“So isn’t it plausible that historic sampling on other vats in room 365 failed to give a true picture of the explosive potential in those other vats as well?”
Dr. Trân’s smile faltered. “I disagree. Vat 17’s potential to explode is now discernible from the data. It’s just that no one had analyzed that data properly.”
“But Dr. Trân,” King said with a grin, shaking his head, “isn’t my suggestion—that the explosive potential for the other vat contents in room 365 was underestimated—more plausible than phantom explosive substances outside of room 365, for which you have not a scintilla of real proof?”
“Well,” Dr. Trân said, “it’s true that my argument is circumstantial because I have had no—”
“And there is one unassailable fact we all agree upon: that Kieran Mullaney’s turning of the valve on Vat 17 that evening was an essential piece to triggering an explosion.”
“Well, stated that way, yes, but—”
“Isn’t it also true that you’ve never worked for or on behalf of the Department of Energy, Mr. Trân?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Nor have you ever worked for any university.”
“Only as a consultant.”
“But you’ve never joined a faculty.”
“Correct.”
“Yet you’ve testified in—” King pulled a document from the bottom of the pile of papers he’d brought to the podium—“in twelve other cases, all against companies like Covington Nuclear in the nuclear industry. Isn’t that correct?”
Dr. Trân’s hesitation was longer this time. “Yes.”
“Not once in favor of the nuclear industry.”
“I’ve never been asked.”
“Is that a yes, Dr. Trân?”
“Yes.”
King turned to the judge. “Your Honor, this witness lacks critical evidentiary support for his opinions about the cause of the LB5 explosions. His opinion rests on rank speculation. Even this ‘material data’ sheet for the vats in room 365 has not yet been introduced into evidence. I move that his prior testimony be stricken, and that he be prohibited from offering an opinion.”
Emily looked toward counsel table. Kieran appeared to be in shock. She looked to her father over the alarm thundering in her chest. This was all on her. They were about to lose this witness—and with it the case. And it was her fault.
Did he realize that? Because her father was looking away—at neither her, the judge, nor the jury. Off toward a suddenly interesting corner of the room. Calm as he’d been when she’d started with Dr. Trân.
She looked to the bench and Judge Johnston and saw that she was . . . hesitating. In fact, her gaze had moved from King and was focused on Emily. The instant ruling Emily had half expected had not arrived. And was that sympathy in her eyes?
“Ms. Hart,” Judge Johnston asked gently, “do you have anything to say?”
Emily fought to rise above the panic clouding her mind. The argument King was making was flawed. She knew it, but her mind was a blur. King had deliberately muddied the proceedings. The questions about who the scientist had testified for were irrelevant to his qualifications to testify today, just intended to pump up the judge against Dr. Trân. The data sheet from Taylor Christensen wasn’t yet in evidence, but the expert could still rely upon it until it was introduced. And King’s arguments in support of kicking Dr. Trân out of the trial were fundamentally flawed because . . .
“Judge,” she blurted out, “everything Mr. King has said is nothing more than cross-examination.”
Emily took a breath and slowed her cadence. “The points Mr. King has raised may impact the weight the jury gives the evidence, but it can’t prevent Dr. Trân from expressing his opinions to the jury. As for the data sheets, Dr. Trân can rely upon them—and if they’re not introduced later, Mr. King can point to their absence in closing arguments or move that his testimony be stricken at that time. But Dr. Trân is a highly qualified expert and whatever Covington’s attorney thinks of his opinions, the doctor is qualified to express them.”
The judge was listening.
“Also, Your Honor,” Emily continued with more confidence, “we are operating with the disadvantage of not having been in the lower levels of LB5, based upon Judge Renway’s earlier ruling.”
Judge Johnston nodded, then looked to the opposing attorney.
“Mr. King,” Judge Johnston began slowly, “I am inclined to permit Ms. Hart to continue her examination of this witness.” The judge turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to permit this evidence at this time. It is possible that I will rule some or all of this evidence inadmissible at a future point in the trial—and if so, I will instruct you to disregard it. But for now, you are to treat this evidence as you would any other.”
The judge looked back and nodded to Emily with a slight smile. “Counsel, you may continue.”
Through a haze, Emily did.
Standing in the empty hall with her dad, Emily was just beginning to relax from the day’s ordeal. Dr. Trân had already left to make a “business call.” Kieran had also dashed. The jury and judge were gone.
Emily’s legs twitched with exhaustion.
“You did great,” Ryan said, smiling. “You got in everything Trân had to offer, from the cause of the explosion to the blood evidence.”
“I don’t know, Dad,” she said. “That was too close. I didn’t see that coming.”
“Um-hmm. Well, you handled it like a pro.”
Emily looked at her father’s face, expecting him to agree that King’s objection had been a surprise. “Dad, you didn’t know that was going to happen, did you?”
Her father didn’t respond.
“Dad, if you thought this might happen, why didn’t you tell me?”
His eyes softened. “I wasn’t certain. But if King did object, I knew you’d handle it just fine.”
