Critical Reaction

by Todd M Johnson

  King always had as much optimism as money could buy. Adam didn’t believe in uncertainties, and this was the second source of uncertainty in two weeks. Despite King’s failed attempt to mollify him, these setbacks were adding up.

  “Keep me alerted,” he snapped.

  As he dropped the phone onto the passenger seat, Adam considered calling Foote to apprise him. But that wasn’t such a good idea. If he called Foote about this turn of events, it would sound like a major setback. If he told Foote in the course of their next conversation about the successful Wolffia test, he could paint Renway’s departure as no serious problem.

  He pulled back onto the road. Adam wished he could sit in on trial. But he couldn’t, and he had to let the idea go. Besides, he had lots yet to do. The successful Project test ended the first phase of seven long years of research, but there were more tests to run—then the necessity to begin production planning and reach out to the DOE and defense departments about the new technology. And while Foote would be leading that effort, Adam knew he was expected to be very close by.

  The next few months were going to be busy enough without sitting in a courtroom. Despite his dwindling confidence in King, he had to rely on the lawyer to see this through.

  Still, Adam told himself, he’d have to keep more careful tabs on the events at the courthouse than he’d ever planned or hoped for.

  Chapter 32

  Judge Johnston was presiding over her courtroom gingerly on this first afternoon of the trial. Not unexpected, Ryan thought, with only hours to step in. Now Ryan and Emily sat waiting in the moments after jury selection while the judge finished conferring with her clerk.

  Just before noon, Ryan had reached Judge Freyling in Seattle by phone for his impressions of their new judge, based on their time together on the King County bench. Freyling had not hesitated to respond. “Decisive,” he’d said. “Prepares well. Don’t push her, though. She’s got a slow fuse, but you don’t want to be the one at the podium when she goes off.”

  They might have to ignore that last advice, Ryan thought—if they had to take this chance to alter Renway’s rulings to date.

  Emily passed him a note: “What do you think of the jury?”

  They hadn’t had a chance to talk since the last juror was selected. He glanced at the final panel of three men and five women in the box—six regulars and two alternates. They were the product of nearly three hours of dueling questions, or “voir dire,” of the candidates, with King pitted against Emily and Ryan, taking turns. Two of the jurors now looked resentful, probably convinced the government had just unfairly stolen two weeks of their lives. In contrast, several wore expressions of excitement.

  Ryan scribbled back a quick note: Fine. Good to have more women, who’ll be more sympathetic. Wish there was less “Hanford” in the box.

  It was an accurate summary of his feelings. As Pauline had warned, avoiding Hanford’s influence in the jury box had been impossible. Ryan and Emily had taken turns asking everything from family histories to favorite magazines to travel preferences in an effort to tease out the jury candidates’ perspectives on Hanford. These eight jurors—ages twenty-two to sixty-four—included a high school teacher, a doctor, a saleswoman, two office workers, two homemakers, and a mechanic. They had been the ones who displayed the least slavish affinity to Hanford, in Emily’s and Ryan’s estimation. Still, only the teacher and the pharmaceuticals saleswoman lacked any apparent Hanford ties whatsoever.

  But then, each side had only three “preemptory” challenges, the strongest card a lawyer had to play in voir dire—the ability to eliminate prospective jurors without proving prejudice. Ryan had insisted they use two of theirs to take out hard-edged male candidates who would have eviscerated Kieran’s case. The third was a more subtle choice, but Emily had prevailed, convincing Ryan that a woman chiropractor was casting bad vibrations about the case. Ryan would have paid a large amount of money for two more preemptories, but absent that choice, this was probably as good as they could hope for.

  He glanced at defense counsel’s table. Eric King had a young female associate with him today—along with an unknown company rep from Covington HQ to serve as the company’s symbol at trial. Ryan thought his principal qualifications for being there appeared to be his youth, a cleft chin, and a suit that fit well.

