And yet, with the success they’d enjoyed and her obvious love of the practice, she still hadn’t hesitated to leave it all for Emily. Seven years later, sitting together on the patio of Pasco’s Tex-Mex Grill overlooking Lake Union, Carolyn had nodded toward their young daughter, watching the boats on the water below. Then she’d smiled at him with those same eyes he’d seen at Starbucks years before.
“I’m leaving law for awhile,” she’d said simply. “I can’t take another week separated from my only daughter. She needs me.”
Then she’d taken Ryan’s hands. “I’ll come back to practice with you again after she’s older. You’ll do fine without me for awhile.”
He’d looked past her shoulder toward a passing catamaran on the lake, its jib sail puffed with wind like a sack stuffed with possibility. It would be fine, he’d thought. Just never the same.
She filled in the space with Emily that his absences created—that both their absences had been creating. And she continued to partner with him in law as his mentor of the heart—advising on cases to take or leave, listening at home in the evenings, even helping him strategize and prepare closing arguments. And he kept winning. Maybe with more sweat and less grace. But he won. And he never stopped planning for the day she’d return to the practice with him. Until the cancer arrived that made a mockery of all planning.
He was within sight of the Annex now, just another half a block away. This street was quieter than most. There were no children in the yards or traffic passing. Only a lone white van parked at the curb between Ryan and the Annex’s front door.
Emily was leaving the house, arm in arm with Kieran. They stopped beside Kieran’s battered car. Ryan watched as they turned and spoke a moment before she took his face in her hands and kissed him.
He wanted to be shocked and angry, but he was neither. Her feelings for Kieran had been no secret for weeks now, only their depth. He wanted to warn her about falling in love with someone you might lose too soon, but watching her looking at Kieran as he’d once looked at Carolyn, Ryan knew that was a waste of time.
Could he believe in Kieran’s case now? Perhaps not as much as Emily. But yes, he guessed he did, though mostly by the same deductive logic Dr. Trân had applied today. He believed that Kieran did not deliberately turn the Vat 17 valve. He believed that the boy wasn’t capable of that kind of deceit—or of keeping it a secret this long from Emily and himself. He believed that Kieran was genuinely harmed that night—perhaps quite seriously. He believed that Covington was covering up what happened that night. Though he wasn’t sure he bought the depths of conspiracy implied by Dr. Trân, any cover-up still implied guilt and secrets. And maybe—just maybe—he could accept the possibility of Dr. Trân’s logic about the cause of the explosion.
So yes, he believed enough in Kieran’s case, and all that was very relevant and very important. But where did that leave him? Should he offer to do more? Shoulder a major role in the approaching trial? Emily still hadn’t asked—and perhaps she’d never ask. But after what he’d just seen confirmed about Emily’s feelings for Kieran on the Annex lawn, maybe that couldn’t matter anymore. Not if it was in his power to make a difference in the life of someone Emily cared about the way he’d cared for Carolyn.
Kieran and Emily were gone by the time Ryan entered the Annex front door. Emily was nowhere downstairs. He took the staircase to her bedroom door, which was ajar.
“Emily?” he called, pushing it gently open.
She was seated on the bed, facing away. She turned as he entered, her eyes shot through with hopelessness.
“I can’t help Kieran. I can’t win his case, Dad. I can’t beat them. I keep telling myself that I can, but I can’t.”
Ryan sat down on the bed beside her and put his arm around her shoulder.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Let’s talk about that.”
Chapter 28
SEVEN DAYS UNTIL TRIAL
Adam leaned back in his desk chair as he finished his review of the summary of Dr. Virgil Strong’s expert report.
This was satisfactory, he thought. He picked up the phone and called the contact number Cameron Foote had provided.
“Sharon? Yes. I’m just checking to see if the award letter has been released to the USC Health Sciences Department yet. The one confirming the final decision to fund the new chair. No? Well, could you please see that it goes out today? Fax and mail. Thank you.”