Emily was too exhausted to express the anger she was feeling. “No, Dad, I didn’t. I was scared out of my mind. I’ve only used expert evidence a few times at the PD’s office—and nothing like this. You were the one who first suggested I take Trân.”
“Until a week ago, you had every witness in this case,” Ryan said softly. “I just suggested you keep Dr. Trân.”
She wasn’t listening as she recalled her father’s comments to the judge before the day’s evidence.
“And you told the judge that it was my first expert witness. You did that on purpose, didn’t you. To make the judge sympathetic.”
Ryan’s face grew serious. “Listen, Ems, we’ve got to face up to something here. As much as I hate this smug lawyer we’re facing, King’s right—Trân’s theory of substances outside of room 365 is logical, but the evidence for it is nonexistent. Without proof, maybe from an inspection of LB5, King’s going to take another run at having Dr. Trân’s testimony stricken. And he may succeed next time. And then we lose.”
His voice grew more gentle. “But it occurred to me that when it came to letting in the evidence in the first place, Judge Johnston might give you more leeway than me. Because every trial lawyer remembers their first expert witness.”
“Oh, Dad,” Emily said, closing her eyes. “How could you do that to me. Let me go up to that podium unprepared.”
She felt his hands on her shoulders and opened her eyes again. The smile on his face lacked even a trace of an apology.
“You weren’t unprepared. You’ve been preparing for a week. And if you’d had a stock answer to King’s objection all set, Judge Johnston would’ve seen through that in a heartbeat. She needed to see King attacking the underdog, a lawyer fighting to defend her first expert. She needed the urge to reward your passion. Besides, you want to be a trial lawyer, remember? Thinking on your feet: that is being a trial lawyer.”
He shouldn’t have left her naked like that. Emily was too exhausted to argue it any further, but she knew he was wrong to do it. She wasn’t a beginner; he didn’t have to manipulate her to win the fight. She’d n
ever put another lawyer through something like this, regardless of the strategic advantage.
They began walking down the hall. And yet, she thought, her dad was right about one thing: the strategy had worked. She’d have found another way, but it had worked.
That realization birthed another: that even if he’d tricked her, it was her at the podium. She’d done it. And her father had seen her do it. The man who was the master of courtroom tactics had just watched her succeed.
“Is there somebody in the back yard?” Suzy called toward the living room from the kitchen. “Checking the meter maybe?”
Poppy was focused on his laptop, doing his thousandth search for any mention of Lew on the Internet and Facebook, LinkedIn, anything. “Don’t know,” he called back.
“Well, could you check?”
He grunted an assent and reluctantly got up from the computer. Putting on his shoes at the door, Poppy went out the side exit, through the garage, to the back yard.
There was no one in the back. He walked around to the side yard.
A white van was pulling away from the curb.
Poppy started to run after it—but it was no use. His heart pounding, he turned around and jogged to the back yard.
They were lined up in a row against the side of the house next to the rosebushes: five crows, buried hurriedly, head first in the soil. A white medallion was draped across their carcasses.
Poppy started to approach—then stopped. Going back into the garage, he grabbed the Eberline counter from his truck and returned. From ten feet away, he began to wave the wand in the direction of the black carcasses.
At six feet, the counter began to rise. At four, it was wailing.
He had to call Security, Poppy thought over his accelerating fear.
Except . . . who would they send? Who could he trust?
“What’s that sound, Poppy?” his wife called through the kitchen window.
“Suzy, go pack a bag,” he said, trying hard to sound calm. “I’d like you to stay at your sister’s tonight.”
Chapter 36
“I got your text to call,” Eric King’s voice said over the phone. “I’ve only got a minute before noon recess is over. But don’t worry. Things are going great.”
Adam was seated at his desk, behind the closed door of his office in the HR Department. Now he had to put up with more puffing from his overconfident barrister. “I would appreciate details, Eric.”
“Okay. Today, they’re going through a bunch of workers from LB5. They’re getting nothing from them.”
“And yesterday?”
Hesitation. “Yesterday, it was Dr. Trân. Their expert.”
“I know who Dr. Trân is. Did he testify?”
Pause. “Yes.”
“I thought you told me you could keep him from testifying. You said there was too little evidence to support his opinions.”
“Yes, well, I thought that would be true. I was . . . a little surprised that the judge overruled my objection. But,” the lawyer hastened, “the judge reserved the possibility of excluding the testimony later.”
What good would that do after the jury had already heard it?
“Anyway,” King went on, “we’ll cut up his testimony with our own experts.”
“What did Trân say?”
King outlined the scientist’s testimony.
Adam was staggered. “He testified there were other explosives in the building?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say what kind?”
“Powerful ones, he claimed. Like were used in nuclear triggers. The judge didn’t let him go too far down that speculative road. But hey, his testimony shouldn’t be such a surprise: I sent over his expert opinions three days ago.”
King had. And with preparation for the run-up to the big test at LB5, combined with King’s assurance that Trân would never get to testify, Adam had failed to review them.
“But he’s got no real proof,” the lawyer went on. “Like I said, we’ll cut him up with our own experts.”
