Bodily Harm: A Novel

by Dugoni, Robert

  “How then, Mr. Horgan, could you have possibly deduced from an article about the death of a young boy in Southern Washington that it was somehow related to the toy you now allege to have designed?”

  “His brother’s name was on the list.”

  Reid paused, wary, but already in the water up to her knees, she could not easily back out now. “What list?”

  “The list with the names of the kids who were going to play with the toy.”

  Reid turned and looked to Fitzgerald, but he simply shook his head. “You have a copy of the list?”

  “No—I asked the man at the warehouse how many of the prototypes had a problem with the plastic cracking so I could evaluate if it was due to the design or maybe just an anomaly in the manufacturing process. The man didn’t know for certain, so he pulled out the list to count the names.”

  “And he gave you a copy of the list?”

  “No. He couldn’t. He said it was confidential, but he said they would follow through and find out if anyone else on the list had a problem with the plastic cracking.”

  “How long did you look at the list?”

  “Just a few seconds.”

  Reid smiled. She paced a small area, faced Horgan, and asked her next question, her voice incredulous.

  “Are you asking this court to believe that months after this man briefly showed you a list of names on a sheet of paper that you remembered one of those names?”

  Horgan shook his head. “No.”

  Reid paused, her face twisted in confusion. “So you didn’t remember Ricky Gallegos’s name.”

  “No. I mean, yes, I remembered his name.”

  “Didn’t you just testify that you didn’t remember his name? So what is it, Mr. Horgan? Did you or didn’t you remember the name?”

  “You asked, ‘Are you asking this court to believe that months after this man briefly showed you an entire list of names on a sheet of paper that you remembered one of those names?’”

  Reid glanced at the court reporter, who was taking down every word spoken in the room verbatim. The woman had arched her eyebrows, an indication that Horgan had parroted back the question exactly.

  “And?” Reid asked.

  “But I didn’t just remember a single name,” Horgan said. “I remember them all.”

  Reid froze, looking horrified at what was certain to come next. Horgan, the young man Dee Stroud described to Sloane as “brilliant,” began to systematically rattle off names, one after the next. His eyes shifted, as if reading the names from a document only he could see, doing so with such authority that no one in the room questioned whether not only each name was on the list, but also whether Horgan was reciting them in order.

  The day before, Eva McFarland had been denied the opportunity to address the court, but that morning her stifled sobs, the only noise in an otherwise silent courtroom, spoke louder than words ever could.

  “WHAT HAVE YOU done?” Fitzgerald asked Sebastian Kendall again.

  Kendall responded with an uninterested stare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Kyle Horgan is alive, Sebastian.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “Really? Well, a young man just walked into a courtroom in Seattle and testified that he knows you very well.” Fitzgerald shook his head. “You said we designed Metamorphis; you said Kendall designed it.”

  “We did design it.” Kendall’s voice grew more adamant. “The man is lying.”

  Fitzgerald turned to Sloane. “He provided me the design when he chose me as his successor. He said Metamorphis would be his lasting gift to the company, that it would ease my transition into power. He said he had kept everything confidential, even having the prototypes manufactured off-site, because he wanted to take no chances that someone might leak the design, that another company might beat us to the market.” Fitzgerald took a step closer to Kendall. “But that wasn’t the reason at all. You didn’t want anyone to know about your meetings with Kyle Horgan.”

  Kendall did not respond.

  Fitzgerald looked to Sloane. “Once in production, I saw another benefit to keeping everything confidential. I knew Santoro was feeding information to Galaxy, and the more we kept everything cloaked in secrecy, the more Galaxy would speculate that the toy must be something special. The buzz Galaxy created by trying to acquire us was immeasurable. The stock soared, and every indication was that it would continue to do so when Metamorphis flew off the store shelves. It would have put Kendall in a position it had not been in since the release of Sergeant Smash.” Fitzgerald again looked to Kendall. “But it was all smoke and mirrors, wasn’t it, Sebastian? The toy couldn’t be safely manufactured at that price; that’s why you recommended we settle that case in Mossylog. It wasn’t an aberration. The toy was dangerous.”

