Nah. She just didn’t look the part. Even cops wouldn’t be stupid enough to fall for that.
He went through her wallet, checking all her membership cards, all the photos of kids he knew weren’t hers, not coming up with anything. Inspiration didn’t strike until he found a thin document on white paper folded into fourths.
It was some kind of legal thing, he realized immediately. He recognized the name of the case: Elkins et al. v. H. P. Blaylock Industrial Machinery Corp. It was a case with which he was, of course, familiar, as was probably everyone in Tulsa.
Now that had some potential. If he could get her well-ventilated corpse out of the hotel without being seen …
And he knew he could. He could do anything, couldn’t he? And he would keep on doing anything, anything at all. Anything necessary. Until at last he found what he wanted.
Chapter 11
BEN BRUSHED AWAY THE bits of eraser nub and tried again.
Drafting written interrogatories for the other side was not his favorite activity. Although it was a time-honored discovery procedure for civil lawsuits, it was a difficult process and rarely a productive one. He would spend several hours trying to come up with specific airtight questions that could lead to useful information. But even though the interrogatories were technically addressed to the opposing party, Ben knew perfectly well that they would in fact be answered by the opposing party’s attorneys. Whether through laziness or a deliberate effort at obfuscation, the lawyers would go to extreme lengths to avoid providing any concrete information. Lawyers had vast banks of excuses for not answering: “The question is too vague, too narrow, too unclear, not relevant, yada, yada, yada.” Or that time-honored chestnut: “The documents to be provided by Defendant will be the most reliable source of information on this subject.” In other words—look it up yourself. Of course, Ben could object to any incomplete or evasive answer, but by the time they got a hearing, they would be taking depositions, so it seemed simpler just to ask the witnesses. Interrogatories could be a simple, inexpensive discovery tool, but lawyers had made them worthless.
So why was he bothering to draft them? Ben asked himself. Hope springs eternal, he supposed. And he would feel negligent if he didn’t, even if he knew it to be a futile process.
Document production might be more helpful. There was a time when drafting requests for documents was just as complicated as the interrogatories, but today, in the Northern District of Oklahoma, anyway, document production was automatic and mandatory. Parties had an obligation to produce all relevant documents as soon as the suit was active. Anyone who failed to do so could be severely sanctioned, either monetarily or by having judgment entered against them. Written requests were only necessary to request specific documents that, for one reason or another, had not already been produced. Which was good. Ben would be very anxious to read any documents relating to Blaylock’s waste-disposal procedures.
Just to make sure he didn’t miss anything, Ben drafted a few requests for physical examination. He wanted to tour the Blaylock plant, and particularly to examine that ravine behind the property. And he wanted to send in his experts to test the soil and water. It was possible that Blaylock might cooperate voluntarily, since refusal would only lead to a court order, but Ben thought it best to have his formal request on file, just the same.
And finally, there was the matter of taking depositions. Of all discovery procedures, depositions were the most time-consuming, the least pleasant—but by far the most productive. Ben could require any witness to appear and answer his questions under oath in the presence of a court reporter who would take down every word the witness said. Pretrial depositions were usually the best opportunity to learn what the other side had up its sleeve. Although opposing counsel could be present, they were not allowed to prevent the witness from answering, with a few very rare exceptions, such as when the questions impinged upon the attorney-client privilege.
No one liked giving depositions. With attorneys sitting all around the table, unfriendly questions, and a reporter taking it all down, it became a high-pressure affair. Almost as bad as testifying in court. But it was essential. Deposition answers could lead to new evidence, new theories, other witnesses. And the transcript could be used to impeach a witness should the person attempt to change his or her story at trial.
Ben was unsure where to begin. He knew he wanted to talk to the president of the company, and anyone responsible for waste disposal, but after that, he was unsure. He couldn’t talk to everyone who worked at Blaylock; they had thousands of employees. But at this early stage of the game, it was hard to know who was important and who wasn’t.
Ben felt a shadow pass over him, as if a mountain was approaching. Which, as it turned out, was correct.
Loving was on the other side of his desk. “Christina said you wanted to see me?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Ben set down his pencil. “How’s the research coming?”
“Slow, Skipper. No one at Blaylock wants to talk to me. They all seem to think they might lose their jobs if they talk.”
“A distinct possibility.” He thought for a moment. “How about former employees?”
“S’possible. How would I know who’s a former employee?”
“I’ll request a list in these interrogatories. They surely have some computer files they can print out without too much trouble.” He made a note on the draft. “That isn’t why I wanted to see you, though.”
“It ain’t?” Loving pulled up a chair.
“No. Loving, you’ve met my landlady, haven’t you?”
“Sure. That’s Mrs. Marble … Marmalade …”
“Marmelstein.”
“Yeah. That’s it. How’s the old girl doin’?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. I’m worried that …” His voice drifted. He didn’t like to think about it, much less say it. “Anyway, all these years I’ve lived in her house, I’ve thought she had no living family. But now, crazy as it seems, I think she may have a son. And I’d like you to find him.”
“A son? Didn’t she ever mention him?”
