“Oh, no. Is that what you thought? No—this guy was dead a good while before that. James David Fenton.”
“James Fenton? Not the lunatic who held all those law students hostage?”
“The very same. I’m impressed. You recognize the name of every criminal?”
“No, just the ones who create major hostage scenes. Especially when my best friend is one of the hostages.”
“Really? Wow. Small world. You knew the hostage. And Montague knew Fenton. Birds of a feather flock together, huh? Weirdness attracts weirdness. Crazies attract crazies.”
Mike probably should’ve taken offense, but his mind was elsewhere, plowing through his memory banks. “Montague wasn’t crazy. And for that matter, neither was Fenton, at least not totally. There was something he kept saying, throughout the hostage siege.” He snapped his fingers. “‘Where’s the merchandise?" That’s what it was. ‘Is the merchandise secure?’“
“What’s the merchandise?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said. His eyes seemed to turn inward, lost in thought. “But whatever it is, Fenton wanted it bad. And I’ll bet my killer is looking for the same damn thing.”
Chapter 35
WHETHER HE CARED TO admit it or not, today was the day Ben had dreaded most since this whole trial had begun. Not that life as a litigator was ever a piece of cake. He’d put small children on the stand, mentally retarded defendants, even murderers. He’d cross-exed victims of horrible crimes, innocent bystanders. But this morning was something else again. This morning he would put on his plaintiffs, starting with Cecily Elkins, to talk about the one subject on earth they would least like to discuss.
Ben had wanted to put a representative of all eleven families on the stand. Colby had wanted him to put on none, arguing that the details of the parents" bereavement “weren’t relevant.” The compromise they’d reached was that Ben would select three of the parents to represent the whole group. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed to select his three—including Cecily, the woman who’d gotten him into this mess in the first place.
As he watched the spectators flood into the courtroom at the start of this fateful day, it occurred to Ben that being in trial was like being on the crew of a submarine, buried deep in the ocean, for weeks at a time. The real world, its sights, sounds, and happenings, become little more than a faint echo. Colors dim; food becomes tasteless. The world becomes a textureless blur. Governments could crumble, economies could fall, but the litigator would barely notice. It wouldn’t matter. When you are in trial, the trial is all-encompassing, all-devouring. The case invades your every waking thought, even your dreams. Nothing else seems to matter. Worst of all, every second is marked by unrelenting pressure, like the weight of thousands of tons of water bearing down on you. Breathing becomes difficult. You wonder if your life will ever be normal again.
Except in those rare moments when some startling event brings the real world back into focus with shattering clarity. Like this morning, on the way to the office, when Ben had stopped to pick up his suit—and the dry cleaners wouldn’t let him have it. Because he hadn’t paid his bill. In months. And the exactly two dollars and forty-seven cents he had in his pocket wasn’t going to do the trick.
So he’d had to race back to his apartment and pick up this ugly gray pinstripe he hadn’t worn since law school, which was at least fifteen pounds ago. It barely fit and was extremely uncomfortable. The jacket hampered his breathing, and he felt as if the seat of the pants might rip at any moment. Now that would be the perfect topper for this miserable day, wouldn’t it?
At last the time came. The jury was reassembled, Judge Perry raced through the preliminaries, and Ben called Cecily Elkins to the witness stand.
She looked good, all things considered. Ben had told her not to go overboard; this was court, not a society ball. Still, she should look neat and groomed, and not wear anything that indicated disrespect for the court. She’d chosen a simple blue denim dress over a red blouse. Her hair was combed and tied in the back. She looked good, but not too good.
Ben had barely established who she was and where she lived before Colby was on his feet.
“Objection,” he said. “Lack of relevance.”
He’s starting, Ben thought silently. Already. “Your honor, I have a right to introduce my witness to the jury. They need to know who they’re hearing from.”
The judge actually seemed to be pondering whether this was true. “I’ll allow it. For a bit longer, anyway.”
