The Witnesses

by Robert Whitlow

  “What about your marriage?” Parker asked when Blocker paused for a moment.

  “It was great,” Ferguson replied. “Jessica was the love of my life and my best friend.”

  Parker wanted to retreat to his notepad but couldn’t. He cleared his throat. “Was there ever a time when you were separated?”

  Ferguson stared at Parker for a moment. “Not legally.”

  “Did you ever move out of the house?”

  “I thought you were my lawyer. Who have you been talking to?” Ferguson asked sharply.

  “We need to know everything so we don’t get ambushed at trial,” Blocker jumped in. “Every couple faces challenges.”

  Ferguson blinked his eyes a few times. “Like I said earlier, we married young. I was nineteen, she was eighteen. We changed a lot, and earlier this year I wasn’t sure I could measure up to all she expected me to be. So I moved in with a single guy at work and stayed at his apartment for four months while Jessica and I went to a counselor at our church. But we were committed to making the marriage work, and not just for the sake of the kids. That had been one of our problems all along. The light came on for us when a counselor at our church told us that for people who marry young it’s necessary to recognize and adapt to changes. The woman told me that I was married to Jessica 2.0, but I was stuck in Chet 1.0 and needed to catch up. Admitting that I needed to look in the mirror was a big deal for me. I moved back home three weeks before the wreck. It was like we were newlyweds, only better.” Chet stopped as tears welled up in his eyes. “This happens to me all the time when I talk about Jessica.”

  “It’s like she’s still here, and you’re planning a life together,” Blocker added in a soft tone of voice.

  “Yeah. I’m not one of those guys who loses his wife and wants to get involved with someone else as soon as a reasonable time passes. The tough times Jessica and I went through made me want to succeed in marriage, not give up. Moving on from that mind-set is going to be very hard for me.”

  “Chet, being honest like this will make your marriage real in the eyes of the jury and help them appreciate what’s been taken from you,” Blocker said before he turned to Parker. “Thanks for asking the tough questions and not giving up.”

  Blocker moved on to questions about Jessica’s relationship with her children and other members of her family.

  “Here’s how it will work,” Blocker said as he began to wind down. “Greg and Parker are your lawyers, but so am I. They’ve brought me into the case because I’ve handled several of these types of cases, and we believe you and your children have a legitimate claim against the defendant.”

  “I get it. You’re a specialist,” Chet said. “Like a doctor who treats the heart.”

  “The state bar doesn’t recognize a specialization in dramshop cases, but I have experience to bring to the table. Carl Bruffey, the lawyer who usually represents the insurance company that issued the policy to the tavern, knows who I am.”

  “And you’ve beaten him?” Chet asked.

  “Yes, and he’s beaten me. But the last couple of times I’ve come out on top. One of those cases involved a settlement in excess of a million dollars after we selected a jury and delivered opening statements. It’s too soon to predict what’s going to happen in your case.”

  Looking at Parker, Blocker asked, “Unless you already have a sense of how this is going to turn out?”

  Parker’s fingers froze to the pen, and he quickly looked up to find Chet staring at him and Blocker eyeing him with a hint of a smile on his face.

  “Uh, no,” Parker replied. “But I’m glad to have you involved.”

  After Ferguson left, Parker and Blocker stayed in the downstairs conference room.

  “Seeing you talk to the client was an education,” Parker said. “You really listened to him and drew things out of him that went way beyond the legally relevant facts. You had him at ease within five minutes by asking open-ended questions that made him feel in charge of the conversation even though he wasn’t.”

  “But you hit the home run when you pried the truth out of him about his relationship with his wife.”

  “Greg would have tried to hide it,” Parker replied. “I mean, he might have taken that approach.”

  “Chet’s story shows that Jessica’s death snuffed out their hope for the future. I believe every woman on the jury will devour what he has to say, and woe to Bruffey if he tries to make our client look like a villain.”

