The Death of Distant Stars, A Legal Thriller

by Deborah Hawkins

  Tom put his fork down on his plate of half-eaten meatloaf. He seemed to be thinking about what to say next. Finally he said, “You warned me about letting Shannon cry on my shoulder too much.”

  “And you didn’t listen.”

  “It’s hard, sweetheart. She doesn’t have anyone else to turn to.”

  “You mean you’re her only friend.”

  Tom’s blue eyes studied her face. Finally he said, “I guess if you put it that way, yes. When she and Steve aren’t getting along, she only has me.”

  “And do you always take her side against Steve?”

  “I–I don’t think so.”

  “But Steve has stopped coming over. I warned you that Shannon was coming between you and Steve, and now she has.”

  Tom took another bite of meatloaf and thought about what she’d said. “I don’t think she’s come between us. Steve knows I want them to get along. I know he’s busy with work right now. He has a case that may go to trial in a couple of months.”

  Kathryn studied her husband across the red-checked table cloth. “Making you late for work isn’t the only problem Shannon is creating. It looks like you’ve given up completely on trying to have a baby.”

  In the light of the single candle in the Mason jar, Kathryn saw his eyes darken and become guarded. He sighed and put down his fork again. “I don’t think I made a conscious decision to stop trying. But I told you before, I can’t get back on the merry-go-round of tests and fertility windows. I feel more like if it happens, it happens. And if it doesn’t, I’m happy being just the two of us.”

  “But what if I’m not? What if I want a baby?”

  Tom reached out and took both of her hands. “Kathryn, we’ve tried everything including being wait-listed at adoption agencies. According to all the doctors we’ve seen, there is no biological reason why we shouldn’t be able to conceive. But after years of trying, we’ve had no success. It’s time to go on with our lives and just be happy we have each other. All this emphasis on getting pregnant has become way too stressful.”

  “But you don’t mind listening to the stress of Shannon’s problems instead of staying home with me and trying to have a baby!” She pulled her hands away.

  Tom sighed. “It’s not Shannon. It’s the sea. It’s surfing. That’s where I find peace from all the stress of how little I can do to help people in my job and from the stress of not being able to make a baby with you and from the pain of your disappointment.”

  They finished the meal in silence, skipped coffee, and walked home in the dark, still without saying anything. A block from their house, Tom reached over and took Kathryn’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. But his gesture didn’t relieve the knot in her stomach because she realized that to keep Tom she would have to accept the fact they would always be childless.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Monday June 16, 2014, Conference Room, Emerald Shapery Center, San Diego

  Mondays were beginning to be a relief from the weekends for Mark Kelly. Rachel’s wedding planning continued unabated, and he increasingly felt he had become merely the excuse to fulfill her lifelong dream of an extravagant social event designed to make her the envy of all her friends. He wondered what she would devote herself to for the rest of their marriage after the honeymoon.

  At Hugh’s command, the Andrews litigation team had assembled in the small conference room at ten a.m., and Kathryn had been invited. Wearing an attractive but conservative black suit and white blouse, she was sitting on the opposite side of the table, two chairs away from Stewart Lipscomb, a tall, skinny third-year associate who had replaced Logan. Stewart had been pre-med as an undergrad, and Mark knew Hugh had shamelessly used his superior medical expertise as an excuse to bundle Logan off to the D.C. office. Patty in a light gray dress, had Mark on her left and Hugh’s empty chair on her right. She was tapping her pencil impatiently on her legal pad. They were waiting for Hugh. Everyone had a mug of coffee served from the pot in the center of the table.

  Mark studied Kathryn, who was checking messages on her phone. He had not seen her since the day they’d rehearsed her deposition. She was thinner than the first time he’d met her, and her eyes looked tired. Stress was taking its toll on her beautiful face. She stared at the phone, reluctant to make eye contact with any of them.

