Never were they like Kenny, a material witness that seemed to be enjoying his time on the stand, almost as if he was acting.
The word settled into Shane’s mind, bringing along with it the golden rule of cross examination. He knew deep down, in his core, that there was no way he should ask the question that was almost daring itself to be heard. At the same time, as he watched Kenny again smile for the jury, there was no way he could ignore it.
“Five months after meeting Mr. Sarconi, seven months prior to meeting Tyler, you got the KnightRunner implant, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Kenny said, “almost a year ago to this day.”
Shane bit his lip to keep from smiling. The additional information that came with memorizing a script, no need for a pause to check his memory. It was now so obvious, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it at first.
“And that would be the...eleventh surgery on your knee, correct, Mr. Walker?”
“Yes, eleven in total.”
“Mhmm,” Shane said, raising his off hand to his lips, appearing to be deep in thought. “And which knee would that be?”
“My right one,” Kenny said without a moment’s pause, another polite smile on his face.
Shane turned his back to the jury and continued to pace, his fist held to his lips, deep in contemplation. He looked up at Tyler sitting at the table, the same post he’d been at for two weeks, as intent as a sentry on guard duty. Behind him were Abby and Margie, both still hanging in for every last word of the trial, their gazes fixed on him.
The courtroom beyond them seemed dull and quiet, a malaise two weeks in the making, the coming down off one emotional high after another. Again Shane bit his lip to keep from smiling, knowing he was about to throw the entire place into pandemonium again.
The last place he looked was behind the opposing counsel’s table, to Sarconi sitting on the front row, sunken and sullen. Shane fixed his gaze on him, his eyes shining with defiance.
Golden rule be damned, he was going for it.
“I wonder then Mr. Walker, if you wouldn’t mind showing us?”
A murmur passed through the room as Sarconi’s jaw dropped open, a film of sweat covering his mortified features. Shane smirked at him and turned around to see a similar expression on Walker’s face, the cocksure smile of just a moment before long gone. His jaw worked itself up and down a time or two, his face panic-stricken.
“I’m sorry?”
“Mr. Walker,” Shane said, “it bears to reason that if you have had eleven knee operations, the evidence of them should be pretty evident.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Reed announced, shooting upright out of his chair, his face growing a shade of crimson to match his tie. “This is absurd, this man isn’t on trial. The question is out of line and prejudicial.”
“Your Honor,” Shane fired back without waiting for Lynch’s acknowledgment, “the defendant held out this man as a past recipient of the KnightRunner to my client and his family. I don’t think asking to see the scar from that operation qualifies as prejudicial.”
A palpable buzz seemed to fill the airspace of the courtroom, replacing what was just moments before complete disinterest. Every person in the room, Shane included, seemed to inch their way closer to the bench, waiting for the judge’s determination.
The anticipation was not lost on Judge Lynch, who sat on his perch, chewing his mustache, looking back and forth between Shane and Reed. “Overruled,” he breathed out, turning his attention to the witness stand. “Mr. Walker, please do as the counselor asked.”
Any trace of the confident witness was now gone from Kenny, his face masked with fear. He looked at the defense table long and hard for several moments before propping his leg up on the edge of the witness stand and pulling back the leg of his tan slacks, his hands trembling as they went. He kept his head turned to the side as he did so, his eyes pressed closed, a deep set frown on his features.
There was an audible gasp as the crowd moved forward, trying to catch a glimpse of what Kenny’s body language was already telling them. Shane stayed where he was for a moment, praying that what he suspected was right, that he hadn’t just violated the golden rule and dealt a terrible blow to his own case. He inched his way forward and looked at Kenny’s knee, his breath catching in his chest at what he saw.
“Let the record reflect,” Judge Lynch said, peering down from the bench at Kenny’s knee, looking over the rim of his glasses, “that there isn’t a mark of any kind on this man’s knee.”
Shane stood right where he was, hands thrust down into his pockets, as voices broke out behind him, every person in the courtroom sounding their surprise. On the bench, Lynch pounded his gavel demanding order. On the stand, Kenny pulled his pant leg down and returned his foot to the ground.
Shane stood rooted, his face impassive, making a point not to look at his team for fear that they might draw the triumph he was feeling out for the world to see. Instead, he just stood there, waiting almost two full minutes as the judge regained control of the courtroom, silence falling back into place.
Once it did, Shane looked at the jury, his face serene. “The KnightRunner was a product of such poor design, so ill-conceived, that the only person they could get to vouch for it has never had a knee operation in his life. Wow.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
The mini-bar was littered with bottles, some smashed, leaving shards of glass everywhere, others toppled on their side, all of them empty. If anybody counted they would notice almost two dozen in total, featuring every major label from Grey Goose to Jack Daniels, an equal opportunity display of gluttony that would have made an eighties hair band proud.
There was a call to the front desk for a fresh infusion of spirits, but until they got there the three people in the room were on their own, left to nurse what they had left in their glasses, awaiting reinforcements like an army pinned down by enemy fire.
