Wrongful Termination

by Mike Farris

  “Then I’ll object to the question as assuming facts not in evidence,” Mike Bowman said. “It assumes that Mr. Malloy destroyed documents. There’s no evidence of that.”

  “Mr. Bowman, maybe you haven’t read the rules of procedure in a while, but if you’ve got an objection to the form of the question, then all you need to say is ‘objection, form.’ I object to your coaching the witness,” Robin said.

  “Miss Napoli,” Bowman said, “I don’t need any lectures from you on the rules.”

  “Then follow them.”

  Bowman looked at Tripp and nodded. Tripp looked at the videotape, then at Meg.

  “I didn’t destroy documents,” he said, though his voice wasn’t very strong. Meg thought a great deal of arrogance had escaped him since last they had seen each other.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Objection, form,” Bowman said.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “You’re sure no one was there that night and saw you?”

  Tripp licked his lips. His already pale face turned ashen. He looked to his lawyers for an objection, but none was forthcoming.

  “I wasn’t there, so no one could have seen me there,” he said.

  “Are you happy with that answer?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s your story and you’re sticking with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even under the penalty of perjury?”

  “Yes.”

  “Objection,” Bowman said. “Form. You’re harassing the witness, Ms. Napoli. Please move on.”

  “Gladly, Mr. Bowman,” Robin said.

  She picked up the videotape. Tripp’s eyes widened as they locked on it.

  “So nobody could have videotaped you shredding documents. I mean, if you weren’t there, you couldn’t be on this tape, could you?”

  Tripp didn’t answer.

  “What’s on that tape?” Bowman asked. “I haven’t seen it.”

  Robin took another copy out of her briefcase and slid it across the table toward him. All eyes watched it slide like a puck across a rink.

  Bowman picked up the tape and studied it. “Let me ask you again. What’s on this tape?”

  “Why don’t you ask Mr. Malloy?”

  “Because I’m asking you.”

  Robin looked at Alvin. “Mr. Peoples, I assume you’ve got a television and a VCR we can use? I suggest we watch it. Then we can all see what’s on it at the same time. Can’t we, Mr. Malloy?”

  Alvin leaned across Bowman and looked at Tripp. Tripp blinked a few times but said nothing.

  “I’ll have a television sent down,” Alvin said. He went to a phone in the corner and made a call.

  “Good,” Robin said. “In the meantime, let’s move on.”

  She grabbed a rubber-banded bundle of paper, a couple of inches thick, from the top of her stack and handed it to the court reporter.

  “Please mark this as plaintiff’s exhibit one,” she said. As the reporter affixed a sticker and marked it, Robin grabbed another bundle, about the same thickness, and also handed it to the reporter. “And this as exhibit two.”

  The reporter marked the second bundle, then Robin slid the first bundle toward Tripp.

  “Mr. Malloy, can you please identify exhibit one for the record? And I will tell you that this was produced to me by your lawyers. In fact, of all the documents I requested, these were the only ones produced to me.”

  Tripp picked up the bundle and flipped through the pages. He spent a good five minutes examining the pages thoroughly.

  “These are the time entries on the bills for a case for Lacewell Industries,” he said. “It’s the backup information that supports the actual bills.”

  “It shows how much work was billed, by number of hours, on any given day, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It also shows what attorney did the work and gives a description of the work, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this one of the cases on which Ms. Kelly accused you of padding your time?”

  “Yes.”

  “You say you didn’t?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You say Ms. Kelly slandered you, don’t you?”

  “She did.”

  “Now, Mr. Malloy, do those records reflect anything unusual about your billing on the case?”

  “Objection, form,” Bowman said.

  “Let me reword the question, Mr. Malloy. Do those records support your contention that Ms. Kelly lied?”

  Tripp thumbed the edges of the pages as if he were shuffling cards. “Yes.”

  Robin slid the other bundle across the table. “Can you please identify plaintiff’s exhibit two?”

  Tripp grabbed the bundle and flipped through the pages. He didn’t look closely, just thumbed through them quickly.

  “It looks like another copy of the same billing backup.”

  Robin nodded. “You took a vacation to St. John’s last year, in August, didn’t you? The tenth through the eighteenth?”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “Looking at those dates in exhibit two, can you explain why you billed Lacewell Industries forty-seven hours during the week you were in the Caribbean?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Please look at those dates in exhibit two.”

  Tripp turned through the pages. Bowman looked on, while the other lawyers and Oscar stood behind Tripp and watched over his shoulders. Meg could tell when Tripp found the page because he blanched then slumped back. He grabbed exhibit one and turned to the same dates, then compared the two exhibits.

  “Where’d you get this?” Tripp asked.

  “Mr. Malloy, you know how a deposition works. I ask the questions, you answer.”

  “It’s a good question,” Bowman said. He took exhibit two from Tripp and studied it. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Not from you, that’s for sure.”

  “I’ve never seen this before,” Bowman said.

  “That’s because Mr. Malloy beat you to it,” Robin said.