Ben proceeded. But barely a minute later, Colby was objecting again.
“Your honor,” he complained. “You said you’d allow a bit more of this. We’ve had more than a bit.”
Ben clenched his jaw together. These objections were garbage in the extreme. Colby was just interrupting for interruption’s sake, to disrupt the flow. If he kept this up, it would seriously undermine the dramatic impact of Cecily’s story. “Your honor, this is still preliminary material.”
“I understand,” the judge said. “Still, this has already been a long trial. Let’s not go too far with this.”
Ben tried to restart, but he had trouble remembering where he was. And if he couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about, what were the chances that the jury would?
At last, preliminaries finished, Ben brought Cecily around to the topic of her son Billy. “When was Billy first diagnosed with cancer, Cecily?”
“Objection!” Colby said.
Ben glared. If there’d been an Uzi in the courtroom, Colby would be a dead man.
“I must protest,” Colby continued. “This is not relevant.”
“She’s a plaintiff,” Ben said, his lips pressed tightly together. “She has a right to tell her story. We agreed—”
“That she would testify, yes. But not about matters that are not at issue.” Colby stepped toward the bench. “There’s no dispute about the fact that this woman’s son died of leukemia. The dispute is about what, if anything, caused the disease. And this witness knows nothing about that.”
“They may not dispute it,” Ben said, “but they haven’t stipulated to it, either. Besides, she can testify to matters relating to causation. The use of tap water in their home, for instance.”
Judge Perry nodded. “I’ll allow it. But let’s not dwell on matters that aren’t contested.”
Once again, Ben tried to resume his questioning, but every time it was harder. He was losing his train of thought, plus, his irritation at Colby was undermining his concentration.
“What measures did you take to try to save your son?”
“Objection!” Colby said.
Ben clenched his teeth together. What was it Christina had told him? If you’re going to win this case, you’re going to have to get mad.
She was right.
“Your honor!” Ben boomed across the courtroom. “How much longer are we going to put up with these frivolous objections?”
Judge Perry shook his head. “Opposing counsel has a right to make objections …”
“Valid objections, yes. But these objections are garbage and he knows it. He’s just doing it to interrupt the flow of testimony. To make it harder for the jury to follow the witness’s story.”
“I must protest,” Colby said. “That simply isn’t so.”
“Do you have any proof, Mr. Kincaid?”
“Proof? How could I have proof? Why would I need proof? Everyone in this courtroom knows it’s true!”
Judge Perry’s face grew stony. “Now, counsel, I warn you—”
“This is an abusive trial tactic, unethical in the extreme, and I want a stop put to it immediately.”
Perry raised his gavel. “Counsel, you’re about to be in contempt.”
Mad, Ben told himself. Get mad. Stay mad. “For what? Protecting my clients from unethical defense tactics?”
“Counsel, this is your last chance—”
“I won’t tolerate this, your honor. If you won’t put an end to it, I’ll take an immediate interlocutory a
ppeal.”
“Citing what? Too many objections?”
“Abusive conduct. I’ll attach a copy of the transcript. A blind man could see what Mr. Colby’s trying to do here. It won’t be a problem for three appeal judges.”
“Mr. Kincaid—”
“Your honor, I’m sick of these tiresome, inane interruptions. And I think the jury is, too.”
Without even thinking about it, the combatants turned to look at the jury. Ben saw that three of them were slowly nodding their heads—thank God. They knew what he was saying. They were tired of it, too.
“Counsel, approach the bench.”
Ben and Colby approached. Judge Perry covered the microphone with his hand. “Mr. Kincaid, this is my courtroom. I will not tolerate this insubordination.”
“But your honor—”
“Don’t give me any excuses. You will treat the court with respect, or I’ll toss you in the clink.” He took several deep breaths, almost hyperventilating, then turned to Colby. “And as for you, Mr. Colby, I would appreciate it if you would restrict your interruptions to those that actually have some merit. You’ve been practicing long enough to know the difference.”
