The Law of the Sea : A Legal Thriller

by Dave Gerard

“Thank you for your help, Professor Schnizzel,” she said with a smile. “It’s been enlightening.”

  “Of course. I’ll let you know as soon as I know more,” he promised.

  It was only a few days later, as I was stewing on the meaning of the Asia connection, that Schnizzel’s hypothesis got another boost. At exactly 5 p.m. the day before the depositions, we finally got our subpoena returns from American Airlines.

  It took longer than it should have. Bock & Co. had mounted a frivolous legal challenge to try and block us. They had no grounds to do it, and the Judge wrote that their objections bordered on bad faith. But these machinations did no more than delay us for a little while.

  I opened the records. And finally, finally, I knew where David Marcum had gone.

  Both of the tickets were round trip. On the first flight, the records showed that Marcum flew there and back. On the second flight, he flew there. But there was no record of him ever boarding the return flight.

  That meant that David Marcum never came back from the second trip. Wherever he went, that was likely where he had died.

  The destination for both flights was the same: Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

  SIXTEEN

  At last, the day of deposition dawned. I waited for a last-minute motion to quash, or an email announcing that the witnesses had up and moved to Timbuktu. But none came. At the appointed hour, Harder and I traversed the hot pavements of Houston to the downtown offices of Badden & Bock.

  It was sweltering outside, and the heat hit me like a blow. Texas is hot in the summer, and the effect was magnified here in Houston, a sprawling, white-hot concrete jungle, peopled by corporations and the servants of corporations, hurrying to and fro in starched white shirts and checkered ties, choking on the fashion of another time, another place.

  I was in a bad mood. I had had barely slept the night before. After learning about David Marcum’s trip to Malaysia, I spent the night scouring Rockweiller’s documents for anything to do with the place, hoping to learn something, anything, before the deposition.

  There were over ten thousand documents with the word Malaysia in them. Most of them were duplicates or other garbage I was able to filter out. But even so, it took me hours to sort through it all. I sat there well past dark, and then well past midnight, drinking coffee to keep going. Eventually, around 3 a.m., I had seen everything that was there. It wasn’t much.

  The only real things of interest I found were a pair of consulting contracts that Excel Resources had for unspecified services to be performed in Malaysia. The contracts didn’t say what Excel paid these companies for, or how much. The first contract was with a company called Southeast Asia Salvage. The second was with a foundation affiliated with someone named Suharto. That was the same name as the former president of Indonesia, who hogged all the search results. This meant I could find little about Suharto or the other company online. I didn’t know what to make of these contracts, so I tagged them and set them aside for later. I got home at about 5 a.m., and slept a measly two hours until seven. That partly accounted for my bad temperament this morning.

  But the real thorn in my gut was that I wouldn’t be taking the depositions today. Harder would.

  Harder had been pushing Kruckemeyer for the depositions for months now, arguing that he was the senior associate and should get to do them. Remington was out of pocket on some big coal trial in West Virginia. And I didn’t have a lot of juice after the Cartagena incident. So Harder won out. I was relegated to “second-chairing” the depositions, as Kruckemeyer sympathetically put it, which was not a thing. But I tried to set aside my resentment as we approached Badden & Bock’s offices. We needed to present a united front to Rockweiller. And to Ashley, who would be there as well.

  When we arrived at the offices, I looked up in surprise. I had expected Badden & Bock to be in some brand-new, steel and glass tower. But instead, they were in an older, almost iconic Houston building.

  The building was fifty stories of tan brown stone. It rose up into three distinct pyramidal roofs, each higher than the last. The pyramids were ridged, and they looked almost like steps, or Legos, building their way toward the sky. This gave the building a blurred, indistinct look from afar, like graphics in an old video game.

  I gazed up at the façade as we approached. The design was baroque, inspired by 17th-century Dutch architecture. It was clad in red Swedish granite, highlighted with copper obelisks. I knew all of this from an architecture tour I had taken once. At sunset, the tower turned blood red, giving it an almost sinister aspect. The sharp-ridged pyramids added to the effect, and made it look like some kind of supervillain’s lair. The tower was built by oil money in the 1980s, like much of Houston was. I was impressed with Badden & Bock’s choice of offices in spite of myself. I thought it showed class and a respect for the city’s history.

  We entered an imposing lobby and took the elevator to the fiftieth floor. A pretty young assistant manned the front desk. She barely acknowledged us. Harder and I sat down to wait for Ashley. We didn’t look at each other. Harder fumbled with his notes, looking stiff and nervous. I didn’t care.

  Ashley arrived a few minutes later. She was dressed in business casual, and looked stunning. I swallowed hard. Harder had the same reaction. It didn’t help.

  Harder got up to introduce himself. He put on a fake smile and held out his hand. “You must be Ashley Marcum,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about you. Richard T. Harder III. Senior associate. I’ll be taking the depositions.”

  “Hi there,” she said, shaking his hand. She looked at me quizzically.

  “This is Harder,” I said neutrally. “He is going to be taking the depositions.”

  “Oh,” she said, observing me closely but not saying any more.