  “This is private property, containing proprietary information, belonging to Black West and Merriam,” Oscar said.

  “Properly subpoenaed and requested, and discoverable in this litigation,” Robin said.

  “You didn’t get this from us,” Alvin said.

  “No,” Robin said. She pointed to exhibit one. “That’s what I got from you. You never would have given me unaltered originals.”

  “Who says they’re altered?” Bowman asked.

  “The two sets are different.”

  “How do we know you didn’t alter them?”

  “We might have to let the judge decide that one.”

  “I demand to know where you got this,” Oscar said, standing and looming across the table toward Robin. “This is firm property.”

  Robin looked at Bowman. “Mr. Hamilton seems to be conceding that exhibit two belongs to the firm.”

  Bowman and Szulc both shot Oscar a look. Realization settled on his face, and he sat down. Meg looked at him, unable to hide her smile. She felt even the injured side of her face move.

  There was a knock on the door, then it opened, interrupting the debate. A young man came in, pushing a rolling cart with a television and a VCR.

  “Oh, good,” Robin said. “Show time.”

  *

  While the drama played out downtown in Black West’s conference room, Jeffrey Newman hacked away at his computer in the darkened confines of his apartment bedroom on the city’s east side. Only his skinny frame fit the stereotype most people have of computer nerds, as he possessed almost movie star good looks—although his brain far outshone his physical appearance. Two years earlier he had narrowly escaped federal prison time for hacking into a government database, only by the grace of God and the legal skills of Robin Napoli. Now earning a comfortable living as a computer consultant—again owing to Robin—he regularly offered his skills to Robin at no charge in hopes of some
day working off the debt he owed her for her pro bono services on his behalf.

  He’d been at it for almost two hours now, entering various series of keystrokes only to be disappointed by the window ACCESS DENIED.

  Exasperated, he banged away with yet another combination. He held his finger over the “enter” key, muttered a silent prayer under his breath, then brought his finger down.

  *

  The television and VCR were hooked up and ready to go. Alvin killed the lights. Robin flipped on the power to the television then fed the tape into the VCR.

  The first thing that appeared on the screen was a shot of thick blue carpet in a very dim light. The date and time flashed in the bottom right side of the picture, announcing it as 11:04 p.m. on the same date the Justice Department subpoena had been served.

  There was the sound of muffled voices, none distinctive, one male and one female. Then the picture moved jerkily as the camera operator pointed it around a corner. A hallway, clearly recognizable as being in the offices of Black West, came into view. A light was on. More blue carpet. Two people could be seen, their backs to the camera. One, an unrecognizable woman, sat in front of a computer screen. Tripp Malloy’s distinctive frame stood behind her.

  The voices became clear and recognizable, though distant. Tripp’s voice came first as he pointed to something on the desk by the computer screen.

  “Remember, my time can’t be over four hours on any of those dates. On these, I can’t have any time at all. Just move it to a different date.”

  The woman spoke, her voice recognizable to those who knew her as Tripp’s secretary, Cindy. “Why are we doing this?” she asked.

  “This has all been approved by the Management Committee,” Tripp said. “So has your overtime. That’s all you need to know.”

  Cindy nodded.

  “All right,” Tripp said. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

  Everyone in the conference room sat in open-mouthed amazement. All except Tripp, who looked sick. He kept his head down, his eyes fixed on the floor.

  The picture jerked around, clumsily picking up the wall then the floor again. The camera had been pulled back around the corner. The picture stayed focused on the floor. The microphone was still on, picking up sounds from the hallway. Sounds of footsteps drawing nearer on the carpet and a light switch being flicked on around the corner. A beam of light took away some of the darkness in the picture. The camera moved and pointed in the doorway at floor level, picking up Tripp’s shoes moving about. Sounds of footsteps on tile, file drawers being opened, something being dragged across the floor.

  Then the distinctive sound of a paper shredder being turned on.

  And then the screen went blank.

  Bowman turned off the television and flipped on the light switch. “I’d like to take a break,” he said. “I need to consult with my client.”

  *

  When the players reassembled thirty minutes later, some of them had changed places. Mike Bowman no longer sat next to Tripp—his chair had been taken by Steve Szulc, the criminal lawyer. Meg thought that appropriate, given where the questioning was headed next. She and Robin had discussed it, with Robin filling the holes in Meg’s knowledge, including the attempt on Robin’s life.

  As Robin started her questioning, Meg stared at Tripp. Watching his eyes. She saw the shock when Robin surprised everybody by again changing the subject.

  “You were a sniper in Vietnam, weren’t you?”

  There was a hint of pride in Tripp’s voice as he answered. “Yes.”

  “Sixty-four kills?”

  “Is there a point to these questions, Counsel?” Szulc asked.

  “If you have an objection to the form, please state it for the record. If not, please let the witness answer.”

  “I’ll answer that,” Tripp said. “Yes. Sixty-four kills. And I’ve got medals to show for them.”

  “How many kills since then?”

  Tripp’s face went slack—his eyes turned cold.