Ben’s lips parted. Were his ears deceiving him? Had the judge actually scolded the great Charlton Colby?
Ben returned to the podium, doing all he could to suppress his smile. As always, Christina was right. He should’ve done this a long time ago.
And now that he’d gotten himself mad, he planned to stay that way.
After the big blowout at the bench, Colby’s objections became few and far between. What objections he did make had some basis in law, however tenuous. Ben could live with that. At least they weren’t so frequent that they prevented Cecily from telling her story.
Which she did. Better than Ben could’ve dreamed.
Cecily described the tragedy of her son’s death with calm and dignity. She focused her large doe eyes on the jury and never let them escape. Although she did not skimp on the horrific details, at the same time, she never gave the impression that she was exaggerating or melodramatizing.
She took the jury through every stage of Billy’s disease, from the initial diagnosis, through the painful bouts with chemotherapy, the invasive drugs, the hospital visits. She told them about his remissions, when everything seemed to be fine, only to have the disease reappear again, like some malevolent unconquerable specter. She told them of all the time devoted, all the money spent, all the immeasurable heartaches. She concluded by telling them how Billy, who had seemed reasonably healthy again, suddenly took ill and couldn’t breathe, how she had raced him to the hospital but never got there.
“You can’t imagine what it was like,” Cecily said, and for the first time, her voice betrayed the faintest hint of a tremor. “One day, your boy seems healthy, hardy, energetic. He likes to read books. He likes to play soccer and bowl. He’s popular. He’s beautiful in every way.” She paused, catching her breath. “He’s normal. In every possible way.” The light in her eyes seemed to fade. “And the next day, he’s dead.”
She paused, pressing her fingertips against the bridge of her nose. “I did everything I could. Everything I could think of, everything I could imagine. Anything to save my boy. But it wasn’t enough.” Tears began to flow from her eyes. “No matter what I tried. It wasn’t enough.”
Colby did not cross-examine.
After the third of the designated parents had finished testifying, Ben rested his case.
Fred the Feeb was trying to withdraw his pension.
He couldn’t believe it at first, even given the inevitability of it all. Fred the Feeb? True, Fred was the only remaining suspect—the only one he hadn’t killed yet. But Fred? The utterly incompetent, thoroughly geeklike Fred? He couldn’t steal rocks from a quarry, much less make off with the merchandise. Could he?
And yet, there he was, big as life and twice as ugly. It had only been a coincidence that he’d managed to see it. This was simply a preliminary run, scoping out his quarry in preparation for the fun and games to come. And there Fred was, in Stacey’s office, trying to pry some money out of his pension fund.
He’d already heard about Fred’s new alarm system, of course, and the guard dog. That was understandable enough. Fred knew he was on the list, whether he really deserved to be or not. But trying to get his pension money now? There could only be one possible explanation.
He was planning to run. Run far away, where no one could ever find him, least of all his old buddy old chum with the bright green eyes.
Of course, that was what Tony had thought, too. He thought he would just disappear for a while, take up permanent residence in the fishing cabin. But the Blaylock goons had caught him.
Just as he would catch Fred, no matter where he went. But there was no denying that it would be easier to take care of business before Fred hightailed it. Which meant he would have to accelerate his plan.
He was a little worried about that goddamn unrelenting cop, Morelli. He’d been up at the plant almost every day, asking a whole new series of questions, acting like he was actually getting somewhere. He would’ve thought that after the shockeroo he’d given the fool he’d have backed off. If anything, though, it seemed to have made the man even more doggedly determined. He should’ve killed the chump while he had the chance, or fried his brains at the very least. This was his punishment, he supposed, for showing a bit of mercy. Although in truth, there was more to it than that. He’d had George to deal with, and it was always possible the cop had called for backup. He’d decided it was smartest to make tracks, to haul off George, finish the operation, and deliver him to his final destination.