He couldn’t trust what he might say next, so Adam moved to end the conversation. “Keep me apprised,” he said.
Where had Trân come up with this opinion? Did he know any more than the threads of proof King just described over the phone?
Adam went to his corner closet mirror to check his bow tie. The face that looked back was shaken.
This wasn’t the only bad news. The chief of security for Wolffia had reported that Patrick Martin was contacting people in Savannah River trying to locate Lewis Vandervork. That meant not only that Dr. Janniston had failed after weeks of exams to force Martin’s cooperation, but also that Martin was actively pursuing information he could not have access to.
Adam had already told the Chief to raise the pressure on Martin. Now he was wondering if increased pressure was enough.
Adam returned to his desk. All right, he told himself, put it in perspective. What was most critical here was that Martin not testify. If he didn’t take the stand, Martin’s knowledge or suspicion was irrelevant.
That was why they’d kept the man’s name out of the investigation report in the first place. And it had worked so far. The first lawyer hadn’t bothered to take Martin’s deposition and Martin hadn’t made the trial witness list. Once they were through this trial, the man’s suspicions would have no platform—especially after they ruined him with a negative psych evaluation.
Still, Adam railed silently again at Foote’s insistence on going forward with Wolffia this summer. Only two months’ wait and they could have run the final Project tests without the balancing act of this trial. Then it wouldn’t have been necessary to take the precaution of confronting Patrick Martin on his statement, which clearly set the man off, or worry about a court-ordered inspection of LB5.
Plus, a few more months and Lewis Vandervork’s trail would have been that much colder.
Adam opened his desk drawer and pulled out the coin purse that contained the dexamphetamine tablets Schutten’s treating physician had sent him. Though he hadn’t planned for it at the time, it was another thing besides the physician’s silence that the generous check had bought Adam.
Four hours of sleep a night were taking their toll. The stimulants he’d begun using the past week should only be necessary a little while longer, he told himself, just while they wrapped the follow-up testing and prepared to move the lab south.
He took a pill with a glass of water from the desk. For a moment, he thought of all the work still to complete today. Then he took another.
Ryan stood at the podium glancing quickly through his notes. With Kieran and Dr. Trân done, the rest of their case was becoming more of a fishing expedition. They were working through witnesses from LB5, seining for any evidence to support Dr. Trân’s theories. These included technicians at LB5 who’d sampled the vats in room 365 over the years, other stabilizing engineers who’d worked at LB5, at least one data technician, and anyone who might confirm evidence of the “detonation substances.”
Frank Schroeder, the HVAC worker now on the stand, was dressed in dungarees and a sweatshirt. The message was clear: he had no need to impress anybody. And he was also making it perfectly clear he didn’t want to be there.
Like all of these “outside” witnesses who predated Dr. Trân’s theories, Schroeder hadn’t been asked in his deposition key questions that might reveal the existence of other explosives. The past ten minutes had already established that Frank Schroeder had never, in his life, graced the dark side of LB5. That eliminated any chance he might have seen explosives in the LB5 lower levels. Ryan’s only decision now was whether to take the time to go through the events of October sixteenth, since he already had the tech on the stand.
He would, Ryan decided. It should only take a few questions.
“I was in a cafeteria building—at the corner of LB5,” Schroeder replied to Ryan’s questioning. “Johnny Rose and I, we were having our midshift dinner. Then we started down the hill toward the front side to get
back to work. That’s when it happened.”
“What happened?”
“The big explosion. Only it was muffled, since we were outside.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, there was no siren. If there’s an emergency, they’ll blow the ‘take-cover’ siren, and then you’re supposed to get inside—anywhere inside. Except there was no siren. So me and Johnny, we stopped and talked for a sec about what to do. Then we kept walking.”
“Which way?”
“Toward the front side, along the side of the building.”
“Did you keep going all the way to the front side?”
“Nope. Because then this guy fired a weapon. Up on the roof.”
“Did you know this man?”
The HVAC guy shrugged. “I guess he was a security guard. I’d never met him before, but I know they have guards up on the roof.”
Guards. Plural. The investigation report had only mentioned the one. “What did you do when you heard the gunshot?”
“Well, this guy on the roof was trying to get our attention, I guess. Because we looked up and he was waving us back to the cafeteria. And we saw why—because there was a big cloud of smoke rolling off the roof.”
Ryan stopped for a moment. This was news too. Nothing in the investigation report told of a cloud of smoke coming off the roof.
“So what did you do?”
“Well, we ran like a couple of rabbits.” The jurors laughed.
“Ran where?” Ryan continued as soon as the laughter tapered off.
“Back to the cafeteria. And then, just as were getting there, the sirens finally went off.”
“They went off?”
“Yes. Just as we were going inside. And it’s a good thing we’d gotten back there—because then the lights went out.”
More news. “What lights?”
“The perimeter lights. All of them. Went out for about ten minutes, then came back on again. It was really strange.”
“Do you know why that happened?”
“Nope. Never saw anything like it.”
“Do you know the security guard’s name? The one that fired his rifle?”
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