The only sound in the room was the background soundtrack of The Best of Billie Holiday, the volume turned low, just enough to be present without being overwhelming. Ramirez hummed along to “Good Morning Heartache,” a rather fitting tune for the situation they were now in. He had dressed down for the evening, in sweatpants and a long sleeved t-shirt, his bulk spread sideways across the wingtip chair.
Opposite him was Reed, his eyes closed and his head reclined back, his legs extended in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He had removed his jacket and tie, but otherwise was still dressed from court, the drink moving every so often from the arm of his chair to his mouth the only sign of life.
The third point in the triangle was Lauren, barefoot, in jeans and a sweater, her eyes glassy as she stared at the floor between them, a half-empty scotch in her hand.
“What did Laszlo say when you said you wanted to talk about a settlement?” Lauren asked, her gaze still fixed on the floor, her voice empty, but not slurred.
A heavy snort pushed Reed’s head up a half-inch off the seatback. “More or less the same as what he told me the other day. To stick it up my ass.”
Ramirez shook his head in his seat, the bottom of his glass raised to his temple, his opposite thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can’t say that I blame him. I’d do the same if I’d had the day he did.”
Nobody said anything for several moments, the unspoken consensus being that Ramirez was right. Not only had Laszlo gotten their material witness to reveal he’d never had even a single knee operation, he then skewered their subject matter expert, getting him to admit on the stand that he didn’t consider anything played in the Midwest to be considered real football.
Not only had their client been revealed to be lying to a patient, but any hope they had of mitigating damages was long gone as well.
“We can’t let this be our last case,” Ramirez said. “A mess so one-sided we were beat before we even started. Throw in all this other unforeseen stuff, talk about a no-win scenario.”
“You’d think,” he said after a long pause, not bothering to open his eyes, “that at some point in the last month, in the last six months, that that son of a bitch would have thought to mention he brought in an actor.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Ramirez agreed. “Did he really think the guy was smooth enough to fool everybody and get away with it? To pull off having had eleven knee surgeries with an easy smile and a few winks to the jury?”
Reed shook his head across the seat, emitting a sigh that made no attempt to hide his disgust. “We should have just let Carbone kill him.”
Ramirez and Lauren both winced at the mention of Carbone, turning their attention to face Reed.
“Where is that guy now?” Ramirez asked, his face cringing a bit, almost as if fearing what the response might be.
“Awaiting our call,” Reed replied.
“What are we going to tell him?” Lauren asked, a hint of caution in her voice.
At that, Reed opened his eyes and sat up in his chair, placing his hands on either arm and raising himself to an upright position. He blinked several times to clear the fog from his vision and ran a hand over his face.
“The only thing we can.”
Using his right hand, Reed reached down to the floor and retrieved his cell-phone, thumbing it on and scrolling through his call log. After a moment he pressed send, turning the volume to speakerphone and holding it out in front of him, a despondent look on his face.
Ramirez cast a quick glance over to Lauren and shifted his bulk to face forward in the chair, his feet hitting the floor. He leaned forward to match Reed’s pose, the underside of his stomach spilling out from beneath his t-shirt, a sick look on his face.
Across from him, Lauren seemed to shrink away from the scene, her natural reaction to anything involving Carbone.
The phone rang twice, the shrill sound of it covering up Billie singing “No Regrets” in the background. It was snapped up mid-ring, no response coming back for several long moments.
“What do you want?” Carbone asked, his voice thick, his breath heavy in the mouthpiece.
“Laszlo,” Reed said. There was no other word, no further explanation. One word and he hung up the phone, not waiting for Carbone to do the same thing to him.
Lauren’s eyes grew to the size of saucers as she stared at Reed while Ramirez’s narrowed until they were nothing more than slits. Reed looked at both of them in turn before shaking his head and dropping it towards the floor, running a hand back through his hair.
“I know, I’m not happy about it either, but we’re in too deep now, and that’s the only way this thing ends the way we want it to.”
“Is that the way we want it to?” Ramirez asked, leaning forward, disbelief on his face.
“No,” Reed agreed, shaking his head, “but the word has been passed down from on high. If we couldn’t get him to agree to our settlement, we were to set that pit bull loose. I hope you realize, both of you, that these weren’t my decisions to make.”
Ramirez nodded, saying nothing. Opposite him, Lauren’s mouth dropped open, the drink shaking in her hand.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
“It means they know where we live and where our families live,” Reed said, his face ashen, his voice gravel. “If they have no qualms sending that maniacal prick after Laszlo and his team, you think for a second they’d hesitate to come after one of us?”
Tears formed at the underside of Lauren’s eyes, collecting at the bottom, threatening to spill down her cheeks at any moment.
“So that’s what this has been about all this time?”
“It damn sure wasn’t our idea,” Reed said, raising his eyebrows in resignation. Across from him Ramirez shook his head, his own eyes growing misty.
