Still, no question forced him to reveal Lewis—or the shot he’d fired. Or the man Lew said came out of the building that night.
The lawyer asked if Poppy had ever been to the vat room where the first explosion originated. Poppy told him no. The lower levels of LB5? No. Did he know what caused the explosion? No.
Maybe it was the tension, or maybe it was just because he’d had a reprieve from the cough for several hours, but Poppy could feel the congestion growing in his lungs.
Hart seemed to be losing interest. Poppy watched as the girl walked up to the podium and handed him a note. Hart looked at it, then back to Poppy.
The lawyer asked Poppy if he was alone on the roof that night. No, he answered. That seemed to interest Hart, and he made some notes. Who was the other guard? Lewis Vandervork, Poppy replied. Did he still work with Mr. Vandervork? No. Did he know where he was? No, Poppy answered truthfully. He’d been told Lewis had transferred to Savannah River.
The lawyer was shuffling his notes as though he was about to go to another subject.
“Mr. Martin, before we move on,” he said, “other than what you’ve already testified to, did you observe anything else on the roof that evening that was in any way related to the explosion?”
He’d been holding it back, but now Poppy felt his lungs spasming. A sudden coughing fit doubled him over in his chair. Through watered eyes, he saw the other lawyer—the Covington one—push back like he was contagious. The girl with Kieran ran around the table and handed Ryan Hart a glass of water that he brought up to Poppy.
The fits eased. Poppy took the glass with a gasped “Thanks” and swallowed. He ran a sleeve across his eyes, then sat up once again.
“Are you okay?” Hart asked.
“Yeah.”
“Do you want a break?”
Poppy hesitated, clearing his throat once more. “No,” he said softly.
“Alright. Court reporter, please read back the last question.”
“‘Mr. Martin,’” she read in a monotone, “‘other than what you’ve already testified to, did you observe anything else on the roof that evening that was in any way related to the explosion?’”
Silence. The bird came back onto the ledge.
“Mr. Martin,” the lawyer said. “Would you like me to repeat the question once more?”
“No. I heard you.” An image of the buried crows filled Poppy’s head; then the hotel room where the psychologist had cornered him the past weeks. Suzy’s hug as he went out the door each day—including the long one he’d gotten this morning.
“Lewis shot a man that night from the roof,” Poppy said to the lawyer at the podium, “a man who shouldn’t have been there. Then Lewis disappeared. They made him disappear. Now I think they’re coming for me.”
Poppy’d never been in a courtroom before today, but he knew he must have crossed some line here. He could see it in the blank faces around him, the sudden rustle of the people in the jury box across the room. And in the wide eyes of the lawyer at the Covington table, who was rising to his feet about to shout.
And then, as if it all weren’t unreal enough, there was Janniston, the psychologist, coming through the courtroom doors like he was on fire, rushing something in his hand up to the lawyers at the Covington table.
Everything was foreign to Poppy now, and he suddenly didn’t care a lick what the rules might be in this place. So he said it—the next words coming out of his mouth intended just for Ryan Hart, the lawyer at the podium. Except as he said it, he knew that Hart couldn’t possibly hear him over the shouts from the other guy—the Covington lawyer who was now on his feet waving the papers he’d just got from Janniston, waving them toward the judge on Poppy’s left.
“I want a lawyer,” Poppy tried to say to Hart. “Will you represent me?”
Ryan saw the place exploding. Still standing at the podium, he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard from this graying, worried-looking security guard on the witness stand.
Eric King was shouting an objection and waving some papers at the judge that a skinny, tired-looking man had just pushed into his hands. King was shouting an objection about Patrick Martin lacking foundation for the testimony he’d just given, or was about to give, and lacking capacity to testify.
Judge Johnston was banging her gavel so hard it hurt Ryan’s ears. Then Johnston was calling for the bailiff to get the jury out of the room.
Through the chaos, Ryan looked to this sixty-three-year-old Patrick Martin on the witness stand who’d just given Kieran Mullaney’s case a sliver of light.
As he looked, the security guard mouthed some words. He could only make out the last four. They were, Will you represent me? And now the man was staring back at Ryan, waiting for an answer.
Through the chaos that was only starting to settle down, Ryan gave the man a nod.
Chapter 38
“This witness is incompetent to testify,” King was bellowing, pointing in the direction of Patrick Martin, still on the witness stand.
The jury was out of the room at last, the sudden silence still charged with the chaos it replaced.
King approached the judge and handed her a document.
“This is a report from Dr. Zachary Janniston, who has been treating this witness— ”
“Treating me?” the witness shouted, his face red.
The judge whirled on the man, her usual smile replaced with cold fury. “Mr. Martin, you will be quiet or you will be escorted from my courtroom.”
“Your Honor,” King continued, “as this report reflects, Mr. Martin here is a very sick man. Ever since Mr. Hart belatedly informed us he would be calling this witness today, we’ve hurried to gather what information we could about Mr. Martin—and, frankly, to determine why Mr. Martin was not interviewed for purposes of the official investigation report.”
King held up his own set of the documents. “What I’ve provided this court and counsel just now is a psychological evaluation of Mr. Martin. For the past several weeks, he has been examined and treated by Dr. Janniston . . .”