  “Don’t answer that,” Szulc said. “Ms. Napoli, that question is outrageous. If you—”

  “I’ll withdraw the question,” Robin said. “Mr. Malloy, what came after Vietnam?”

  “I don’t understand your question.”

  “According to your official military records, you dropped off the face of the earth in 1975. Where’d you go?”

  “That’s classified information.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re working on that right now.”

  *

  Eyes glued to the screen in tunnel-visioned concentration, Jeffrey didn’t hear the scratching sound at the front door lock. He didn’t hear the faint squeak of the hinges as the door swung open.

  The computer whirred, the monitor blinked, then the following message appeared—FILE PURGED.

  Jeffrey leaned back in his chair. What the hell had happened? Had he made one try too many, triggering an automatic purging, or had someone finally realized his efforts? He’d have to try another tack. He leaned forward again, fingers burning up the keyboard. With his back to the door, he was oblivious to the rubber-soled footsteps on the carpet approaching his bedroom. He never sensed the shadow that approached, only a few feet away.

  The barrel of a silenced weapon extended and came to rest mere inches from the back of his head.

  There was a soft spitting sound—

  Jeffrey fell forward on the keyboard, his blood painting the monitor screen.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Mr. Malloy, do you know a Ricardo Flores?” Robin asked, as the deposition continued.

  Tripp blanched then shook his head. “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Just like you were positive that you weren’t at the firm that night?”

  “Objection,” Szulc said. “Argumentative.”

  “Mr. Malloy, if you don’t know Ricardo Flores, then can you explain why you placed a phone call to him a week ago Saturday morning, and why he called you back the next morning?”

  “Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence.”

  Robin pulled a document out of her briefcase and had the reporter mark it as exhibit three. She slid a copy to Steve Szulc, who positioned it on the table between himself and Mike Bowman. Robin held the exhibit in the air without showing it to Tripp.

  “This is from your wireless company,” Robin said. “It’s a record of your calls for that weekend. Do I really need to show it to you, or do you remember that call now?”

  “Objection,” Szulc said. He looked at Robin, holding the copy she had given him. “Where’d you get this?”

  “I’m not the witness, Mr. Szulc.”

  “This hasn’t been authenticated.”

  “Cite me a rule that says it has to be authenticated at a deposition before he has to answer questions about it.”

  None of the lawyers answered.

  “I didn’t think so,” Robin said. “Mr. Malloy, can you explain why you called Ricardo Flores if you don’t know who he is?”

  “Maybe the phone company screwed up its records.”

  “Suppose I told you that Mr. Flores told me that you called him Saturday. Why would he say that if you don’t know each other?”

  “Objection,” Szulc said. “Assumes facts not in evidence and calls for speculation.”

  “I assume that’s an objection to the form of the question, but you can still answer, Mr. Malloy,” Robin said.

  Tripp shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Is Mr. Flores your control?”

  “What do you mean by that?” He narrowed his eyes, a shocked expression on his face. Robin knew immediately that she had scored, not with the specific question itself, but with the idea that Tripp even had a control.

  “I mean, does he oversee your government assignments?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course not. Your control wouldn’t be that careless.” She smiled at Tripp, his face now a forc
ed blank. “That’s right, Mr. Malloy. You got careless. You even used your own phone. It’s what happens when you act impulsively. Or when you think you’re invincible.”

  “Object to the sidebar,” Szulc said. “Ms. Napoli, you’re starting to sound like a conspiracy kook, now.”

  Robin nodded. “Mr. Malloy, do you know who Ramon Flores is?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like you don’t know Ricardo Flores, his grandfather?”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Would it surprise you to know that I shot Ramon Flores weekend before last?”

  Tripp’s eyes widened, his face frozen in what Meg thought was abject fear. “I don’t know what you do with your weekends.”

  “What’s Ricardo going to think? He is your old army buddy, isn’t he?”

  If ever a face was an open book, it was Tripp’s at that moment. The unwritten words on his expression said—How much does she know?

  “Is there a point to all this?” Szulc asked. “Maybe you’re the one who needs a lawyer, Ms. Napoli, if you’re going around shooting people.”

  “I’ll make my point if you quit interrupting with frivolous objections, Mr. Szulc.” She turned back to Tripp. “Did you know that right after you placed a call to Ricardo Flores, he placed a call to his grandson’s number?”

  “No.”

  “Objection. Form.”

  “No,” Tripp said again.

  Meg took her eyes away from Tripp long enough to watch Steve Szulc’s face cloud. He looked as if he was starting to figure it out. The other lawyers in the room seemed confused, not sure what was happening. And Tripp already knew.

  “Did you know that Ramon Flores and a buddy of his tried to carjack me?”

  “Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence.”

  “No,” Tripp said.

  “You recall that Ms. Kelly was nearly killed in a carjacking in October, don’t you?” Robin asked.

  Tripp shot a quick glance at Meg then just as quickly looked away from her penetrating stare. “I know she was hurt in an incident.”