  King wore multicolored suspenders peeking from a navy blue suit and sported a fine shine on his shoes. His associate was equally well dressed—overdressed, actually, for somebody who’d likely spend her days shepherding papers for King. She’d best not expect to take any witnesses of her own, Ryan thought. King wasn’t the kind to yield the spotlight to a subordinate. Ryan had him pegged as incapable of imagining anyone else taking a turn at the podium for the defense.

  Emily seemed cooler today than at the lead-up motions. He knew that her energy, commitment, and obvious belief in her client would be attractive assets to a jury. Plus her style would make for a good contrast with his own, and a father-daughter team would generate jury interest.

  All these were helpful. And they’d need all the help they could summon in the coming weeks.

  Butterflies roiled Ryan’s stomach, driving a soft tapping of his shoe. He was curious why these signs of adrenaline seemed odd to him today. Didn’t he always react this way the first day of trial? Then he thought of the half a dozen cases he’d tried since Carolyn’s death and realized that he hadn’t experienced pretrial nerves before any of them.

  Ryan allowed himself a final glance at Emily, organizing her notes for the start of trial. Her hair was pulled back like he’d seen it the last time in the King County Courthouse. She also wore the same no-nonsense suit, which hid none of her beauty.

  What would his wife have thought if she could’ve seen their daughter at counsel table at his side?

  “All right,” Judge Johnston announced, raising her eyes from her bench papers. “I have a few procedural matters to attend to with counsel, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. So you will be dismissed until tomorrow morning.”

  The bailiff directed the jurors out of the box and into the jury room. As the door closed behind the last of them, Judge Johnston turned her gaze back to the attorneys.

  “Mr. Hart,” she began, “you mentioned a motion you wanted to raise before we do opening arguments tomorrow?”

  Ryan stood. “Yes, Your Honor. We wish to renew our motion to inspect the lower levels of LB5 building.”

  The judge nodded with an expression of skepticism. “Judge Renway’s prior ruling was very clear on this matter, Mr. Hart. I hope you don’t expect me to revisit every one of my predecessor’s pretrial rulings.”

  “No, Your Honor,” Ryan responded, though he planned to do just that if necessary, “but we were only aware of the need for this inspection when our expert, Dr. Trân, presented us with his conclusion that the cause of the explosions harming Mr. Mullaney originated in the lower levels of LB5 and not in room 365.”

  Ryan went on to cover the ground Emily had already struggled over with Judge Renway—was it only a week ago? He focused especially on the unfairness of being denied access to evidence so critical to a fair jury decision.

  As he finished, the judge shook her head gently. “I understand the plight of new counsel on a case,” she said. “But I’m also sympathetic to a defendant faced with new evidence on the first day of trial.” She cocked her head toward opposing counsel. “Mr. King, I imagine you have an opinion on this matter.”

  Eric King stood at counsel table, unbuttoning his suit coat as he reached his feet.

  “Judge, of course you’re right,” the Covington lawyer began collegially. “Their expert’s wild speculation about explosive materials elsewhere in LB5 is imaginative, but pure conjecture. As for arranging a tour of LB5, Counsel seems to forget that the building is a former plutonium manufacturing facility. It would take considerable effort to make that facility safe for tourists such as Mr. Hart’s expert. Not a single argument made by Mr. Hart is any different from those
presented earlier to Judge Renway. This motion is an irresponsible fishing expedition—and too late.”

  Ryan was on his feet before King could sit down. “Your Honor, Mr. King’s argument that LB5 is unsafe for an inspection is interesting, given that his experts’ investigation report concludes that no serious radiation was detected inside the building even after three explosions shook it up last fall. Unless Mr. King wishes to amend his expert report and acknowledge hazardous radionuclides in LB5 since the explosion, an inspection should require no special precautions at all.”

  He had her attention. It was a mistake, Ryan thought, for King to adhere to a style that had worked with Renway. Johnston wasn’t King’s dancing partner like Renway had been.

  But though Judge Johnston studied Ryan and Emily for a few long minutes, she finally shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, Counsel, but your motion is denied,” the judge called out. “You make . . . good points. But it is simply too late.”