  Fitzgerald shook his head. “I could have sold out to Bolelli. I could have taken the money and betrayed you. Why do this?”

  “I did it . . .” Kendall’s voice cracked, not from emotion, but from the disease that had ravaged his vocal cords and made each word sound as if it were passing over sandpaper. He cleared his throat. “Because I knew you would not.”

  “I don’t understand,” Fitzgerald said.

  “Did you think I was about to leave sixty years of my life, my legacy, to chance? My grandfather and father built this company from nothing, and I built it beyond anything they could have ever imagined. I sacrificed everything for it. You don’t think I could have married, that I could have had children?” He thumped his chest, fist clenched. “Kendall Toys was my child. I gave it my blood, my sweat, my tears. I stayed up nights worrying when it was sick, and I nursed it back to health. It was the only thing in my life that ever mattered, the only thing I ever loved. It is my lasting legacy.”

  “You had people killed,” Fitzgerald said.

  “You must have the will to survive,” Kendall said, “to do anything, anything to defeat your opponents.”

  “My wife was not your opponent,” Sloane said.

  Kendall’s eyes burned up at him. “But you were. You would have ruined everything. You, the lawyer who doesn’t ‘lose.’ You should have let it go.”

  “Joe Wallace has been arrested,” Fitzgerald said, “and he’s already looking to cut a deal. You owned his father when he was a senator, and that gave you the power to own the son as well, didn’t it?”

  The old man’s shrug was nearly imperceptible but ever defiant. “Have them take me to jail; I’ll be dead within weeks.”

  Fitzgerald straightened his jacket and fixed the cuffs of his sleeves. “No, Sebastian. You’re not going to jail. But I’ve called another meeting of the board of directors and I’m going to recommend that we accept an offer from Ian Hansen to merge with Titan Toys. It’s pennies on the dollar, but then the company isn’t worth anything anyway. All that we had was the Kendall name, but you ruined that as well. Ian will simply absorb us and eliminate the name Kendall altogether.”

  “I won’t allow it,” Kendall said, for the first time looking grief- stricken.

  Fitzgerald smiled. “As you said, drastic times require drastic measures. You made me chairman of the board and CEO, remember? Without my loyalty, you don’t have enough ownership interest to stop me. Ironic, isn’t it, Sebastian? You sought to preserve your legacy, but you’ll go to your grave knowing that it was you who destroyed it.”

  CAMANO ISLAND

  WASHINGTON

  SLOANE SAT IN his car finishing a phone conversation. The light from a fading sun trickled through the limbs of the trees, causing mottled shadows inside the car and streaking the field of tall grass orange and yellow. Overhead, a rainbow arched across the sky, seeming to stop just above a grain silo on the adjacent dairy farm. Carolyn had called to tell him they had received Judge Rudolph’s signed order and he had parked to allow her to read it to him.

  “He provided a case management schedule for the trial on the issues of liability and damages.” The case management schedule w
as the court’s calendar of deadlines leading up to trial.

  Sloane knew he could prove Kendall strictly liable for putting a defective toy on the market. He knew he could obtain a jury award of several million dollars in damages for both the McFarlands and the Gallegoses, and perhaps ten times that amount in punitive damages when he proved Sebastian Kendall knew of the defect and tried to conceal it. But a trial would not be necessary. Fitzgerald had authorized a settlement and it would be a debt Titan and Kendall’s insurers would pay. Kendall’s other significant creditors would be reimbursed from the sale of everything Sebastian Kendall owned, the proceeds of which he had specified in his will were to be used for the benefit of the company. The company, and the man, would soon cease to exist.