Adam knew Dr. Virgil Strong. He’d looked into hiring him for the Project at one time. The man was a top expert in nuclear physics, though his personality had not been judged suitable for their purposes in Project Wolffia. So when the scientist’s name came up as a potential expert for the Mullaney lawyers, Adam had been seriously troubled.
He’d considered bribery, but Virgil Strong was almost certainly above a direct solicitation, which was, in any event, extremely tricky business. No, a better course was to take advantage of the fact that the man was no less ambitious than any professor in line for department head at a major university.
The offer of a newly funded chair honoring Dr. Strong’s work in health physics had not even been conveyed by Covington Nuclear, but through a foundation openly funded by Covington’s parent company. Adam hadn’t asked Cameron Foote what channels he’d used to convey the information to Dr. Strong that the chair was under “immediate” consideration by the foundation.
They hadn’t wished to buy the man. They’d only needed to influence him. This summary of Strong’s report to Mullaney’s attorneys, obtained by a graduate student of Strong’s on a highly paid summer internship with Covington Nuclear at Los Alamos, proved they had been successful.
If this summary was correct, Strong’s expert report in the Mullaney case took no risks, plumbed no depths. It was entirely satisfactory.
And the Health Sciences Department at the University of Southern California would get its new chair.
Ryan slowed his pace as he reached the Annex. He wasn’t a morning runner; he preferred exercise as catharsis after a full day of work. But today it felt good to get out early, with the pretrial status conference in the afternoon. Especially given his anxiety about receiving Dr. Strong’s reports: the professor’s secretary had left a message on Friday that they would be delivered before noon this morning.
He’d spoken with Dr. Strong several more times at the end of last week, sending more documents and answering questions about Kieran’s recollections. He’d considered conveying Dr. Trân’s reports to the USC professor. In the end he hadn’t, uncertain what effect they would have.
But this was unprecedented for Ryan, to be hours from exchanging final expert reports with an opposing attorney without even having seen them himself.
A FedEx truck approached from down the street. Ryan stood on the lawn and watched it slow beside him.
A uniformed man appeared from the driver’s side. “Are you Ryan Hart?” he asked.
At Ryan’s nod, the man handed him a thick envelope, which Ryan signed for. He was tearing open the package as the man said, “Have a good one,” and stepped away.
There was a single bound document inside: Cause of LB5 Explosion and Related Health Effects. Under the title was stamped “Dr. Virgil Strong, Member, Faculty of University of Southern California Health Physics Department.”
Ryan flipped straight to the back to read the “Summary of Opinions” just as Emily came out of the Annex to join him.
“How’s it look?” she asked tentatively.
Ryan didn’t glance up, but began to read out loud.
“In sum, based upon the chemical data, blast force, time parameters . . .”
He skipped ahead.
“. . . it is my expert opinion that the October 16, 2013, explosions in Lab Building 5 of the Hanford Reservation were most likely caused by an autocatalytic event, triggered by the opening of a valve on the bottom of Vat 17 by person or persons unknown. . . . It is also my opinion that there is insufficient evidence from the blood samples to conclude that K
ieran Mullaney was exposed to ionizing radiation as a result of the explosions.”
Ryan felt the blood drain from his face. “Strong’s sided with Covington Nuclear,” he muttered.
His cell phone pressed hard against his ear. Ryan paced the hall outside Judge Renway’s courtroom in the Sherman Federal Courthouse.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hart, but Professor Strong isn’t available just now,” the secretary said calmly. “I’m glad to take a message.”
Ryan struggled to keep his voice down. “I’ve left four messages today already.”
“I am so sorry, Mr. Hart,” the solicitous woman responded. “I’ve forwarded your earlier messages to Dr. Strong’s office, but I don’t believe he’s even been in yet today. I’ll be sure to alert him to the urgency of your calls just as soon as I see him.”
“Add this message to the last, please,” Ryan spat. “Tell him to collect the rest of his fee from Covington Nuclear.”
