[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught

by David P. Warren

  “We are looking for Carl Miller, and understand that he's here today.”

  “He was,” I say. “I think he just left a few minutes ago.”

  “How? How did he leave?”

  “I think he went out the back door to the parking lot.”

  “Which way is the back door?” the taller of the two cops asks.

  “Come with me, I'll take you.”

  “Okay,” he says. “'Take the front and go around,” he says to the other officer, who nods and takes off.

  I walk him to the rear door, and we go outside. “Any idea what kind of car he came in?”

  “No.”

  He looks around the lot; no cars moving. He sees the other officer come around the side of the building shaking his head. “Okay, thanks,” he says to me, and the officers walk to a midpoint to confer. I go back inside and watch the two officers from my office window. After a few minutes, I see them walk toward their marked car and drive off. I guess that somewhere in the midst of all that, Harris left the office. I walk down the hall and into Bill's office, where he is seated behind his desk. He looks up and asks, “What kind of crazy shit are you getting me into?”

  I grin. “Interesting day, don't you think?”

  “Are they going to be able to track that guy?”

  “Probably sooner or later. After all, Lee did it.” I add, “But we made it a little harder than it was by eliminating a few connections between his old and new lives.”

  “Or maybe by making us the connections they will be looking for,” he says.

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  Chapter 28

  July 20, 2016

  It has now been five weeks from Joey's injury, and he has not awakened. It is 8:00 p.m. on a Wednesday, and we are awaiting Dr. Mitchell's arrival to provide a medical update based upon the latest testing. Lisa is holding Joey's hand, and I am pacing by the window. Soft music plays in the background, but the room is otherwise quiet.

  Dr. Mitchell walks in wearing his usual garb, peels the blue surgical cap from his head and says, “Sorry to keep you waiting a few minutes.”

  I force a smile and say, “We have nowhere else to go.”

  Lisa and I look at him and wait. He pauses before he begins, which is seldom a good sign. “The swelling around the brain has not been reduced. The challenges we now face are that Joey's blood pressure is getting too low, even with the medication we are feeding him, and his respiration is weak.”

  “You mean his breathing?” Lisa asks.

  “Yes, his breathing.” He furrows his brow. “So we have to make a choice. Either we start reducing the anesthesia, or we put him on a respirator.”

  “Life support?” I say, almost involuntarily.

  “That term has a pejorative connotation because it is associated with the end of life, but respirators are often interim steps in treatment. It doesn't automatically mean that there is no return.”

  “If we reduce the anesthesia?” Lisa asks.

  He nods. “Then his respiration and blood pressure will strengthen, but we diminish the chances of reducing the brain swelling.”

  Lisa starts to cry at the thought of her boy on a respirator. I am scared. This now sounds like it won't get better. It feels like we may lose our boy.

  “What are you recommending?” I ask, nervously.

  “I recommend that we use the respirator and make it easier for Joey to breathe while he fights the swelling.”

  I look at the deep sadness on Lisa's face, and my heart breaks. She says, “I guess we have no real choice.”

  We go home that night knowing that when we see Joey again, he will be hooked up to more tubes and machines. It is hard to find any reason for optimism.

  * * *

  The next morning, I am in the office putting out sparks before they become fires. I am obsessed with Joey's condition, and I haven't slept. I want the focus of work, hopeful that thinking about something else for a few minutes will serve as some kind of temporary escape from the world I now inhabit. I work at a frenetic pace looking for that diversion from the reality that overcomes my mind in waves. I generate discovery on three cases, oversee responses to discovery on two others, and prepare for an upcoming deposition. In other words, a normal day in the office. It is almost 11:00 a.m. when Donna buzzes and says, “Scott, I have Jared McGuire on line one.”

  “Really. Did he say what it is about?”

  “I asked. He said it's personal.”

  Last thing I knew, I didn't have anything personal going on with the assistant district attorney. “Okay, I got it. Thanks.”

  I hit a button on the phone. “Jared, our paths haven't crossed in a long time. How are you?”

  “I'm okay. Before we start, let me say I am so sorry about what happened to your son.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate your concern.”

  “Scott, we need to talk. Can I stop by this morning? How would noon work for you?”

  “That's fine. See you then.”

  When I hang up, Donna stands at my open door. “Strange call. What did he want?”

  “He stayed mysterious about it. Says he needs to talk to me. It sounds like a warning call of some kind, so I'm running through our client list in my head, considering whether any of them might be about to be picked up and charged with something. No criminal controversy comes to mind, but you never know.”

  “Yeah, I remember the Briton case,” she says.

  “Exactly.” Briton was a wrongful termination case, in the midst of which the employer swore out a criminal complaint contending that Mr. Briton had stolen important documents from the company. Ultimately, the case was dismissed for lack of evidence. “It is likely some surprise like that. Although, nobody gave us a heads-up on that one.”

  “I didn't know that you and McGuire were close.”

  “We aren't. We see each other at Bar Association meetings and greet each other as we pass in the courthouse hallways. That's the extent of it.”