  “Have John call the McFarlands and Gallegoses. He did the work. He deserves to make that call.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “I have the preliminary hearing in Jake’s custody case in San Francisco day after tomorrow,” he said, referring to the initial hearing in which the judge would try to resolve the matter short of a trial. “I’m not thinking much beyond that.”

  “I made your plane reservation. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “You do enough,” he said. “I couldn’t have got through these past six weeks without you.”

  The usual retort stalled. “Why is it you say things like that before I can turn on the tape recorder and use it at my performance review?”

  “Are we having performance reviews?”

  “I’m told it’s wise when you have more than a certain number of employees.”

  Sloane smiled. “All right, here’s your performance review: you’re doing great and can expect a substantial bonus this Christmas.”

  “A bonus would be nice,” she said. Then she surprised him. “But I like my job better. Just promise me you’ll be back.”

  “I’ll call in a few days.”

  He hung up and took another moment before driving down the gravel road leading to Alex and Charlie’s home. Sam, the golden retriever, and Razz, the pit bull terrier Jenkins had picked up two years earlier, ran alongside the car, tails wagging and barking to announce his arrival.

  Sloane stepped from the car, trying to appease both dogs. “Shh! Quiet now. You’ll wake the baby and then I’ll be in trouble.”

  Alex greeted Sloane at the front door. He handed her a wrapped package. “For the baby,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Which one?”

  He laughed. “The one still in diapers.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. It’s sweet of you, but Tina . . .” Her voice trailed.

  “I know Tina already got him one. This is from me.” Inside the house she took his jacket. “I take it the patient is being difficult.”

  “He’ll be happy to see you,” she said. “I was just about to bring him dinner. Enchiladas. Are you hungry?”

  For the first time since Tina’s death, Sloane felt hungry. “Sounds great.”

  He heard the television from halfway up the stairs. When he stepped into the room, carrying the tray of food, Jenkins hit the mute button and turned in the bed. Charles Junior lay beside him, drinking a bottle.

  “Let me tell you how this friendship thing works,” Jenkins said. “I take a bullet for you, and you call me and ask how I’m doing.”

  Sloane put the tray down on the bed and removed one of the two plates. “I’ve called three times. You’ve been asleep.”

  He helped Jenkins into a sitting position, putting pillows behind him, and put the food tray in his lap.

  “I saw the news about Kendall.”

  Sloane nodded.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Numb.”

  “You did a good thing, David. You should feel good about what you did.”

  But he didn’t. It was over. He had done what he had set out to do, yet he found no joy in any of it.

  “When’s the custody hearing for Jake?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Have you hired a lawyer yet?”

  “I’m going to handle it myself.”

  “Isn’t there a saying about a lawyer who represents himself having a fool for a client?”

  The baby dropped the bottle and cried out. Jenkins repositioned it and held the end. “He’s getting big,” Sloane said.

  “You want to hold him?”

  Sloane shook his head. “Maybe in a little while.”

  “We’re going to raise him Catholic.”

  It seemed an odd comment. “When did you make that decision?”

  “Pretty much when Alex told me; it was part of the package if I wanted to marry her. So, we’re looking for a godfather.”

  Sloane took a bite of enchilada, fighting back his emotions. “I’m not Catholic,” he said.

  “No, but you’re the best man we know. I think that qualifies.” Jenkins paused. “Remember that night I dropped you off at the hotel?”

  Sloane did.

  “Don’t go to that island, David.”

  “Only to visit you,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  CIVIC CENTER COURTHOUSE

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  Sloane found the family law department and pulled open the door to a modern courtroom. He wondered about Jenkins’s admonition of having a fool for a client. Maybe—but he also knew that no attorney would be more motivated than he to get Jake back. Jake was all Sloane had left. Lose him, and Sloane lost his only remaining connection with Tina.

  Brightly lit from recessed incandescent lighting, the windowless room resembled a courtroom only by its furnishings: a gallery of pews behind a wood railing, and two tables facing an elevated bench. Modern technology provided not only the light, but also a climate-controlled temperature for everyone’s comfort.