“And just like that, we tossed Laszlo and those poor people to the wolves? Let him do as he pleases with them?”
“Better them than my daughters,” Ramirez said. “Or Connor’s wife.”
“Or your brother in Baltimore,” Reed added, staring over at her. “Trust me my dear, they know everything, about all of us.”
Lauren raised a hand to her mouth, the tears now cutting twin tracks down her cheeks. She dropped her drink to the floor and pushed herself back away from them, the legs of her chair sliding over the short loop carpet.
“How...how long has this been going on?”
“On and off for several years now,” Reed said. “But most of the time, almost all of the time, it isn’t necessary. One of those situations where we know he’s around, but have no idea what he’s doing.”
“Which is all the better,” Ramirez said, looking over at Lauren.
“This time though,” Reed said, spreading his hands wide before dropping them with a smack against his legs. “This time, the climb was just too steep. There was nothing we could do, which I suspect they’ve known all along.”
Silence fell among them as Lauren stared at the floor, tears spilling down her face, her features twisted into an angry mask. “So that’s it then? He’ll take care of Laszlo, we’ll all go home and pretend this never happened, SynTronic gets to keep doing business as usual?”
Ramirez gave a doleful look to Reed, who shook his head.
“Not quite this time,” Reed whispered. “This time I’ve taken a couple of precautions, left a few breadcrumbs around that should be sufficient to get him thrown back in jail for a very long time.”
Ramirez and Lauren’s mouths both dropped open, glancing between each other before looking at Reed.
“Will it be enough to save Laszlo?” Lauren asked. “To make sure nobody else gets hurt by that monster?”
“No,” Reed said. “As you just heard from the call, Mr. Laszlo’s time is up. On the flip side though, it will be his demise that rids us of Carbone.”
Reed shifted his attention to Ramirez, his face morose. “But to answer your question Willie, while this shouldn’t be the last case we ever work, there’s no way we can ever set foot back inside a courtroom or collect a paycheck from SynTronic again. Not after what we’ve done.”
Ramirez and Lauren both regarded Reed for a long moment, saying nothing. Before either one could offer a response, a sharp knock sounded at the door.
Room service, back to restock the bar.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Shane glanced up at the clock on the wall behind the librarian’s desk, the hands on it making a perfect ninety degree angle across its face. He leaned back in his chair and tossed his pencil down on the desk, running his fingers back through his hair.
“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday...” he said aloud, a bit of melody in his voice.
Across from him Abby looked up and smiled, her own visage appearing just as exhausted as he felt. She leaned back in her chair and jammed a pen behind her ear. “The regular crowd shuffles in...”
An instant smile came to Shane’s face, followed by a look of approval as he bobbed his head up and down.
“Very impressive, nailing Billy Joel after only a single line.”
“You know that song, considered his signature hit by most, never got higher than twenty-five on the charts?” Abby said, the comment evoking a bulged-eye look of surprise from Shane. She offered a shy smile and said, “My dad was a huge fan. I must have heard it a thousand times growing up.”
A smile fell across Shane’s face, looking up at the darkened ceiling. “My mom liked Otis Redding, on vinyl. ‘“These Arms of Mine” and a glass of wine’ she used to say.”
Abby smiled for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”
The question pulled Shane from his memory, his head turning to look at her. “Shoot.”
“I’ve went back and read her case, but there wasn’t a lot to it.”
“No, there w
ouldn’t be,” Shane said, any trace of a smile fading from his face. “The lawyer that handled it was scared to death to go up against SynTronic, so he jumped at the first settlement offer they made. Ended up taking pennies on the dollar for what it was worth.”
“Oh,” Abby said, her gaze drifting down to the stack of papers on the table before her. “Can I ask what happened?”
A sharp knocking on the front door to the library rang out, the sound causing both of them to turn towards it with a start. For a moment Shane’s heart leapt up into his throat, pounding hard, but faded just as fast, reason pushing its way in. There was no way Carbone would track them to the library, even less chance he would stop to knock.
“Hold that thought,” Shane said, rising from the table and extending a finger towards Abby. His sneakers padded across the floor as he went to the front door, checking to peer through the vertical glass windows on either side to see who it was. The hours were posted right beneath them, not another soul using the library the entire afternoon or evening.
A small wave of apprehension surged through him as he stopped and peered through, soon replaced with relief as he pushed the door open, a familiar face passing through.
“Evening, Stranger,” Christine said, a brown paper sack in one hand, her purse in the other. She was dressed in heels and jeans, meaning she could either be on her way in or out for the evening.
Shane had long since quit trying to tell the difference.
“Why, hello there,” Shane said, holding the door open until she was through before pulling it closed in her wake. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit this fine evening?”
Christine ignored the question, walking right on through towards the table in the back, spying Abby seated behind a stack of papers. “This guy has you working in here, in the dark, on a Saturday night? That’s just not right.”
The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic Page 92