  Parker walked Blocker out of the office to his black Mercedes.

  “Where did Greg Branham find you?” Blocker asked when they reached his car.

  “I was glad to get a job.”

  “Have you talked any more to Layla?” Blocker asked.

  “Yes, she met my grandfather, and they enjoyed speaking German, which left me out of the conversation.”

  “Don’t forget, I’d really like to meet your grandfather. Would you be able to arrange a time for us to get together?”

  “Uh, probably.”

  “Sehr gut,” Blocker replied with a smile.

  CHAPTER 25

  The following morning Parker told Greg about the meeting with Thomas Blocker and Chet Ferguson and then held his breath as he waited for Greg’s reply.

  “Good initiative,” Greg said with a nod of his head. “You don’t need me to hold your hand twenty-four seven.”

  “And a follow-up memo from Blocker dropped into my in-box around midnight last night,” Parker said. “The guy is a machine. I’ve been working on it this morning.”

  “Okay, the more you work on the case, the stronger our position regarding attorney fees.”

  “What do you mean? The split is set. Blocker only gets paid if we recover at least eight hundred thousand dollars.”

  “That’s in the paperwork, but whenever there’s a cocounsel situation, you have to watch your back in case the other lawyer tries to snake the case. If that happens, you can end up in a hearing before a judge arguing quantum meruit, which means the lawyers with the most time in the case get the lion’s share of the fee.”

  “If you don’t trust Blocker, why did you associate him?” Parker asked, perplexed.

  Greg shrugged. “I don’t trust anybody. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take a chance on a joint representation, especially when the reward exceeds the risk. Remember what happened in the Bontemps case? People work well together when it’s mutually beneficial. Get back to Blocker as soon as you can on the memo. Copy me too.”

  NORTHERN ITALY, 1943

  Franz stood on the sidewalk in front of the hotel that served as General Berg’s headquarters and waited anxiously for Oberst Adler and the detachment of soldiers to arrive. He heard a commotion behind him and turned around. It was General Krieger and two aides descending the steps. Franz jerked to attention.

  “Hauptmann, I am here to accompany you and observe,” Krieger said. “You have piqued my curiosity.”

  “Does General Berg want to increase the size of the detail to ensure your security, Herr General?” Franz replied.

  “Actually, I’ve reduced the size of the detail myself,” Krieger replied. “Too many eyes and ears can create problems on a mission like this. Do you anticipate any unforeseen problems?”

  Franz felt a sour sickness in his stomach but didn’t know exactly what it meant. “Uh, I’m not sure, sir,” he managed.

  Krieger leaned closer so that only Franz could hear him. “You’d better be sure that I’m not wasting my time, Hauptmann. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Herr General,” Franz replied, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

  Oberst Adler arrived in a staff car followed by a covered truck with five soldiers riding in the back.

  “Ride in the truck and lead the way,” Krieger said to Franz. “We’ll follow in the car.”

  Franz climbed into the truck beside the driver, a large man with thick, meaty arms. It was a forty-five-minute drive to Siena through the beautiful low hills of Tuscany. Franz had been to
Siena on two occasions, but the precise location of the cream-colored house had not been part of his vision. They reached the outskirts of town.

  “Turn left at the next intersection,” Franz told the driver.

  They drove eight blocks, drawing closer to the center of town and the famous Siena Cathedral, a twelfth-century duomo that was one of the greatest examples of the Romanesque-Gothic style in the entire country.

  “Turn here!” Franz called out.

  “Which way?” the driver replied as he slammed on the brakes.

  Franz heard several thuds as the soldiers in the rear of the truck were thrown from the benches.

  “Left,” Franz said.

  A hundred meters down the narrow street Franz saw the cream-colored house on the right-hand side of the road.

  “That’s it,” he said with relief, pointing it out to the driver. “Stop there.”