  As the judge left the courtroom for the noon recess, Ryan deliberately glanced away from his opponent, refusing to give King the satisfaction of seeing disappointment. This wasn’t over—they’d revisit the motion after Dr. Trân testified.

  As he packed his papers, Ryan glanced at Emily, whose face displayed her own dismay at the judge’s ruling. The sight of it took him back to his first trial against Lester Schmidt.

  “Mr. Hart, you did well,” Judge Freyling had said the day that trial ended, reemerging from chambers into the courtroom where only Ryan remained, gathering his papers. “I just have three suggestions about your courtroom demeanor: never let discouragement show in the courtroom; never signal to a jury that you’ve lost a round; and never gave an ounce of satisfaction to an opponent.”

  It was advice he’d have to pass on to Emily before the next day of the trial.

  “No, Mr. Martin. This is a big complex, and I’m just the records manager. I see that a Mr. Lewis Vandervork rented an apartment in building 3 for several months last fall and winter. But he gave up the space in February and moved out.”

  Poppy thanked the landlord and ended the call. He set his phone on the kitchen counter.

  For a week since his conversation with Beverly Cortez, Poppy had used every spare moment to try to track Lewis down in Savannah River, South Carolina—all by long distance. First, he’d called the Personnel Office at the Savannah River facility. They’d told him they could only confirm from records that Lew had been working out there for four months before quitting. Then he’d reached Lew’s parents in Missouri, who said he’d texted them about his move to Savannah River, then kept in touch by text sporadically. His last one had said he was leaving his job and would be traveling and out of touch through the summer. Now this conversation with Lew’s former landlord.

  Everything pointed to Lew moving to South Carolina from Sherman, working four months, then falling off the face of the earth. So far as Poppy could learn, the only person who’d actually spoken with Lew since the explosion was Beverly Cortez—that very night. And since her call at the Atomic Café, he couldn’t find her, either.

  He shook his head in frustration. Wherever Beverly was, it wasn’t in Sherman—it wasn’t that big of a town. She also didn’t have a Facebook page, didn’t advertise her address or phone number online, and didn’t want to be found—by anyone.

  But Poppy was uncertain if it was right to keep trying to find her anyway, given how frightened she seemed. The last thing he wanted to do was drag her deeper into this mess than she was willing to go, especially if it did put her at risk.

  Whatever he was going to do, he had to act soon. Janniston was almost through with him: they were down to “a few more sessions,” the shrink had said. So his medical leave was running out, and with it his spare time to try to find Lew.

  He heard the door from the garage open. “Patrick, I’m home from the store,” Suzy called out.

  Poppy forced himself to shed the malaise he was feeling. “I’m in the kitchen, Suzy,” he answered as cheerfully as he could muster. Then he stood and headed to the door to help her with the groceries.

  Chapter 33

  Early morning sunlight streamed through courtroom windows as tall as a cathedral’s. Ryan grasped the podium and faced the jurors for the opening statement of Kieran’s case.

  It had been a quick preparation. Usually Ryan spent days on an opening statement, but with everything else to prepare, he’d had only hours for this one. Still, he felt ready.

  As usual, Ryan picked the most sympathetic juror for his focus, watering the plant most likely to thrive. It was the smiling schoolteacher in her forties, with auburn hair and a look of quickness and intelligence. She had two children under the age of twenty, and a father who’d recently passed away from cancer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, gazing across the box before returning to the teacher. “No one should be sentenced to the purgatory of the unknown. Not when their health is endangered.”

  The schoolteacher’s eyes flickered understanding. Good. He pressed on.

  Ryan’s opening went nearly an hour, touching all the themes of their case: Covington’s failed duty to keep LB5 safe, its failure to adequately test Kieran for radiation, the fear of future cancer with which Kieran had to live. By the end, the recognition and understanding in the teacher’s eyes appeared in a few of the other jurors’ as well.