Ryan was paging through the documents as King went on.
“Covington commissioned an evaluation of Mr. Martin to determine his competency to retain his security status at Hanford. As you can see, Mr. Martin is suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder as a result of the explosion, manifested in delusions and paranoia.”
Ryan could see the witness barely restraining himself.
“Judge, this man can’t testify to what he witnessed on the roof of LB5 that night,” King went on, “because he can’t distinguish truth from fiction about that night. Allowing him to testify given the medical proof of his incompetence would taint this jury and bog this trial down with days or more of medical testimony.”
The judge leaned back with a heavy sigh. “Mr. Hart, what do you say?”
“Judge,” Ryan launched in, “I’d say we have to hear from Mr. Martin. First, these psych exams apparently only occurred as we were approaching trial. If Mr. Martin was so delusional, why wasn’t he in treatment the past ten months since the explosion? And second, when there’s such critical evidence involved, we should at least have a chance for our own evaluation of the witness. At this late date, a last-minute psychologist report is no basis to muzzle this man.”
The judge looked like a woman unaccustomed to chaos in her courtroom. Ryan knew her concerns: Should she adjourn for a week for exams and counter exams—putting the jury on ice? Should she send Martin home—and risk a serious appeal issue?
She turned to the witness.
“What do you say, Mr. Martin? About these exams.”
The witness began shaking his head and talking rapidly. “They forced me to take these exams because I wouldn’t change my report about that night and say Lewis didn’t take a shot. Then they locked me in a hotel with this Janniston and gave me tests all day for weeks. Now I’ve been threatened. They’ve buried contaminated crows in my garden, Judge.”
Ryan listened to Patrick Martin�
��s rants and thought, This man isn’t helping himself. He could see the judge watching skeptically his rapid, almost unintelligible explanation.
The judge raised her hands, interrupting Martin. “I’m going to look these records over tonight and through the weekend,” she said, holding up the reports King had just given her. “I’ll take oral argument on the issue on Monday. We’ll be in recess until Monday morning.”
Kieran and Emily gathered anxiously with Ryan at counsel table as the judge and staff left the courtroom. When the Covington group had also left, Kieran finally burst out, “Isn’t she going to let Martin testify?” Emily’s face had the same question.
Ryan shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “But get the witness, now. Bring him to the Annex. We’ll talk there.”
Ryan stared at Patrick Martin sitting on the Annex couch, surrounded by Kieran, Emily, and himself. Remnants of delivered pizza sat on plates scattered around the room. It had to be closing in on ten o’clock.
Patrick Martin—Poppy, he’d asked to be called—had gone on for nearly four hours. The story he’d related was so far beyond anything Ryan had imagined that he struggled to give it credence.
A second guard on the roof not mentioned in the investigation report. That man, Poppy’s partner, Lewis Vandervork, firing a gun at a third, unseen figure—and supposedly hitting him. Rank intimidation of Poppy by Covington. Efforts to get Martin to change his statement (he had a copy of the original, Patrick had said). Threats and dead crows—matching the crows buried at Kieran’s home. Except these were radioactive.
Then an unidentified body, moved from the Sherman retirement home at night, out onto the reservation through a closed security station. And the second guard, Lewis Vandervork, missing.
If Poppy hadn’t settled down this evening, telling his story with such careful rhythm and detail and confidence, even Ryan wouldn’t have believed him. It was all too fantastic. But this man wasn’t delusional. It was no accident that Poppy Martin’s name and the very existence of his partner were left out of the Covington investigation reports. It was no wonder that a Covington psychologist had spent three weeks trying to bury this man.
“Can the judge really keep him from testifying?” Kieran asked as Poppy wound down.
Ryan nodded. “She’s a federal judge; she can do what she wants. She could do it because she thinks he’ll bust open the whole case, adding a week to trial. She could do it because we hadn’t revealed Mr. Martin before today. Or she could do it because she buys King’s line that Mr. Martin is delusional.”
Ryan turned to Poppy, now looking exhausted. “Tell us more about Vandervork’s disappearance.”
Poppy nodded, proceeding to tell his story, beginning with the last memories he had of Vandervork on the way to the hospital and ending with his conversation with Vandervork’s girlfriend.
“Are you saying he could have been the body you saw taken out onto the reservation?” Ryan asked, hardly believing they were discussing this possibility.
Poppy shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve thought about it a lot. If they’d done away with Lew, I don’t see why they’d wait nine months to move him onto the reservation. And I don’t have a clue where they’d take his body—or why they’d need two cars and four guys to do it.”
The man looked like he was going to keel over. They’d have to let him get some rest. “Do you want to stay here tonight?” Ryan asked.
The guard shook his head. “Nope. I’ll stay at home—or at my sister-in-law’s place, where my wife’s at.”
“If you’re going home, how about if Kieran stays with you,” Ryan said. “Given what you’ve been through. That okay with you, Kieran?”
Ryan was concerned for the man, but equally concerned with not letting him out of their sight. Kieran nodded. “Things have been quiet at my place since after the softball game, so I suppose that’s fine.”
