turns toward the front of the courtroom in time to see the judge enter and take the bench. Regina Johnson is a no-nonsense African American woman in her late forties. She was a career prosecutor before ascending to the bench. Vaughn has appeared before her in the past, and although some defense attorneys criticize her as having a prosecutor’s mind-set, he’s always found her to be fair. Judge Johnson can affect a folksy demeanor, but she’s sharp as a whip and brooks no disrespect. Vaughn is glad she’s been assigned to the hearing.
“Counsel, announce your names,” the court clerk says, and Vaughn and Christina Wesley do so.
Judge Johnson looks to the prosecutor.
“The Commonwealth would like to introduce exhibits C-1 to C-36.”
“And those exhibits are?” asks the court.
Christina pauses for impact. “Death certificates.”
Judge Johnson looks to Vaughn. “Objections?”
“None, Your Honor.”
The judge accepts the exhibits, and Christina moves on to the stipulations she and Vaughn have agreed to.
“Stipulation one: Joseph Underhoffer, age twenty-three, was removed from railcar number 5702 of Amtrak Train 174 on Monday, June sixteenth, at 1:45 p.m. He was transported to Germantown Hospital, where he was pronounced dead at 2:20 p.m. His remains were taken to the medical examiner’s office, where the ME, Dr. Weintraub, determined to a reasonable degree of medical certainty that the cause of death was crush injuries to the head and torso, sustained in the crash.
“Stipulation two: Marie Johns, age fifty-one, was removed from railcar number 5702, of Amtrak Train 174 on Monday, June sixteenth, at 2:0
0 p.m. She was transported to Temple University Hospital, where she was pronounced dead at 3:15 p.m. Her remains were taken to the medical examiner, where Dr. Weintraub determined to a reasonable degree of medical certainty that the cause of death was exsanguination from traumatic amputation injuries to both legs, sustained in the crash.
“Stipulation three—”
“Ms. Wesley, excuse me,” Judge Johnson interrupts. “How many stipulations are there regarding the deaths and injuries?”
“There are thirty-four more stipulations regarding the deceased victims, and two hundred and five stipulations regarding the injured.”
“Uh-huh. These stipulations have all been reduced to writing, I assume, and defense counsel has seen them?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Coburn.” The judge is now looking at Vaughn. “Do you have any objection to the Commonwealth simply placing the written stipulations onto the record?”
“No, Your Honor. So long as the public has access to those stipulations. My client and I want to make sure that the public is fully apprised of the full scope of the human suffering caused by this tragedy.”
Judge Johnson raises her eyebrows at this but says nothing, then looks back to the prosecutor.
“As our next exhibits,” says Christina Wesley, “the prosecution offers C-37 to C-300. Photographs of the deceased and injured, showing the terrible injuries inflicted on the victims.”
At this point, Vaughn would normally object, arguing that the photographs are too inflammatory and, with the nature of the injuries already stipulated to, serve no purpose in the task at hand, which is simply for the judge to determine whether there is enough evidence to bind the defendant over for trial. The prosecution would normally argue that the judge can be trusted to dispassionately review the photographs, not be swayed by emotion. And the normal thing would be for the judge to sustain the objection and decline to look at the photos.
The judge waits for Vaughn’s objection. When it doesn’t come, she looks at him. “Mr. Coburn?”
An Engineered Injustice (Philadelphia Legal) Page 23
