[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught

by David P. Warren

  For the first three of weeks after the kids are recovered, the media appears daily outside of our home, watching where we go and what we do, and they constantly seek any statement. On a couple of occasions, we did make statements thanking everyone for the concern, good wishes, and prayers we received for Joey's recovery. After the first three weeks, the media outside the house slowly begin to dissipate. They return in force with each new story about Joey or the case, sometimes trying to get us on camera.

  They run earlier interviews with Kevin, Constantine, and me. They isolate specific words we said along the way and seek to determine whether what we said was actually what we meant. And there is an outpouring of sympathy for our family that is remarkable and touching.

  News shows and social media gather public comment about all of it. Some people blame Constantine, suggesting that he had to be behind the attempts of Jerry Anders to blackmail first Kevin, and then me, into dismissing the case. Some callers think that I am responsible by bringing the lawsuit for Kevin in the first place, arguing that we should have turned the other cheek instead of seeking legal recourse. Others respond that the courts exist so that people have a right to have their claims heard and determined, and it is not about retribution but fairness and accountability.

  We receive hundreds of letters in the mail. Most are sent in sympathy and express good wishes for Joey's recovery. Some of the letters support us in the fight with Consolidated Energy. A few letters tell us that Anders was right, and the lawsuit should be dismissed or state that the Lord does not approve of litigation. A couple of the stranger ones are threatening in tone.

  After ten days of Joey's coma, we fall into a pattern. I go to court or the office in the morning for a few hours and arrive at the hospital around midday. Lisa arrives at the hospital at 7:00 a.m. and stays until 2:00 p.m., and then she tries to catch up on her work for a few hours. We have dinner with Katy around 6:00 p.m., and then Lisa and I go back to the hospital, leaving Katy with Bernie and Kathy, until about 11:00 p.m. Then we come home and try to sleep, which I cannot do. I get no more than two hours a night. When I do fall asleep, I often have nightmares about missing and injured children, my own and others.

  Most nights, I stare at the wall, playing the blame game, unable to forgive myself for what happened. In the middle of the night, I look at our family photos. Joey and I hiking through a narrow canyon, all of us sitting around a campfire, and Joey and Katy on their bicycles. Can any of this ever happen again? Will I ever have another conversation with Joey? Will he have the opportunity to live this precious life? Will he come out of this, grow up and go to college, and raise a family of his own? Or will he never experience most of what we cherish in this life? There is no answer to any of these questions, but I keep playing the tape.

  When I am at the office, my focus is still the same. I can't stop the tape, and I can't find any rest. When at home, I make coffee and walk around the house. I try to read a book. I look at files that I brought home from work. And I play the tape again. This night has played out like all the others since the event. The sun will be coming up soon, and maybe Joey will awaken today.

  Two cups of coffee later, it is 4:30 a.m., and I see that Lisa is awake. She sits up in bed and calls me over. She takes my hand and says, “You didn't do this, Scott. A demented man kidnapped our children.” She looks away and then back at me. “Whether you can forgive yourself is something you will have to come to terms with, but if you think you need forgiveness from me, you have it.” She puts her arms around me and says, “Now you have to figure out how to sleep so that you can make it through this.”

  “I know. I am really struggling with letting me off the hook.”

  “I think you should talk to a counselor. We need you in good shape so that you can help us make it through this.”

  “Maybe you're right,” I say. She gives me a kiss. “And thanks for all the ways you love me.”

  She smiles. “Ditto, Daddy dude.” And that almost makes me cry.

  I show up for work at 5:30 a.m. I can't sleep anyway, so I may as well get as much as possible done so that I can get back to the hospital. I am also going to meet with Kevin Walters this morning at eight o'clock, and I sense that this meeting will be emotionally difficult for both of us.

  I'm sitting at my desk reviewing documents when I look up and see Donna standing in my doorway. “Come in,” I say, waving her to a chair. She sits and I grope for words. “I want to say thank you for keeping everything going while I've been consumed and for …” I pause, searching for the right word. “For being there for me.”

  She nods and forces a smile. “You going to be okay?” she asks.

  I open my mouth, but I can't make any words come out, leaving no doubt that I am not okay. I know that if I speak, I will come apart midsentence. She seems to know it too, because she doesn't make me answer. She touches my hand and says, “I'm praying Joey will be okay.”

  I want to say something to her, but I still can't speak, so I swallow hard and nod.

  She gives me a warm smile. “Kevin Walters is here. Are you ready for him now?”

  I nod slowly. “Okay,” I say, doing my best to pull myself together.

  “I'll put him in the large conference room,” she says, and disappears down the hall. I force myself to stand and walk down the hall to the conference room. I walk through the door, and Kevin stands and reaches out a hand. His eyes are deeply pained as he looks into mine. The reflection of my sorrow is painful to see in his eyes. I shake his hand while I search for words, but I can't find any. Nothing will come out of my mouth at all.