“No. Not when she was lucid, anyway. Which suggests to me there may be some bad blood, on one side or the other. Maybe both.”
“That’s too bad. You know his name?”
“I think it’s Paul. Paulie, she called him.”
Loving tore a scrap of paper off Ben’s legal pad and made a note. “Okay. Got anything else for me?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve tried to get more information out of her, but …” He sighed. “Her Alzheimer’s is pretty bad. I’ve got a picture.” He passed the brown-tinted photo he’d taken from Mrs. Marmelstein’s photo album. “It’s dated, of course. But it’s better than nothing.”
Loving appeared skeptical. “I’ll see what I can do. If there is a son, there should be a birth certificate around somewhere.”
“Thanks, Loving. I appreciate it. I know it’s a long shot, but I think it’s important.” He paused. “It’s think it’s important that we find him as soon as possible.”
About thirty minutes away from Ben’s office, in the tiny town of Blackwood, a meeting took place on the top floor of the H. P. Blaylock headquarters building. Myron Blaylock, looking particularly crochety this morning, sat at the head of a long conference table. Charlton Colby, lead counsel for the defense, sat at the other. Several vice presidents and other functionaries sat in between, including Ronald Harris.
Mark Austin sat behind Colby, legal pad at the ready, anxious to perform whatever task his master wanted, whether it be handing him exhibits or making him a sandwich. The faithful associate didn’t ask questions; he did what he was told. And Mark wanted very much to make a success of this assignment. This was his ticket to the big time.
“Thank you for coming,” Colby said. He leaned forward, making it clear that, despite his placement at the table, he was running this meeting. “Since it appears that the lawsuit will be proceeding, I wanted to gather everyone together and discuss our strategy.”
> “I hate this, damn it all,” Blaylock barked. “I hate wasting our time and money on this lawyering. I’ve got a business to run.”
Colby took it all in stride. “And the purpose of this strategy session is to insure that you continue to have a business to run.”
Blaylock folded his arms in a huff. “The whole idea is ludicrous. Blaming us because the well water is poisoned. Can’t we get rid of this thing?”
“We have attempted to do so,” Colby patiently explained, “and will do so again. But for the time being, the case will continue. We’re entering the discovery period now, and I want everyone to be prepared for it.”
“Goddamn it, I’m not going to have to give another deposition, am I?”
“I fear that is inevitable, Myron.”
“Blast! Don’t these idiots know I have better things to do than waste an entire day answering their fool questions?”
“Nonetheless, they will insist upon it. Unless I miss my guess, the plaintiffs will want to depose everyone in this room. They don’t really know what they’re looking for or who knows what, so they’re likely to use a shotgun approach. Aim their guns at everything in sight.”
“Excuse me,” a balding man named Gregory Steinhart said, “but would that include me? I don’t see how Personnel relates—”
“They will. Probably they’ll subpoena your records. Try to find out everyone who worked in waste disposal, or might’ve come into contact with hazardous materials.”
“Oh.” Steinhart appeared to find this a sobering prospect.
“Of course, they’ll want everyone and everything to do with waste disposal. They’ll want everyone who ever ordered, used, or handled the chemicals listed in their Complaint—TCE and perc. Maybe some others as well. I know Kincaid’s been talking to chemists and geologists. I need to know what Blaylock’s official policy is with regard to disposing hazardous materials.”
A short, slight man on the other end of the table cleared his throat. “Ronald Harris here. Our official policy has always been to store potentially dangerous chemical waste in steel drums, then to have the drums transported to authorized waste-disposal sites.”
“And your actual practice?”
Harris glanced quickly at Blaylock, then back at Colby. “Our practice has always been to conform with our official policy.”
“Good,” Colby managed to say, without the slightest trace of irony. “I’m glad to hear that. So there’s nothing dangerous or contaminated on the grounds behind the plant.”
“Absolutely not.”
“No trace of TCE or perc in the ravine or groundwater.”
“Of course not.”
“Then you won’t object to letting the plaintiffs" attorney examine the grounds.”
“What’s this?” Blaylock rolled forward in his chair. “I don’t want attorneys running all over my plant. We’ve got work to do, damn it! Has he asked for an inspection?”
“Not yet. But he will. You can count on it. He’ll bring experts with him. Geologists, toxicologists—”
“That’s going to cost them a pretty penny.”
“The plaintiffs are playing for big stakes. They’ll be willing to spend a few dollars.”
“Who’s going to pay for all this? Those plaintiffs can’t afford to play ball in our court.”
“I don’t know the answer to that question, Myron. But I’m working on it.”
“Maybe we should see if we can run up the bill. These jerkwater clowns might lose their fervor for litigation.”
“That defense strategy is not exactly unknown, Myron. Of course, we wouldn’t want to do anything unethical.”
Blaylock snorted. “No, of course not. Is the tape recorder on?”
Colby smiled thinly. “I’ll delay whenever possible. But the inspection will happen. So be ready for it.” He scanned the rows of eyes on both sides of the table. “Prepare.”
“What exactly are we allowed to do?” another vice president asked.