  “I’m the senior associate,” Harder added, to make sure she was aware. “We thought that the more experienced person should be doing this. No offense to Jack, of course, who’s been doing a tremendous job.” This would have been condescending if it had come from someone with any actual authority. I suppressed the urge to choke him.

  “Ah,” said Ashley.

  “Plus, I’m the guy you call when you need to play hardball,” Harder said with a wink. This was disastrous, and it backfired spectacularly, as he seemed to realize a moment later. I guffawed, and Harder turned red. But Ashley just smiled her winsome bartender’s smile at him. He continued to chat her up as the assistant showed us to the conference room. I tuned him out as we entered.

  The conference room was impressive. It took up a full side of the fiftieth floor. Out of the wall-to-wall windows, I could see the city spread out below in a panorama, miles of concrete and highways on a flat-baked plain as far as the eye could see. Smokestacks and oil wells rose darkly in the distance.

  Bock & Co. were already there. Bock himself sat at the head of the table, wearing his trademark arrogance. Quinto and Loudamire sat next to him, wearing knock-offs of the same expression. Lined up on the side of the table were the deponents. I recognized their faces from the personnel files: Thomas Barber, Michelle Kauller, Richard Layes, Carl Ruthers, and Jason Dubino. Lloyd Gunthum wasn’t available, and we had agreed to depose him at a later date. I frowned. There was someone else missing, but his name eluded me. Besides the witnesses, there was a court reporter (older, female, great nails) and a videographer (young, male, bearded).

  The atmosphere was tense from the moment we walked in. I didn’t do anything to make it less so. In Texas, attorneys are usually cordial to each other. Although Houston has its share of firebrands, attorneys know they are part of the same community, and that the way they treat each other will get out. But the same wasn’t true of attorneys like Badden & Bock, who made unpleasantness a weapon in their arsenal. We exchanged greetings coldly. But I sensed the slightest bit of warmth between Harder and Quinto. That made me think back to Oichi Omakase. I wondered again what he had been doing there.
r />   Harder almost tripped over his chair as we sat down. Then he fumbled with his microphone. The videographer had to help him clip it to his shirt. It was obvious that he hadn’t done this many times before. He apologized and tried to crack a joke, but no one laughed. Eventually, he settled down and got started.

  The first witness was Thomas J. Barber. Barber was hairy, overweight, and sweating profusely. His neck folds spilled out of a too-tight white shirt. The videographer turned on the camera, and Barber stated his name for the record. Then the court reporter swore him in. “Please raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do,” said Barber. And with that, Harder began. “Would you please state your name for the record, sir?” he asked.

  “Objection!” came a nasally voice. Both of us blinked in surprise and turned our heads. It was Loudamire.

  Harder looked at her uncertainly. “Come again?” he said.

  “I object.”

  “To his name? Why?”

  “Because it’s cumulative. The witness has already stated his name on the record. It’s a complete waste of the witness’ and everyone else’s time to ask again.”

  I stared at her incredulously. I had expected them to be obstructive. But this? I saw Bock and Quinto smirking from the sidelines.

  “Okay…” said Harder, trying not to pick a fight. “I’ll stipulate that the witness’ name is in the record. Let’s move on. Mr. Barber, have you had your deposition taken before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you understand the procedures?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you don’t understand a question, will you let me know?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harder continued in this vein for a little while, laying out the ground rules for the deposition. Starting with the basics helped begin a rhythm of question and answer with the witness. When done right, it made the deposition flow.

  “Do you understand that you are under oath today, the same as if you were in front of a judge or jury?” Harder asked, completing the standard introduction.

  “Objection,” Loudamire said nastily. “Harassing. The witness already knows he is under oath. Your question implies that he would violate that oath, which is harassing and totally inappropriate.” Harder opened his mouth to argue with her.

  I knew what they were doing. Harder was a rookie. So they were putting pressure on him. It’s not easy to take a deposition with an attorney in your face like that. You shrink back from hard questions, or don’t probe deep enough, afraid of the pushback. It’s a nasty tactic, and totally improper. But short of complaining to the judge, there’s not much you can do about it.

  To his credit, Harder gamely fought down Loudamire’s objections and stuck to his question. Eventually, he dragged it out of Barber that he understood he was under oath. Harder then asked if there was any reason that Barber couldn’t testify truthfully today. Barber paused. For too long, I thought. He looked at Bock. Finally, he said “no.”

  Harder gave him a strange look, but didn’t press the point. “Very well,” he said. And then, finally, we got some information.

  “When did you first meet David Marcum?” Harder asked.

  “About six months ago,” said Barber.

  “How did you meet him?”

  “We were on the same boat. The Excelsior.”

  “You worked together?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that was the first time you met him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long were you on the ship together?”

  “Couple of weeks. Maybe three or four.”

  “Was it contiguous?”

  Barber’s face screwed up in confusion. “Contigu-what?” he said.

  “Consecutive. Was it all at once.”

  “Oh. No. Well, mostly. He flew in and out. He was on the ship once for a while, left, then came back.”

  “Where was the ship?”