  Walters says, “Scott, we can end all this. This has cost you far more than I could ever have imagined, and I never would have …” his words trailed off. He takes a breath and continues, “We can end the case right now. Take the hundred thousand they are offering, or just dump the case, and we'll walk away.”

  I finally manage to say “Thank you, Kevin. You are a friend.” I shake my head. “No,” I say, in a suddenly strong voice, “we can't.” I lean forward and lace my hands. “This fight has to be for something. You had the guts to stand up and say Consolidated is endangering its workers, and we can't let it end without accomplishing something that helps to protect employees in the future. Accountability will help to do that. Even a significant verdict of settlement will shine light on the issue, but these guys can write a $100,000 check without blinking and bury all of this.”

  He reflects for a moment and says, “You really want to fight further, Scott? I would understand if you were done with this.”

  “They ruined a great career because of legitimate safety complaints. I know I have been pretty distracted lately, but I still want to hold them accountable.”

  He nods. “Okay, I'm with you.”

  “I mentioned to you that we need to give them a demand for the mediation. I want to start at five million if that is okay with you.”

  He nods and then adds, “Okay, but I want you to know that this is not about money, and I could just walk away. To tell you the truth, I blame me and my case for what has happened to your family and …” his words trail off as emotion takes him. He works to hold back tears.

  “You didn't do this, Kevin. A madman did this.” As I say this, I hear Lisa's words as she attempted to console me the same way. I search for the right words and then add, “For me, it would be a tragedy if what this guy did is successful in ending the litigation. It is one thing to go to trial and lose. It is another to have someone take away your right to pursue a legitimate grievance by blackmail and personal attack. I believe in what we do, and I can't let that happen.”

  Kevin smiles weakly and says. “It is a pleasure to know you, Scott. You are a good man, my friend.”

  * * *

  It is 6:00 p.m. as I climb the stairs. At the top of the stairs, I find a single door. I push the adjacent buzzer, and there is an electronic tone. A green light goes on, and I walk into what looks like a living room. It is all so stereotypical shrink. I
sit on the couch and wait, rubbing my eyes and wondering if I should leave. I just don't want to be here. I'm a guy who grew up with boundaries, and it is hard for me to talk to a stranger, even a licensed stranger, about personal matters. Besides, what can this guy do? He can't wake up Joey. He can't bring the kids back to the innocence of lives before they were kidnapped and held for ransom. He will want me to talk, and I have nothing to say—there is nothing I can say. I remind myself that I promised Lisa I would do this to save me from the blackness that has been eating me up.

  The inner sanctum door opens, and a balding man, looking over wire-rimmed glasses, looks at me and smiles. “Mr. Winslow?” he says, as if I might be one of many other patients scheduled for this hour.

  “Yes,” I say, standing and extending a hand. He shakes it and then gestures me into the interior living room, decorated with a ship motif, whales, and lighthouses, some of which are pictured and some are trinkets assuming spots on bookcases. There are two chairs and one couch. He directs me to the couch with an extended hand, and I sit and wait.

  He sits, and there is a moment of silence. He must get this often. Another minute goes by, and he finally says, “How can I help you, Mr. Winslow … Can I call you Scott?”

  “Sure,” I say. “And I don't think you can help me.”

  “How do we know until we try?” Dr. Jackson asks with a smile that is intended to break down barriers. “You can call me Pat,” he returns. “I've seen a good deal of the media about you and Lisa and the kids, of course, but that just tells me what happened. So you tell me how you're doing.”

  “Not great,” I say. “I have two precious children who were kidnapped and held by a madman. One of them is now in a coma, and I am not sure he will ever be back.” My heart is beating loud, and I can feel the blood pulsing through my veins. I look down at the floor and add, “And this is my fault. So you tell me how you think I'm doing.”

  He nods. “I can tell you're hurting badly.” He folds his hands in front of his mouth thoughtfully. “I'm not going to bullshit you, Scott. I have no magic way to make this better, and you know that.” He leans back and looks straight at me. “But this is a place where you can say anything you want. Where you can talk, vent, scream—anything at all with no judgment. And maybe we can help you make it through this.”

  “I want that son of a bitch,” I say, shocking myself with the first acknowledgment that I am deeply angry with Anders. “If I found him, I would consider killing him myself.” I smile at Pat. “Do you have to turn that statement over to the police as a threat of imminent bodily harm?”

  “I don't know. Do you intend to find and kill him?”

  “I don't know either. I can't get past step one anyway. I have no idea where the son of a bitch is.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Have you thought about how you would do it?”

  “Actually, I have considered countless ways, but the one I like best is walking him to the edge of a cliff and pushing him off—after telling him what's coming.”

  “You want him to know itbecause you want him to be scared?”

  “Damn it, yes. I want him to be scared, just like my children were scared. I want him to know what he's done.”

  “I get it,” he says, nodding. “I can let you in on a little secret, though.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “It probably wouldn't help. I've known people who took their retribution and killed or tortured someone who hurt their family. It didn't bring the catharsis they thought it would. It just brought more pain.”