  There was a narrow alley on one side of the house. The driver stopped the truck, blocking it. Weapons on ready, the troops hopped out and took up positions on the sidewalk. The car rolled to a stop behind the truck. Krieger and Oberst Adler got out.

  “Quite dramatic,” Krieger said to Franz as the general looked up at the house. “You’ve never been here before?”

  “Twice to Siena but never on this street.”

  Krieger gestured to Adler, who approached the door and banged on it with a gloved fist. Franz remained on the sidewalk looking up at the windows of other houses on the street. He caught glimpses of faces peeking down from above. Each window could be transformed in an instant into a gun turret. Adler banged his fist again. The door opened, and an elderly man wearing a black beret appeared. He spoke in Italian, and Adler answered. Franz didn’t know what was said, but the oberst briskly pushed the man aside and, with the soldiers trailing behind him, entered the house. Franz remained on the sidewalk with Krieger and a single guard.

  “Are you proficient with your weapon, Hauptmann?” Krieger asked, pointing at Franz’s sidearm. “Or is it just for show?”

  “I am certified as a marksman with the Luger, sir,” Franz replied.

  “And how many times have you fired it in battle?”

  “Never, sir.”

  Krieger looked at the houses that hemmed them in on the narrow street. “Let’s hope today isn’t the first.”

  Adler came out of the house and approached the general. “The servant claims he’s living there alone while the owner is in Rome,” the officer said. “But we found a man and two women hiding in a closet in an upstairs bedroom. Also, there is an attic filled with large wooden crates.”

  “That’s what I saw,” Franz said before Krieger could respond. “Check the crates.”

  “Do it,” Krieger said to Adler. “And set a guard on the man and two women. I want to see them before we leave.”

  Adler returned to the house, and Krieger turned to Franz. “What will we find in the crates?” he asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure, sir,” Franz replied. “But I hope it will be worth the trip.”

  “Good,” Krieger replied. “You’re doing well. Quite well. I understand the value General Berg places on you.”

  A group of young Italian men turned onto the street. When they saw the Germans on the sidewalk they stopped, talked for a moment, and retreated.

  “They could be a threat,” Franz said to Krieger.

  “Were they armed?” the general replied.

  “No, sir, but they have access to weapons and know how to use them.”

  Krieger stepped to the door of the house and yelled up for Adler to hurry. Less than a minute later, two soldiers emerged carrying a large crate. Adler was behind them. He and Krieger stepped a few feet away from Franz and spoke in whispers. Franz saw Krieger’s eyes widen. The general nodded.

  “Excellent,” he said to Franz when he returned to his side. “This is definitely not a wasted trip.”

  Over the next thirty minutes more than twenty crates were removed from the house. Some were obviously heavier than others and took four men to carry. The combined weight of the crates caused the truck bed to lower onto the wheels.

  Adler came up to Krieger. “That’s all, sir. I checked each container in private to make sure they were worth removing, then sealed them myself.”

  “Very well.”

  Two soldiers emerged from the house, their machine guns trained on a man in his twenties and two women who looked like twins in their late teens. The soldiers brought the young people before the general. The man spoke in Italian. Adler translated for Krieger.

  “They claim to be visitors from Milan,” the oberst said.

  A window opened in a house across the street. One of the soldiers turned and aimed his weapon.

  “Juden! Juden!” a woman’s voice called out.

  The window closed. One of the girls began to shake uncontrollably. Suddenly the young man leaned over and pulled a knife from his boot. Before he could step forward, Franz heard the quick retort of a machine gun. All three of the young people fell to the pavement. A soldier standing behind the officers lowered his weapon. Two other soldiers quickly ran forward and fired several more shots into the young people’s bodies. Franz closed his eyes.

  “Drag them into the alley,” Adler said to the soldiers.

  Franz had seen death on the battlefield but never on a city street. And never women. He felt himself begin to tremble and desperately tried to stop.

  “That was close, Feldwebel,” Oberst Adler said, turning to the sergeant who had fired the initial burst of bullets. “You could have hit the general.”