He nearly tossed the phone across the hall.
Strong’s report, with a few quibbles, had validated Covington’s position in this case—even to the point of downplaying the significance of the blood results. In twenty years of practice, Ryan had never had an expert so clearly turned. And they’d done it with such impeccable timing.
Fifty thousand dollars for Strong’s version of the blood study, plus the prepaid portion of Strong’s fees. All fodder for the shredder.
Ryan took a deep breath to get his heart rate under control. Covington had gotten to Strong—or maybe they’d always had him. His paranoia meter soared. Could he really trust Dr. Trân—or was his betrayal just being delayed until trial?
His hands had stopped shaking enough that Ryan pushed through the doors into Judge Renway’s courtroom.
“Your Honor,” Emily protested from counsel table, “we need this inspection of the lower levels of LB5 because our expert concludes that the explosion likely started in those lower glove boxes.”
The judge, resplendent in his blue robe, was peering over the bench at Emily. “Ms. Hart, discovery closed in this case months ago. Now you want Covington to prepare the building for an inspection—including sampling—only seven days before trial?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Emily pressed. She was on her feet, with Kieran at her side looking down at the table. “Final expert reports were only due today; months ago, we couldn’t have known what other evidence might be relevant in light of our expert’s conclusions.”
The judge shook his head with a look Ryan interpreted as self-righteous solemnity. “The expert reports were only due so late at your request. And your expert could have alerted you to additional evidence he desired when still in the process of preparing his report.”
King, occupying the counsel table to Emily’s left, looked smug and satisfied. Why not, Ryan thought. He didn’t even need to open his mouth. The judge was making every argument for him.
“If I can remind the court,” Emily said, leaning into her own table, “we have only been attorneys in this case for less than sixty days. We have been working day and night to meet this Court’s schedule—”
The judge’s expression grew darker as he interrupted. “And I will remind Counsel that you knew the deadlines when you took the case.”
Through the veil of his disappointment today, Ryan felt proud of Emily. She wasn’t giving an inch. There was no need for him to resume his seat at counsel table next to Kieran: Emily was holding her own, even if this judge wasn’t budging.
Emily launched several more tacks, none of which made the slightest dent in the judge’s position. At last, Renway brought down the gavel.
“For the last time, your request is denied, Counsel. And since that was the last matter to cover today, we’re adjourned until trial commences next Monday afternoon, a week from today.”
King gathered his papers and left the courtroom at his usual rocket pace—as though fearing Ryan would follow again. The clerks followed the judge out. Kieran stood and thanked Emily dispiritedly. “I’ve gotta make a quick call,” he said, then left the room.
Emily and Ryan were alone in the cavernous courtroom. “Nothing from Strong?” she asked quietly.
Ryan shook his head. “Nope. He’s ducking my calls. We’re done with him.”
“Then I guess it’s Dr. Trân.”
Ryan smiled with more optimism than he felt. “I guess so.”
He gestured toward the door. “You think Kieran’s doing okay?”
Emily shook her head. “No. But he’s putting on a good face. Especially with Renway slapping us down again.”
Ryan nodded. “This was a foregone conclusion. But you did well today, Counselor.”
They pulled together their papers—including Covington’s final expert reports that they’d received that morning from Eric King. Ryan had already reviewed them quickly: there was little new. But then, Covington didn’t need anything new at this stage. Most of the arrows in this case were already in their quiver—including the judge who’d just left the courtroom.
They did have a small element of surprise for the first day of trial: Ryan’s participation. The last three days, he and Emily had hammered out a new split of responsibility. This was still Emily’s case. But Ryan had the opening statement, Kieran’s testimony, and other key parts of their case in chief—parts where his experience would count the most. Emily had closing arguments, most of the workers—including Taylor Christensen—and, at Ryan’s suggestion, Dr. Trân.
Emily’s unspoken relief had been immediate and powerful. Her role was still primary, but she no longer stood alone on the front line of a complex, difficult trial.