So the cop had lived. For now, anyway. If he continued to get in his way … well, anything could happen. One good swipe with a ball-peen hammer could cure a multitude of problems.
For now, though, he had to concentrate on Fred. If Fred did have the merchandise, he wanted it now, before he left town, before he initiated a chase that could prolong this thing even more. It was time to bring this to an end.
Which meant bringing Fred the Feeb to an end. And maybe the cop, too.
Chapter 36
JUDGE PERRY DENIED COLBYS MOTION for a Directed Verdict.
For Ben, this was equivalent to hearing that the stalker who’d been trailing him for months with a blood-soaked axe was finally laid to rest. For months now, he’d worried about the possibility of losing the case before the defense put on a single witness. Colby had been threatening from the get-go, and the judge had repeatedly expressed his concerns about the plaintiffs" causation problems. If Perry had granted the motion, all his time would have been wasted—worse, all that money would be gone, with no hope of recovering it.
But he didn’t. The judge denied the motion, although he expressed not a little regret as he did it. “Mind you,” Perry said, as the lawyers faced him in his private chambers, “I’m not happy about the approach Mr. Kincaid has taken to establish causation. I think your so-called scientist was little more than a hired gun. Professor Matthews tells me he passes the Daubert standard, so I have to accept that—but if he does, it’s just barely. Still, as a trial judge, it goes against the grain to take the case out of the hands of the jury. I hate to do that—and will only do that in the most extreme circumstances. No, I’m going to let this one go to the jury—and I’ll just hope they do the right thing.”
“Thank you, your honor,” Ben said. His fists were clenched so tightly his hands were white. He released them, at last, and felt a surge of relief sweeping through his entire body.
“I’m afraid this is likely to be an appeal issue for me,” Colby said. His tone was informative and matter-of-fact, not threatening. “Should I need one.”
Judge Perry nodded. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
As he began putting the defense case before the jury, Colby’s strategy seemed apparent. He wasn’t going to risk alienating the jury by attacking the plaintiff parents, denying their loss, or suggesting a
ny fault on their part. He wasn’t going to deny that chemicals had been dumped behind the Blaylock plant, either. He probably could; Ben imagined he could have a parade of loyal employees take the stand and deny that any chemicals were ever dumped or stored in an improper fashion. But that would sound like exactly what it was—the defense being defensive.
Instead, Colby chose to focus on the weak link in Ben’s armor, the one essential aspect of the case he could most easily win—causation. He would deny that there was any proof that TCE or perc, even if they were present, caused the leukemia outbreak. That was all he had to do. Because the burden of proof was on the plaintiffs. If Colby demonstrated that they had not met that burden of proof, the jurors would be forced to find for the defendant, regardless of what they privately thought, where their sympathies lay, or what “common sense” told them.
The first witness Colby called was a medical researcher from Boston, Dr. Gene Crenshaw. Crenshaw was in effect Rimland’s opposite number; he was there to deny everything Rimland had advocated.
After Colby established the man’s typically exhaustive credentials, he led him to the heart of the controversy. “Doctor, you’ve heard Dr. Rimland’s testimony. Do you agree with his conclusions?”
Crenshaw was a short, moon-faced man with a bald head that he had a habit of scratching as he formulated an answer. “No, I do not.”
“And why not?”
“Because he has no proof. His conclusions are unsubstantiated.”
“So it’s possible that he’s right—he just hasn’t proven it.”
“No, I can’t agree with that. I think he has made fundamental methodological errors that have led him in the wrong direction altogether.”
“Please explain.”
That was Crenshaw’s cue to turn and face the jury. “Dr. Rimland’s work proceeds from an initial belief in the existence of cancer clusters—pockets of leukemia that could only arise from some experiential or environmental source. But clusters aren’t real. They’re a myth. Therefore, all conclusions drawn from a belief in them are flawed.”
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