  “Objection!” Loudamire shrilled. “Calls for ultrasensitive information.” I looked carefully at Bock. I knew the ship must have been in Malaysia, judging from Marcum’s flight records. That also lined up with what Barber had said about two flights. But Bock’s face didn’t give anything away, and I couldn’t tell if he knew that we knew.

  “What did Marcum do on the ship?” asked Harder.

  “He was a diver.”

  “What he hired to dive for?”

  “Objection!” said Loudamire. Her face assumed a condescending look. “Perhaps counsel was not aware that the court entered an ultrasensitive protective order in this case. If counsel attempts to violate the protective order again, we reserve our right to move for sanctions.”

  Harder gritted his teeth and moved on. This was what I was afraid of. As much as I enjoyed watching Loudamire be a prick to Harder, it wasn’t good for our case. It wasn’t really Harder’s fault, though. If they refused to let Barber answer the questions, there wasn’t much we could do about it just then.

  “Who hired David Marcum?” asked Harder. Barber looked at Loudamire and braced himself for another objection. But none came, and he answered.

  “I think it was Lloyd.”

  “That would be Lloyd Gunthum?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s the captain and owner of the Excelsior?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did Mr. Gunthum know David Marcum?”

  “They worked together in the past, I think. I’m not sure.”

  “Who else was on the ship with David Marcum?”

  Barber jerked his thumb toward the other witnesses, who were all sitting quietly and observing. “This lot. And Jeremy Riker.” That was it, I thought. Riker. The missing crew member.

  “Where’s Jeremy Riker?”

  Loudamire shrieked another objection and Barber’s mouth snapped shut.

  I looked over at Ashley. I could see she was frustrated. So was I. They were blocking even basic questions about their witnesses. I doubted that Riker’s whereabouts were ultrasensitive. But Harder didn’t push back, and just moved on. He continued with background questions for the next thirty minutes or so. He covered what ground he could, shying away from controversial topics. I started to get concerned. We would need more than this. But finally, Harder flipped a page in his outline, steeled himself, and got to the meat of it.

  “How did David Marcum die?” he asked. I watched Barber carefully. I caught myself holding my breath. This was what we were here for. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ashley tense up as we awaited the answer.

  But Loudamire cut Barber off before he could say anything. “Objection!” she said. “Calls for privileged and ultrasensitive information.” I looked up incredulously. This was the same stunt they had pulled at the TRO hearing. They were trying cover up David Marcum’s death with privilege. Exactly what Judge Graves had warned them not to do. But here they were, playing the same old games. I saw the anger written plain on Ashley’s face.

  I’d had enough. I was in a black mood to begin with. I was fed up with Badden & Bock, fed up with Harder, and fed up with the whole damn legal system, which seemed like little more than a vehicle for expensive assholes to abuse people.

  I slammed my fist down on the table, startling everyone. “That’s it,” I said. “This is bullshit. You know damn well that’s not protected information. You’re abusing the attorney-client privilege. This is exactly what Judge Graves told you not to do. I am putting you on notice that you are now in violation of a federal court order from the Southern District of Texas.”

  I turned to Bock and pointed my finger in his face. “If I hear one more dogshit objection from her, or you, or anyone else, I swear to God I will pick up this telephone and get Judge Graves on the line right now. And he’s going to sa
nction you, and your client, and you, and you.” I pointed at Loudamire and Barber, who paled. Then I picked up the phone that was sitting in the middle of the table, daring them to try me. “How do you want to play this?” I demanded.

  Bock opened his mouth in surprise, which quickly turned to outrage. Then we got into a screaming match. He yelled about my foul language, and I yelled about his complete disrespect for the rule of law. Eventually, he caved and agreed to let Barber answer the question. He wasn’t scared of me. But he was scared of Judge Graves. Good. Harder seemed a little shocked by my outburst. So did Ashley. But I caught the faintest hint of a smile on her face.

  After the shouting had subsided, Harder cleared his throat and asked the question again. “What happened to David Marcum?” he said. I glared at Loudamire, daring her to object. She kept her mouth shut this time.

  Barber took a deep breath. “He died in a scuba diving accident.” I exhaled subconsciously. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ashley do the same.

  “When did this happen?” Harder asked.

  “Toward the end of our voyage.”

  “Do you remember what time of day it was?”

  “Yes. It was the afternoon.”

  “Can you tell me, in your own words, what happened?”

  Barber nodded. “We were diving,” he explained. “Working on something underwater. I think I’m not allowed to say what. But we went down in shifts. Usually twos, sometimes threes. But David Marcum dived alone. Usually, you go with someone. It’s good practice. You take a diving buddy, in case things go bad. But we didn’t know Marcum that well, and he wanted to go solo. He seemed to know what he was doing, and Lloyd gave the okay. So we didn’t question.”

  Ashley nodded absently to herself. That sounded like her brother. I looked at Barber carefully. His narrative sounded rehearsed. But that wasn’t unusual, I knew. Bock & Co. would have taken him through the story many times.

  “That day,” Barber continued, “Marcum was gone longer than he should have been.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know exactly. But it was a few hours.”