  One of the big mahogany doors stirred slightly and then swung wide as Hugh strode into the room. His commanding height immediately established a dominant presence, but the way he surveyed his assembled troops with satisfaction also left no doubt about who was the commander-in-chief. He motioned for everyone who had slightly risen to sit as he took his place at the head of the table. Mark watched his boss’s eyes go immediately to Kathryn’s face. He could tell Patty had noticed, too. But Patty, who never lost her appearance of cool impartiality, gave him the slightest of shrugs as if to say, there’s nothing we can do, and quickly looked away.

  Hugh smiled jovially at everyone. “Good morning. I hope you had a good weekend. Thank you for joining us, Kathryn. I’m happy to tell you we’ve put off your deposition until mid-September. Patty will work out the details with you. Do you know how your trial calendar looks for the second week?”

  She smiled and looked genuinely relieved. “I don’t recall anything right now, but I’ll have to check to be sure.”

  Hugh nodded. “Well, try to protect that week if you can. Wycliffe wasn’t happy about moving things from August to September, but we need time to get through the documents that they’ve been so reluctant to give us.”

  Hugh looked over at Stewart, who had opened his laptop and powered it up. “I know you haven’t been on this case very long,” Hugh began, “but you told Mark you had some information to share.”

  “I do.” Stewart gave them all his geeky, but ultra-confident, smile. “Wycliffe has turned over very little of the work that Suchet did initially on the drug. When I contacted Emma Talbert to find out where the rest of it is, she claimed Wycliffe did not receive complete documentation from Suchet. According to her, they’ve given us everything they have.”

  “Ha!” Hugh snorted. “Like we really believe that! We need to talk to the head of the Myrabin development team at Suchet.”

  “True,” Stewart agreed, “but there’s a problem with that. Wycliffe is trying to hide his identity. On the few documents they’ve given us, the name of the head of Suchet’s research team has been blacked out.”

  “Those bastards!” Hugh banged his hand on the table. “This is going to take another motion to compel. Damn! They’re making us pull the information out of them bit by bit. Judge Weiner is not going to be happy with Bob McLaren. I bet she even imposes sanctions! Patty, call the judge’s clerk and get us on her motions calendar as soon as possible.

  * * *

  On a ridiculous whim, Mark took the freight elevator to the lobby after the meeting broke up, hoping to run into Kathryn. But there was no sign of her. It was just as well he told himself.

  * * *

  Wednesday, June 18, 2014, 1845 Ocean Place, Pacific Beach

  At eight p.m., at the moment the sun was setting, Kathryn tossed the white rose petals into the waves. She had walked down to the beach from her cottage alone. Paul had called frantically for the past week, leaving messages about how much he wanted to share this day with her. But despite the orchids a month ago, she wasn’t prepared to forgive him for Shannon. Yet. Maybe never.

  She watched the water swallow the last bits of the flowers that were as fragile as Tom’s life had been while the sun sank into the gray-blue water in a blazing ball of crimson fire. She gazed at the water and tried to feel Tom’s presence. Surely if his spirit had returned today, it was out there, hovering above the ocean he loved. She had never given much thought to spirits until Tom was gone, and she so desperately wanted to see or hear or feel him near her again.

  “Tom.” She called his name aloud to see if it would bring any sign of him.

  But nothing. As of today, he’d been gone two years. Was tha
t too long for him to come back to her? Couldn’t the spirit world cut her a break on the anniversary of his death?

  She didn’t feel Tom’s presence, but her intuition said something was not right. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a middle-aged man standing at the edge of the soft sand, wearing the ridiculous floppy hat tourists over fifty favored. He had a serious-looking Nikon with a long lens that he seemed to be pointing toward the sunset. He was snapping pictures in rapid succession. But she felt uneasy because the lens was pointed in her direction, too. He might be the eccentric tourist he appeared to be. But, then, again, he might not.

  She turned and walked home without looking back. As she reached the cottage and put her key in the lock, she glanced across the street. He was there in his floppy hat with his long-lensed camera. It was pointed at her. Her stomach flipped-flopped as she hurried inside and closed and locked her door. She thought of calling the police, but her house had been marked as a public defender’s residence. The cops might show up if she were actually dying. But then again, they might not.