  General Krieger removed his hat for a moment and then straightened it. “But he didn’t, and there are three less Jews to contend with. Feldwebel, you will receive a commendation for what you did today. Let’s go.”

  Franz remembered little of the return trip to General Berg’s headquarters. He spent much of the time with his eyes closed trying to erase from his mind the image of the three dead people lying on the sidewalk. Later that evening General Berg summoned him to his suite. Still deeply upset, Franz entered the same room where he’d first met General Krieger.

  “Hauptmann, you saved a lot of lives today,” the general said.

  “No, sir,” Franz protested. “Three civilians were shot outside the house in Siena.”

  “I know, but that’s not important. General Krieger is going to recommend that our division be assigned to a new army group tasked with the defense of southern France. Otherwise, within a month we’d have been on a train heading east to face the Russians. Krieger has the ear of men at the top levels of the high command in Berlin. A suggestion from him is as good as a direct order. Somebody has to serve in the west, but it’s not an easy assignment to secure. The contents of those crates paid the ticket to France for the men of this division.”

  “I didn’t see inside the crates.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” General Berg replied. “And I didn’t want to know any more details of the operation.”

  General Berg coughed violently several times and then began to wheeze. When he finally caught his breath, he looked at Franz through rheumy eyes.

  “Am I going to survive the war, Haus?” he asked.

  Franz shifted nervously. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Never mind,” Berg said with a wave of his hand. “It shouldn’t make any difference whether or not a man knows the hour of his death. Until that day comes, our only job is to do our duty.”

  Early Friday morning Parker called Thomas Blocker. “Do you have a few minutes to talk about the Ferguson case?” he asked when the trial lawyer came on the line.

  “Certainly,” Blocker replied in a friendly voice. “I had it on my calendar to call you this afternoon.”

  “You were going to call me?” Parker asked.

  “Trying to stay ahead of the game is what we’re all about. And that’s an extra challenge when dealing with you, isn’t it?”

  Parker shifted in his seat.

  “But let’s get ri
ght to it,” Blocker continued.

  For the next hour, Parker and Blocker discussed the facts uncovered thus far, the new information gleaned from the interview with the client, possible legal theories for recovery, and the measure of damages. Once again, Parker was impressed by the amount of information Blocker already had at his fingertips. The trial lawyer’s memory was impressive.

  “Of course, one of the keys will be identifying the best experts to testify,” Blocker said. “We need to give the jury as many reasons as possible to award damages and not rely on their outrage over the basic facts. There are often one or two scientific types on a jury who have to be convinced that all the dots connect before they’ll sign off on a big verdict.”

  “Yes, sir,” Parker replied. “I think we might want to hire someone who could testify about the effect that much alcohol in the bloodstream would have on a person’s mental capabilities based on an individual’s weight, et cetera.”

  “Excellent,” Blocker said. “We can’t let the driver get on the witness stand and claim he can ‘hold his liquor’ without it affecting him. A man on the jury might agree. Running that down will be one of your responsibilities.”

  Parker appreciated Blocker’s confidence in him but wasn’t sure exactly where to look.

  “Did you have a chance to research any of the accident reconstruction experts I sent you?” Blocker asked.

  Parker glanced down at the list of eleven men and women who’d earned more advanced degrees among them than the entire faculty at a small college. “No, except to skim over the qualifications for a few of them.”

  “Any impressions?” Blocker asked.

  “Well, they’re not retired police officers like the guy Greg used in a case shortly after I came to work here.”

  “Hiring someone like that might be appropriate in some cases, but not one where the road conditions are an issue due to the amount of rain that fell within an hour of the collision. We need someone who can talk about the coefficient of friction for tires on wet payment and plot the range of visibility for drivers approaching the intersection. We can’t let Bruffey convince the jury that Jessica’s death was the fault of a thunderstorm.”