  “Hmm. Maybe it is not a heads-up then,” she says.

  “Right, maybe he's coming to raise money for DA softball, or to arrest me for being a public pain in the ass.”

  “I'd bet on the latter,” she says, grinning.

  Turns out, she was more accurate than we knew.

  At noon, I greet Jared McGuire. We grab coffee, and I lead the way to our smaller conference room. Jared is about fifty and built like an offensive tackle. Even with a body that size, his head looks large. He has big perceptive eyes that don't look away, and lots of wavy white hair.

  Jared sits back in his chair and puts his fingertips together at the base of his chin. “So let me get to why I'm here,” he says, evenly. “There has been a complaint that you aided a suspect in evading the police.”

  “What?” I say, incredulously.

  “Yeah. It seems that you had Carl Miller in this very room and helped him exit before police waiting in your lobby could get to him.”

  I smile. “You're not serious?”

  “I am.”

  “Jared, you would have to agree with me that the essential elements of such an accusation would include showing knowledge on my part that Miller was wanted by the police and that, knowing that, I actually knowingly assisted him in making a getaway. Am I right?”

  “Essentially, yeah.”

  “Well, neither of those things are true.”

  “I had no idea that the police were looking for Miller before the deposition of Miller. After we completed the deposition, he said he was parked out back, so he used the employee door to get directly to the parking lot. There were two officers sitting in the lobby, but he had already gone before I spoke to them.” I shake my head. “It's not like Miller is a friend of mine. He was here because we managed to get him served with a subpoena, and he didn't have a choice.”

  McGuire is quiet, and then nods reluctantly. “I'm hearing what I thought I would hear,” he says. “Doesn't sound like there is anything to this complaint.”

  “I'm s
urprised to hear from you about this rather than a detective.”

  “I know. Two reasons for that. First, with me handling it, I can go more directly to a finding that no action should be taken on the complaint. Second, I heard that Miller admitted to changing official records, and I wanted you to tell me if that is true.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “that is true.”

  He nods. “Did he say why?”

  “He said that he was blackmailed into doing it.”

  “Really. By whom?”

  “A guy who called himself Mr. Valentine.”

  McGuire furrows his brow. “Let me know when your transcript is done, will you? I want to order a copy.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Sorry for the interruption.” He raises the hand holding the cup, “And thanks for the coffee.” We shake hands, and I walk him from the office. Carl Miller was lucky to be a new man in a new city, and I would really be in some shit if it was known that I helped set it up and wasn't sharing where he could be found. I knew all this, but I thought that Miller had been fucked over quite enough and could use a little help. I'd have to wait and see whether that empathy would come back to bite me on the ass.

  I put a call in to Lee that went directly to voice mail. “You've reached me because you know who I am and how to reach me. Now tell me who you are and how to get even.”

  “Hi, Lee. This is Scott Winslow. I just had a visit from Assistant DA McGuire regarding our mutual friend, and I wanted to give you a heads-up in case he decides to call you at some point.”

  Twenty minutes later, Donna said, “Lee Henry, line three.”

  I punch the button and say, “Hi, Lee. I just had a visit from Jared McGuire, and I wanted to give you a heads-up in case he calls you at some point.”

  “Wow,” Lee says. “Those sneaky little bastards.”

  “The DA?”

  “Yep. At the same time you were meeting with McGuire, I got a visit from Detective Art Scully. He wanted to talk about Carl Miller, too. Seems that our friends at the DA's office wanted to assure that you and I did not have the opportunity to confer before the inquiry was complete.”

  “Wow is right,” I say. “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth. I told them that I tracked Miller to Mississippi, and he was living under an assumed as one Eric Dardon. I told them that I paid him a visit and that I was persuasive in convincing him to return to California based on your deposition subpoena.”

  “How did the detective react?”

  “Scully frowned when I talked about being convincing to Miller. He probably thinks that I beat the shit out of the guy, or threatened to, but he doesn't have any information to suggest I did anything inappropriate, so I just gave him my nice guy smile.”

  “You'll have to show me that one sometime. Sounds unfamiliar.”

  “Very funny. Anyway, I shared the Mississippi address, told him what I could share about how I got to him. I had to leave a couple of steps out because I accessed certain info I shouldn't be able to get. I told him that they should try him at that same address. I just left out the part about him now being a different guy in a different state. Hopefully, Miller was careful about not leaving tracks to his new life because these guys are going to look.”

  “What did McGuire say to you?” Lee asks.

  “He suggested that I might have helped him to get away while we had those cops in the lobby. I told him that I wasn't aware of any warrants on him, and I certainly had no reason to make him stay around after his testimony.”

  “I'm glad we were on the same page.” Lee adds, again, “Those tricky little bastards.”

  I laugh. “Let me know if you hear anything else, and I'll do the same. Hopefully, there is just no sign of Mr. Dardon in Mississippi anymore. The neighbors can say he just up and moved out in the middle of the night.”

  “Amen and farewell to Mr. Dardon—poof.”

  “See you, Lee. Take care.”

  “You, too.”