  DISCOVERY,

  THE SECOND MOTION

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Monday, June 30, 2014, Edward J. Schwartz Federal Courthouse, U.S. District Court, Southern District of California, San Diego, 9:00 a.m.

  “Back so soon, Mr. McLaren?” Judge Weiner looked down at Bob McLaren, Annette Fry, and Emma Talbert at the defendant’s table just after she took the bench and the lawyers were seated. Kathryn, who had the chair between Mark and Hugh at the plaintiff’s table, looked over at Bob McLaren, who actually seemed to squirm slightly under Her Honor’s steely gaze.

  But the judge was not ready to hear from Wycliffe. It was the plaintiff’s motion, and Hugh had designated Mark, seated on Kathryn’s left, as the point man.

  “Mr. Kelly, why don’t you explain what Wycliffe hasn’t turned over in discovery that you think you’re entitled to. It’s been barely a month since you were here on a motion to compel. I thought I made it clear I wasn’t going to tolerate anyone playing games by withholding documents. Explain to me what’s still missing.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Mark stepped up to the podium which Kathryn could see he occupied comfortably in his navy suit. “As Your Honor may recall, when we were here before, Wycliffe was refusing to turn over the reports of their clinical trials for Myrabin, the drug we allege caused the death of Mrs. Andrews’ husband. Since then, we’ve received some, but not all the reports.”

  “Which ones are missing?” the judge demanded in a tone that did not bode well for Wycliffe, Kathryn thought.

  “Our expert has compiled a list of the Wycliffe work that’s missing. But in addition to that, there are reports missing from the company that originally developed Myrabin in the early 90's, Laboratories Suchet. Wycliffe bought the rights to it in 1994, a year after Suchet stopped working on it. Wycliffe has turned over some, but not all, of Suchet’s reports. And, most importantly, the name of the head of the team that developed Myrabin at Suchet has been blacked out on the few documents that have been turned over.”

  “Anything further, Mr. Kelly?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  Mark smiled at Kathryn and Hugh as he sat down beside them. Bob McLaren made his oily way to the podium.

  Judge Weiner looked down at her notes and then at McLaren. “Looks like you have some explaining to do, Mr. McLaren.”

  “I know, Your Honor. And I can explain.”

  “Get busy, then.”

  “As Mr. Kelly said, Suchet developed Myrabin before my client purchased the rights. Suchet did not turn over all of its reports to Wycliffe.”

  “But Suchet did turn over the name of the head of its research team, did it not?”

  “That’s a delicate matter, Your Honor.”

  “How so?” Judge Weiner frowned skeptically.

  “The scientist who led the work on Myrabin was let go from Suchet in 1993. He made inappropriate sexual advances to a female colleague who was the number two team leader on the project. She complained, and Suchet terminated him.”

  “And you’ve turned over the name of this woman whom you say complained?”

  “Well, no, Your Honor. Both scientists are highly regarded in their fields, and the incident is long over. They would be embarrassed if the plaintiff were allowed to rake it all up again.”

  “But the plaintiff’s suit is wrongful death, Mr. McLaren, not sexual harassment. The plaintiff is entitled to know who worked on development of the drug that she has alleged killed her husband.”

  “But, Your Honor––”

  “No ‘buts,’ Mr. McLaren. If you make Goldstein, Miller bring a third motion to compel discovery, I’m going to impose heavy sanctions on Wycliffe and on King and White. You are an experienced litigator, Mr. McLaren. You know the rules. Your client has ten days to turn over any reports that have been withheld and the names that have been blacked out.”

  “But, Your Honor––”

  “Court is adjourned, Mr. McLaren. Another word from you, and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

  * * *

  Monday, June 30, 2014, Hugh Mahoney’s Office, Emerald Shapery Center, San Diego

  At four p.m., his secretary told him Logan was on the line. He considered not answering it, but knew she would persist until he talked to her.

  “Miss me?” she cooed into the receiver as soon as he picked it up.

  “I hope you’re settling in,” Hugh replied.