  “The defendant, Covington Nuclear,” Ryan said, nearing the end, “was operating under a two-billion-dollar contract with the Department of Energy . . .”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” King called out, rising to his feet. “Irrelevant and highly prejudicial.”

  “Objection sustained,” the judge called back immediately.

  Ryan’s gaze never left the jury box. He didn’t care that King had won the objection; he’d expected as much. The nine-figure contract was out there now. He’d never have to remind them again.

  He moved on, closing with a promise that Emily and he would prove that the explosion resulted from explosive materials left in the lower levels of LB5—Dr. Trân’s hypothesis. It was, he hoped silently, a promise he could keep. Then he sat down.

  Emily slid a note across the table. “Nice job, Dad.”

  King followed, standing to move to center stage. As he did, Ryan eased down in his chair, folding his arms across his chest and examining each of the light fixtures in the ceiling in turn. Boring stuff, he hoped to signal, not worth a juror’s attention. He held the pose, even as low voltage flowed through every muscle in his body at King’s recitation of dosimetry and whole-body-count evidence that Ryan knew they couldn’t directly counter.

  It was nearly an hour later when King ended with a flourish and took his seat. The judge glanced at the wall clock and declared a recess. “We’ll pick up again this afternoon,” she instructed the jury. “Be sure you don’t discuss the case among yourselves—until the case is closed and all of the evidence is in.”

  Ryan stood, smiling confidently as the jury left the room. It was more posturing. Optimistically, he knew only two jurors had begun the case sympathetic to Kieran: the teacher and the mechanic. It was too meager a beginning.

  “Mr. Mullaney,” Ryan said to Kieran from the podium as the afternoon session began. “Describe what you saw when you entered the vat room.”

  Kieran was dressed in dark slacks, a white shirt, and a muted tie. It was a statement of respect for the process, but one that avoided portraying him as someone he wasn’t. The young man was clearly nervous, but that was all right. The jury would expect that. At least he was following instructions: answering the questions slowly, looking at the jury, thinking before he responded.

  Kieran was not an eager witness. Ryan could see he was uncomfortable talking to the strangers in the box about the past year. But he made up for it with a strong sense of unvarnished truth.

  Kieran’s testimony reached his arrival at room 365 that night. Ryan could see from the corner of his eyes that the jury was riveted on this�
�the droplets clinging to the side of the tank, the puddle beneath, the rumbling of Vat 17 as it prepared to erupt.

  “And did you touch the valve under Vat 17?” Ryan asked.

  “Yes,” Kieran responded immediately. “I didn’t touch it, but my T-shirt caught it. I had to disentangle it.”

  Good, no hesitation. It should take some sting out of King’s cross on Kieran’s failure to mention it in his deposition.

  Ryan coaxed the full story from Kieran—including the months of hacking coughs and headaches, the fears of absorbed radiation, even how those fears were compounded by his father’s death.

  The jury had gauged Kieran’s credibility for nearly two hours before Ryan circled back to the valve.

  “Now, Mr. Mullaney,” Ryan asked, “Covington has alleged in this case that you deliberately turned the valve on Vat 17 out of anger at a fellow employee. Did you?”

  “No, sir,” Kieran replied with emphasis.

  “You didn’t turn that valve because you were angry at another worker at LB5—a Mr. Steven Whalen?”

  “No,” Kieran said, shaking his head.

  “Do you know Mr. Whalen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you argue with him the evening shift before the explosion?”

  “No.”

  “Did you speak with him before that shift?”

  “Yes. I joked about my boots. You see, they check our clothes and shoes when we come off shift to see if we picked up any rads . . . uh, radioactive dust or debris on the dark side. My first night at LB5, the Geiger counter showed that my boots were hot, so Mr. Whalen took them away. He told me I’d have them back in a day or two, but they were still gone after a couple of weeks. So I was giving him a hard time that last night at LB5. I also joked that my HEPA filter mask didn’t fit well. But I wasn’t mad—it wasn’t an argument.”