  * * *

  August 3, 2016

  The day of the mediation in the Walters v. Consolidated Energy case, Kevin Walters and I arrive at Jake Billings's mediation office early. The office consists of a lobby area and reception desk, Jake's personal office, a kitchen, and five large conference rooms. Jake Billings was a thirty-year employment attorney who no longer represents clients. He mediates employment cases of every conceivable sort, every day, regularly filling his conference rooms with multiple parties and insurance carriers. Jake's assistant, Sara, greets us with a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Winslow,” she says enthusiastically, extending a hand that I shook. “And Mr. Walters, nice to meet you, sir.” Kevin also shakes her hand. “Jake has you in Conference Room 3; if you'll follow me, please.” We followed her down the hall to a room that contained a conference room table large enough for ten people. “Coffee, tea, soda, and food are in the kitchen down the hall to your left. Mr. Winslow, I know that you know your way around from previous visits.”

  “I do. Thank you, Sara.”

  “Internet access info is on the credenza. If you need anything else, please let me know. I'll tell Jake that you're here, and he'll be in shortly.”

  “Great, thanks,” I say, unpacking my computer.

  When Sara leaves the room, Kevin says, “I want to thank you for everything, Scott. However this comes out, you have been great to work with, and both Julia and I think very highly of you.”

  “Likewise, Kevin. It is a pleasure to work with you.” I pause and add, “And to get to know you. You and Julia are remarkable people.” Looking into his eyes, I could see that there was something else he wanted to say. I'm guessing it was something about the family tragedy that had taken us, but he was struggling for the right words. He was relieved of the struggle when Jake Billings gave a knock at the door and then walked into the room. Billings is just over six feet tall, slim, and occupies that area somewhere between a receding hairline and the early stages of balding. He wears a nice suit and glasses, and has a thoughtful expression on his face.

  A week ago, I submitted a twenty-five page brief to Jake's office, complete with exhibits that included our expert analysis and a summary of the deposition testimony of Carl Miller. I knew from my prior experience with Jake that he would have read all of it by the time I arrived. Today he will know the strengths and weaknesses of both sides and be ready to use them against one party or another in his efforts to shape a settlement of the case. Jake will look for anything that might settle a case, whether it involved money damages, returning the plaintiff to a position at the same or a different company, and sometimes a mea culpa from an individual responsible for a dubious employment decision.

  Jake extends his hand to Kevin first. “Mr. Walters, good to meet you. You have obviously had a remarkable history with Consolidated and accomplished a great deal to make them a better company.”

  Kevin shakes his hand and says, “It's really good to hear that, thanks.”

  “Doesn't just come from me. Michael Constantine acknowledges that you are very talented and brought a great deal to the table.” Kevin looks a little shocked. Jake sees the expression and adds, “It's really true. They know you are good.”

  “I'm just a little shocked,” Kevin says. “I heard that frequently while I worked there, but since this lawsuit, they've been working hard to paint me differently.”

  “Nature of the beast,” Jake says, “but it doesn't alter reality.”

  Jake next reaches out a hand to me, and as we shake, says, “Good to see you again, Scott. Very interesting case here.”

  “It is,” I agree.

  “I hope all goes well with your son's recovery,” he says soberly.

  “Thanks, Jake.”

  We all sit down around the conference table, with Jake's position closest to the door so that he can easily move between rooms. “Can I call you Kevin?” Jake asks.

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Kevin, knowing Scott, you and he have talked about this proceeding, but I do want t
o hit a couple of the highlights. First, I have no power to compel anyone to do anything. I will work with both sides to reach an agreement while you all still control your own destiny. That is, before the case is turned over to a judge and twelve people selected for their lack of information about your case and your whole industry. Next, I am having everyone sign an agreement acknowledging the law in California that everything that is said here today is confidential and stays that way. People are not able to speak freely if they believe that what they say working to get a case settled can come back to bite them later on, so we have laws that make everything that is said at a mediation confidential and unusable at trial. It means that whatever you say today, no one can put you on the witness stand at trial and say, 'But at the mediation, didn't you say the opposite?' And I cannot be subpoenaed to testify at trial regarding who said what at the mediation.”

  “I understand,” Kevin says.

  “One caveat,” Jake adds. “Although what we say today is confidential, if a party learns something today, there is nothing that stops them seeking evidence to prove it by other than what was said at the mediation.”

  “Got it,” Kevin acknowledges.

  Jake continues. “Today you will hear me make arguments that I get from the other room. Doesn't mean I agree with them; it means those are the positions that the other side is taking. Whether we agree with those positions or not, it's important for you to know what they are saying and what they're positions will be if you go to trial.”

  “I agree,” Kevin says.

  Jake nods, having completed the informational part of his introduction. He then looks at me and says, “I read all of your material.”

  “I knew you would,” I say, grinning.

  “You have a demand of $5 million, and they have a darned good opening offer of $100,000. Correct?”

  “Those are the numbers, yes.”

  He chuckled. “Not conceding that 100K is a good opening?”

  “It would be in some cases. Not so much here.”