  Sloane pulled out his notepad and pen and thumbed through the pleadings filed by the attorney for Frank Carter, which, as he had assumed, was not going to be Jeff Harper. He then read the responsive pleadings prepared by Tom Pendergrass, who had done a good job. Legally, Frank Carter had an advantage, being the boy’s biological father, but Sloane would present evidence that it was only genetics. For thirteen years Carter had divorced himself from his son, rarely visiting Jake in San Francisco and never traveling to Seattle. He had rarely attended any of the boy’s school or athletic functions, and had never financially supported Jake. Tina’s will, in which she expressed her desire for Sloane to raise Jake, would confirm Frank was not a fit parent, and Sloane would leave no doubt Frank Carter did not love his son and only sought custody because the Larsens were paying him.

  “Mr. Sloane?”

  A bear of a man introduced himself as Dean Flannigan, which was the name on the pleadings. With a shock of dirty blond hair and a beard that covered the knot of his tie, Flannigan resembled Kenny Rogers before the plastic surgery. The man was so big Sloane did not immediately see Frank Carter, who stood off to the side dressed like a kid going for a prep school interview in his navy blue suit, white shirt, and tie.

  Flannigan had a thick and calloused hand. “Do you have counsel?”

  “I’ll be handling the hearing myself.”

  Together, Sloane and Flannigan advised the judge’s clerk that both sides were present. The clerk asked them to wait at the bench.

  “Where are the Larsens?” Sloane asked. “I subpoenaed them.”

  “I don’t know,” Flannigan said. “I represent Mr. Carter. Their attorney did, however, leave me a message this morning indicating they will be here.”

  Sloane wanted to call bullshit; he knew very well who was paying Flannigan’s bill, but he decided to let it go. Besides, Judge Marianne Zelinsky had glided into her courtroom.

  “Counsel,” she said, “our goal here today is the health and well-being of the child. It is my job, and it is my intention, to find the best living situation for Jake.” With short gray hair and thick black-framed glasses, Zelinsky furrowed her brow frequently.
>
  “That’s everyone’s goal, Judge,” Flannigan said.

  Sloane refrained from comment. There would be no need for a hearing if everyone had Jake’s best interests at heart, but he would prove that soon enough. He also suspected that Flannigan, a local practitioner, had previously appeared before Zelinsky.

  “You have complied with the temporary restraining order, Mr. Sloane?” Zelinsky asked.

  “I have, Your Honor,” Sloane said.

  “Mr. Flannigan?”

  “I am unaware of any violation of that order, Judge.”

  “Good. Then we’ll get started.”

  Sloane returned to counsel table, and Flannigan retrieved Carter from the back of the courtroom, whispering final instructions before leading him to his seat beside him. Shortly after nine the judge’s staff filed into the courtroom and Zelinsky took the bench.

  “Who will testify today?”

  Sloane and Frank Carter both indicated they would testify. Zelinsky asked them to raise their hands and swore them in.

  “All right, Mr. Flannigan, you may proceed.”

  Flannigan pushed back his chair and stood. The fabric of his suit stretched to cover his ample girth. “Judge, I’d like to ask questions of Mr. Sloane if I may?”

  Sloane was surprised. He had thought that Flannigan would open with Frank Carter.

  “Mr. Sloane, please come forward and take the stand,” Zelinsky said.

  Sloane complied, feeling odd to be at the other end of an attorney’s questions. Flannigan stepped forward, a paper in hand. He established that Sloane had moved to Seattle with Tina and Jake when she took a job at an architecture firm and that they had subsequently married.

  “You otherwise have no other connection to that city.”

  “Define connection,” Sloane said.

  Flannigan nodded, as if it was a legitimate clarification, but Sloane knew where the lawyer was going with his questions. “You have no relatives in Seattle, no mother or father, no brothers or sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, connections. Is that right?”