“Come on,” Ryan said. “The lawyer who sits in the gallery buys lunch.”
Emily smiled weakly. “That a tradition?”
Ryan patted her back. “It is now.”
Chapter 29
“Poppy. Poppy Martin.”
He looked up from the handful of washers he held in his open hand. The lighting in aisle four of the Sherman Ace Hardware was a little dim—or maybe his eyes were just tired—but he didn’t recognize the barrel-chested man striding toward him.
The man drew close and Poppy realized there was a reason he didn’t recognize the grinning thick-armed man who was acting like Poppy was a lost cousin: he’d never seen him before in his life.
“Poppy,” the man began, still grinning, “my name’s Mel Emerson. I transferred to Hanford a few years ago from Los Alamos. I heard you were in that explosion last October, out at LB5. I wanted to say I’m really sorry you got caught up in that mess. See, I was one of the regular guards you replaced that night.”
Poppy looked him over, wondering why he’d never met a guard who’d been at Hanford that long—and why, in that case, this Emerson had recognized him. He wasn’t sure how to respond. “You’re welcome,” he said, awkwardly.
Emerson just stood there, as though waiting for Poppy to say something more. His discomfort growing, Poppy muttered a “See you around” and dropped all but two of the washers back into the open bin before starting in the opposite direction, toward the checkout counter.
Poppy’s tension rose as Emerson matched his steps down the aisle. What’s he following me for, he thought. And why’s he walking so close?
“Hey, listen, Poppy,” Emerson said as they reached the cashier. “I heard about that business at the softball game a few weeks back. You showed real guts stepping in for that kid. Real guts. Some of the guys at LB5, when they heard about that, weren’t too happy. But I told them, that Poppy’s a man of principle.”
Poppy’s stomach knotted. “Thanks, Mel,” he muttered again, trying to look disinterested as he reached into his hip pocket for his wallet.
Now he was really too close, leaning in like he was Poppy’s best friend about to give him a secret stock tip.
“Yep, that really took guts, Poppy,” Emerson went on. “Especially since you’ve got to be as mad as anybody about this lawsuit by Kieran Mullaney, am I right?”
Poppy ign
ored the last comment, accepting his change with a nod at the cashier who was trying to look away from the conversation, then striding toward the exit with Emerson on his heels. Out on the street, he sensed Emerson’s presence the instant before he felt a grip on his arm, bringing him to a stop.
He turned hard on the man. “What do you want.”
Emerson’s eyes narrowed. “You sound angry, Poppy. You don’t have any reason to be mad at me. I didn’t cause the explosion. The Mullaney kid did. He’s the one you should be mad at.”
Poppy sized the man up. Though he’d been looking from a distance, this guy wasn’t too far off from the height and shape of the man who’d gone up to Kieran’s house with the crows that day. Maybe even one of the guys in the shadows of the retirement home that night, loading the body into the SUV under the lamplight.
“The kid’s a gold digger, Poppy,” Emerson went on. “We all know the risks of working at a nuclear defense facility. If he doesn’t like it, he can quit and move to Seattle or Portland. He shouldn’t mess with the mission. There’s plenty of others who would kill for his job.”
Kill for his job. An image arose of the crows in Mullaney’s garden.
“Just what mission are we talking about, Emerson,” Poppy said.
The man leaned in close again. “We all know the mission, Poppy. It’s never changed. And there’s no sidelines here. In this industry, nobody’s ever had that luxury. You’ve gotta pick sides.”
He’s talking about my refusal to change my statement, Poppy thought, a fire lighting in his chest.
“So whose side are you on?” Poppy muttered, stepping back enough to throw a punch.
He wondered if he could take this guy, who had three inches and fifteen years on him. He could or he couldn’t, but Poppy was past caring. Everything that was happening to him was suddenly centered on this man standing three feet away in the hardware store parking lot. He wanted this to happen now.
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