Poppy considered the offer for a moment. “No. I’m okay.” He smiled sheepishly. “I almost took out your process server with my shotgun.”
Then he looked Ryan in the eye. “I’ve gotta know something for sure, though. Are you my lawyer now?”
“It’s too late to get you into this case, Poppy.”
“I don’t care. I just want a lawyer. I can’t do this alone anymore.”
Ryan glanced at Emily, whose eyes registered her assent—then looked once more at Poppy.
Ryan nodded again, as he had in the courtroom. “Then yes. You’ve got yourself two lawyers now.”
Chapter 39
Sitting in a booth at the Lightning House Brewery amidst a Saturday night crowd, Adam sipped his ale. It was too hoppy, he thought; overdone, like everything in this worthless town.
He looked across the table at their excuse for an attorney who’d just put his self-protective spin on the day’s news about Poppy Martin’s testimony.
“I did what I could,” King said again. “As soon as Janniston’s report arrived, I was able to cut the guy off.” Then he added, defensively, “You know, we would’ve interviewed Martin before if you hadn’t instructed us to leave the roof guard alone. And whoever this other guard was, we could have interviewed him, too.”
Adam had no time to make up a story for this lawyer. He seethed, but said nothing. I told you to stay away from Martin to avoid a moment like this. Do I have to make a diagram for you?
The room was off; he shouldn’t have had the beer with the three pills he’d taken earlier to get through this awful day. Now all he wanted was to strangle this man. No, that wasn’t it: what he really wanted was to strangle Janniston for continually reassuring Adam that the guard was near to “coming around.” And while he was at it, throttle his chief of security, who’d failed to frighten the security guard enough to keep him off the stand or at least keep his mouth shut. And especially Cameron Foote, for insisting they drive the Project ahead in the face of Adam’s advice. Putting Adam’s seven-figure bonus at risk.
They were all incompetent. He should’ve done it all himself.
Adam rubbed his eyes to stop the tilt the room was taking. “And the judge said she’d decide by Monday whether to let Martin testify?”
King nodded. “And even if she lets him testify, that business about what the other security guard supposedly did still shouldn’t get in. It’s all hearsay coming from Martin. All Martin can talk about is what he saw on the roof himself.”
That and the grilling Janniston had been giving him, Adam wanted to add. And the crows buried in his yard and who knew what else he may have witnessed.
King was going on. “And I really do think this judge isn’t going to let Martin testify at all, based on the psychologist’s report.”
Adam clenched his glass tightly with one hand while he fondled his bow tie with the other. Had King forgotten they had a new judge in this case? Renway had been in their corner, but King had already proven clueless about how Johnston would rule.
“But listen, Adam,” the attorney went on—except now, even through the layers clouding his vision, Adam saw King straightening in his chair as a tone of command crept into his voice. “You need to tell me if there’s anything to what Martin’s saying—about somebody else in LB5 when the explosion happened. And about this second guard and the shooting. Martin’s implying that something was going on in that building—like their Dr. Trân testified. I really can’t do my job with half the facts, Adam. Is there anything to what they’re saying?”
Adam felt a fuse taking fire. His heart quickened and his head flooded with sudden rage, the kind he’d kept from surfacing publicly for so many years.
He slammed an open hand on the table, sending beer sloshing from each of their glasses, then rose, gripping the table until his knuckles ached. King shoved back from the table, his eyes wide.
“Listen,” Adam hissed, leaning into the shrinking lawyer. “Do you know why Covington hired you? You think for a nanosecond they heard about your overwhelming barrister skills all the way from their world headquarters
in New York? Covington goes for firms with offices in DC, New York, LA, maybe Chicago—the ones that consume law firms with names like McNary and King from Sherman, Washington. You’re the compromise, Eric,” Adam slurred, “because maybe, just maybe, you can bring some leverage and insight to this damp spot in the middle of a desert. You’re a geographic convenience. So let me know if this case is making you uncomfortable, Eric King. Otherwise, you do what you’re told with the information you’re given—and never . . . question me . . . again.”
Adam settled back down, his fury momentarily spent, glaring blearily at King as he cooled down. Then, it slowly occurred to Adam to wonder how loud he’d actually been. He glanced around the bar. It was crowded and noisy tonight; no one seemed to be looking their way. At least not anymore.
Good. Even through the haze, he knew he had to get out of there. People didn’t seem to forget when this side of him came out. And it could happen again, the way he was feeling sitting here with this empty suit. He stood again, carefully.
King had collected himself now and was trying to project a facsimile of his usual bravado. “Adam, you’re overreacting,” he said, his voice still rattled. “We’ve got this. We’ve got the evidence of the whole-body count and the dosimetry badge. And this is still a Hanford jury. We can handle this. We’re going to win it.”
Adam eased forward, picking up the check.
“So you’re going to win this case, are you?” he said, hearing his voice as through a tunnel. “Well, I’ll take that as more than a promise, Eric. I’ll take that as an oath.”
Chapter 40
Judge Johnston was a torn person this Monday morning—it was broadcast on her face. This hearing wasn’t a formality. The judge was still looking for answers.
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