  “Okay, I get it. You don’t.”

  “Logan, I explained how I felt when I told you about the transfer.”

  “I thought you didn’t mean it.”

  “Well, you were wrong. I did. Buffy knows about us, and she objects. I can’t make her unhappy.”

  “But you can do that to me?”

  “You’re not unhappy, Logan. I’m buying you a townhouse in Georgetown. I’ve arranged for you to work with Bill Snyder, our top litigation partner in D.C. And he’s single, by the way. And I’m planning to put in a word for you when partnership comes around in a few years. I’ll shorten up the time for you the way I did for Patty. Just do a good job, so I can. You’re a good lawyer, Logan.”

  “I sure am,” she agreed. “And you’re going to find out just how good.”

  He was relieved when she slammed down the receiver. Most of the women in his past had taken the breakup better than this. She’d been so angry about the transfer that he’d agreed to buy her San Diego condo immediately to get her out of town. He really hoped Bill Snyder would take a shine to her and get her off his hands.

  He got up and went over to the drinks tray and poured himself a double scotch. It had been a long day. He was tired, and he had promised Buffy he’d take her to dinner that evening. He had to show her he was trying now that Logan was safely on the other side of the country. He was powerful, but men like Fred Akers and Hal Edwards were also powerful. They stuck by their wives, and they expected the same from anyone they endorsed. He didn’t want them against him. He had to keep Buffy as happy as she’d been when he’d been dependent upon her money.

  His phone rang again, and his secretary announced Bob McLaren. Hugh sighed. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with McLaren. He thought of transferring the call to Mark, but then he remembered Mark had left early to deal with some sort of wedding-planning emergency Rachel had created. If Mark had any sense, he’d get himself out of that fiasco as quickly as possible.

  He sighed and picked up the receiver. “Hugh Mahoney.”

  “The judge was kind of rough on us this morning,” Bob McLaren began without ceremony.

  Hugh sat down at his massive desk, took a long drink of scotch, and watched the tiny people and cars far below him. He said nothing in response to McLaren’s complaint, knowing that his silence would make his opponent more uncomfortable than any words he could utter.

  “Anyway,” McLaren plunged on, “I’ve got Emma Talbert here with me in my office.”

  Hugh heard the speaker phone button being pushed
, and then Emma said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Mahoney.”

  “Ms. Talbert,” Hugh greeted her in return. “I assume the two of you have called to discuss turning over the reports and the names you’ve been ordered to give us. How soon do you plan to provide that information?”

  “We have ten days,” Emma Talbert said defensively.

  “There’s a lot of material missing,” Hugh warned her. “And the judge made it clear she isn’t going to give you more time.”

  “Look, Hugh, Wycliffe doesn’t want to hand over those documents and the names of the researchers. It would drag up a lot of bad memories for the people involved. They’ve gone on with their lives. They don’t want to relive an old mistake.”

  “Are you saying you won’t give them to us?” Surely even McLaren was not that ballsy, Hugh thought. The judge had threatened sanctions. White and King would be very upset if McLaren brought those down on the firm. McLaren would be wise to play by the rules from now on.

  “No, I’m not saying that. But I’m calling to see if we could settle this.”

  “Wycliffe is prepared to offer half a million,” Emma Talbert spoke up.

  Hugh laughed his deep belly laugh. “No way.”

  “Okay, a million,” McLaren offered.

  “Nope, not enough.”

  “Oh, come on, Hugh,” Bob cajoled. “Your guy went to Harvard, but he tanked his lifetime earnings by working as a PD. Face it, he just wasn’t worth that much.”

  Hugh pictured the $2,000 check the lawyer had handed his mother with the words, he wasn’t worth that much. “You are forgetting Mrs. Andrews’ damages for the loss of her husband.”

  “We’ll offer two,” Emma Talbert interjected. “But that’s as high as I’m authorized to go.”

  “Not enough,” Hugh said. “They were very happily married. I’m expecting to see documents and the name of the head of the Suchet team at eight in the morning.”