“Well, of course, you can’t hide any evidence. But you can continue with your normal practices. And since your normal practice is to dispose of chemicals in drums and have the drums transported elsewhere, I suggest you do that. In a big way.”
The vice president nodded. “I think I got you. I’ll take care of it.”
“Damn right you will,” Blaylock added. “Every last drop.”
Colby continued. “Now I’ve already sent each of you a memo regarding the production of relevant documents. I assume that work is already in progress.”
“The photocopiers are working double time,” Steinhart answered.
“I should also warn you,” Colby continued, “that it’s possible the plaintiffs" attorney or his representative might attempt to talk with you or your employees at any time. Under no circumstances should you talk with them. No matter what they say. No matter how simple it seems. If Kincaid wants to talk to us, make him go through me. Make him go through official channels. Trust me—it will be better for us all. Okay?”
Everyone in the room nodded their consent.
“Good. That about covers it, then. Of course, I’ll see you again and prepare each of you before your deposition is taken. We’ll review documents, discuss potential answers. Refresh your memory, if necessary.”
“I have a question,” Blaylock said. “About the production of documents.”
“Yes?”
“Does that include our own … internal documents?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
“Even things we just wrote … just for our own use?”
“Even that.”
Blaylock shifted what little weight he had. “Charlton, you may remember a report I once sent you. In a dark-blue folder.”
“I distinctly recall it.”
“We don’t have to produce that, do we? "Cause if we do—”
Colby cut him off. “As I recall, I instructed you to include me on the report’s circulation list.”
“Correct.” Blaylock removed a slim blue folder from his briefcase. He checked the first page. “There you are. CC to Charlton Colby.”
“Good. Since I was included in the distribution list, the report was, at least in part, prepared for my benefit. Therefore, I believe we have a tenable claim that it is covered by the attorney-client privilege and therefore should not be produced.”
“And what if your esteemed colleague disputes your claim and wants the document?”
Colby answered the question with a question. “How can he request a document he doesn’t know exists?”
“Mmm. Good point.”
Mark leaned close to Colby. “I’ll prepare a claim of privilege form, sir.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mark.”
“It’s traditional—”
“But not required.” Colby’s expression barely changed, but he nonetheless managed to give Mark a look that told him to back off in no uncertain terms. “There is no rule that expressly requires me to identify documents that have been withheld under a claim of privilege. I’m a member of the bar. I can determine in good faith whether a document should be produced.”
Mark buttoned his lip.
“I think that covers everything,” Colby said, gracefully rising to his feet. “Please don’t hesitate to call if I can be of service.”
“Don’t call him too often,” Blaylock grumbled. “He bills by the second.”
“Please remember what I said, though. Loose lips sink ships.”
“And lose overpaid executives their jobs,” Blaylock added.
The men in the room rose to their feet. Not a one of them was laughing at Blaylock’s little joke. Not so much as a smile.
Chapter 12
THE OUTSIDER WAS A creature of unspeakable horror. He had no body in the traditional sense, only a fluid gelatinous ooze that slithered out at the monster’s whim. He had no features as such; only careful examination revealed two large eyeballs, veined and protruding, unlidded, and a hideous mouth—a gaping, slavering maw with two
fanglike tusks jutting out, each of them sharpened to a deadly point.
Scout did not know exactly where the Outsider was, but he knew the beast was somewhere in this dense thicket, and he knew the beast was looking for him. Hunting him.
The Outsider was not an intelligent creature, not in the sense that he could think, reason, plan ahead. But he was a creature of unrelenting instinct, a natural born predator. He hunted humans. He fed on them, devouring them, starting with the eyeballs, which the monster considered a great delicacy. His hunger was intense and unyielding. Once he caught the spoor of prey, he became an unyielding killing machine. He did not tire. He did not reconsider. He did not quit. So long as his prey lived, the hunt would continue.
Scout swerved his bicycle between two tall trees on the side of the dirt road. Good thing he’d talked his dad into buying this mountain bike for Christmas; that old green Schwinn he’d had before could never have handled this kind of punishment. His only chance of escaping the Outsider would be to cut across the thicket, then make a northwest shortcut across the Reinholtz farm property. He could duck into the ravine at the far side; its higher wall might protect him from view long enough to allow him to make his escape.
Pedaling with all his might, Scout crossed the farmland and tumbled down into the ravine. He didn’t think he’d been spotted, but he was certain the Outsider was nearby, his instinctual telepathy primed for any signs of his prey. It was like a sixth sense, an indelible intuition, intangible, but no less certain for it.
Scout had to keep moving. That was his only hope.
He had moved north less than ten feet when he heard the sound. He whirled around, his eyes wide with anticipation. Where was it? Why was the creature toying with him like this?
Pedaling as fast as he could, Scout raced down the ravine. Barely a second later, he heard the unmistakable growl of the Outsider. It was above him, nestled in the branches of a nearby tree. Before Scout had a chance to move, the monster plunged down on top of him, knocking him off his bike. Scout and the Outsider rolled onto the muddy ground.
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