  I think about that, glancing at the room around me. It was a well-lit living room where friends would hang and drink beer while watching the game, and I decide that this was no accident. Glancing at the pictures, I ask, “Were you a sea captain in another life?”

  “No, I just love the ocean and escape to it when I can. Weekends here and there, vacations. That kind of thing.”

  I nod, no longer paying attention. “So you've worked with others who went through this? Their children injured or lost, I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “And they make it through?”

  “Mostly,” he says. I think that this guy is pretty credible—the answers aren't over the top or hard to believe. He is working on his credibility and rapport building, and it must be working because I am listening.

  “Sometimes not?” I ask.

  “You and I both know that this is not an easy situation. Lots of people suffer some kind of situational anxiety—relationships and careers gone bust, kids on drugs or in jail. And family members dying—shot, stabbed, cancer. It's devastating.”

  “Holy shit,” I say, “now I'm cheered up.”

  He grins. “I won't bullshit you, Scott. I see some bad stuff. Sometimes people get up and run. Their pain isn't gone; it's just lived with.”

  “And others?” I ask, rhetorically.

  “Others don't do so well.” He shrugs. “I don't know if the strength is innate or environmental, but I know that most people can make it through more that they know. And I regard them as heroes for being able to go on. And I will always be there for them.”

  I hear a slight break in the last words. “Jesus, you've been there yourself.”

  He is quiet.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “First piece of advice, Scott. Keep talking to Lisa about all this. Doesn't matter what you say, just talk. When you're silent for protracted periods, you start thinking maybe she can't forgive you or that you can't talk anymore, and when you stop connecting, you just remind each other of the worst. Say anything. Words are comforts—both the heart-felt ones and the innocuous day-to-day conversations. Talking to one another keeps you connected despite the elephant in the room.”

  We talk about both of the kids and their personalities. We talk about Joey's absence and its effect on Katy, and then on Lisa. We talk about Joey and what a great kid he is.

  He says, “And now you see him unconscious every day at the hospital.”

  “Yes.”

  “You go through emotions throughout your visits?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you tell me what you experience?”

  “Everything,” I say. “I remember the things we've done. Playing catch, walking in the woods, doing homework. And every time I think of something we've done, I play the tape that says we may never get to do it again. I think that he may never wake up and that he may miss the rest of his life, and that is the worst. All the great things that lie ahead: graduations, marriage, family, career. I think that he may never get to know any of it, and my heart crashes in an instant. I stand there, and tears come as I look at him.”

  “You are doing a good job, Scott, as a parent and in coping. I think that after you leave today, you will be glad you came. I want to encourage you to come back. Just the opportunity to off-load can assist you, my friend.” He checks his watch and then says, “Our time is up for today.”

  I chuckle, and he smiles. “I thought they only said that in the movies,” I say.

  He grins and says, “Turns out that some of what's in the movies actually happens.” His expression turns solemn. “I know that you probably have doubts about all this, Scott, but I hope you'll come back.”

  I nod. “Okay, thanks,” I say, noncommittally, but I'm thinking that I might. As hours go, this one has been less painful than many I'm living.

  I leave the office and walk, thinking, and for the first time noticing surroundings. I walk from the business district into a nearby residential neighborhood as dusk settles around me. There are children playing and people watering their front yards. There are dogs on leashes and kids and cats on porches. There are signs of normality. There are wafting smells from barbecues and splashes and screams from backyard pools. For some, it seems that life goes on as usual. Then I think about Lisa and telling her about my experience with Patrick. I'm not sure the visit will help me get any more sleep, but there is something positive in being able to share the pain with a good listener.

 
* * *

  In the morning, I return a call from Lee Henry.

  “Yes.”

  “Lee, it's Scott.”

  “Oh my God, my friend, I'm so sorry.”

  “Thank you, Lee.” I take a deep breath, fighting off rising emotion, before I can go on. “Have you been able to keep our friend captive and under wraps?”

  “Yeah, he's at the Sheraton. He started making noise about leaving all this behind when I served him with the subpoena you guys gave me for his deposition next Friday.”

  “Do you think he will stay?”

  “Yes. He'll stay.”

  “You sound confident.”

  “I can be persuasive.”

  “Don't tell me anymore. Does he still have all of his parts?”

  “Yep. He is still in one annoying piece.”

  “Have you talked to him about the documents we are working on?”

  “No, I'm keeping that in my back pocket.”

  “Okay, I think that's a good decision.” I thought momentarily and then said, “I hear you have a photo of this Mr. Valentine character in one of his incarnations.”

  “I do, and I have a couple of law enforcement friends working on it with facial recognition software. As of yesterday, there was no match in their data banks.”

  “Can you get them to run the picture against Consolidated Energy employees in the region?

  “Yeah, if you are okay picking up the additional tab.”

  “Let's do it. I really want to know who that guy is,” I say.

  “You bet, and I'll keep pushing.”

  “Lee was quiet a moment and then says, “Scott, I am really so sorry …”

  I interrupt. “Thanks, Lee. It's hard for me to talk about, and I'm trying really hard to hold myself together.”