An Engineered Injustice

by William L. Myers Jr.

  An hour later, Vaughn is soaked in sweat. His arms are rubber, his lungs are on fire. His eyes sting with salt. It was only once he started attacking the heavy bag that he realized how frustrated and angry he really was. The more he cracked the bag, the more his rage seemed to overtake him. He lost track of time and was surprised when the alarm on his iPhone—set for sixty minutes—sounded.

  Vaughn takes off his gloves, packs them into his gym bag, and heads to the locker room. Like the gym itself, it hasn’t changed since Vaughn first starting boxing there. It has four sets of dented lockers, three slippery shower stalls, two worn benches, two chipped sinks, a pair of urinals, and one well-stained commode. On the floor, interlocking rubber tiles top concrete. The walls are, of course, covered with old boxing posters. Vaughn showers quickly and checks to see if his uncle is still in his office. He’s not. Vaughn assumes he’s already left for the lunch gathering at his house. Realizing he’s late, Vaughn hurries out of the gym and hops into his Jeep.

  Frank and Claire Coburn’s house is a split-level sitting on a quarter acre at the end of a cul-de-sac. As he approaches the house, Vaughn is surprised by the number of vehicles parked in the driveway and along the perimeter of the street. He thought lunch was going to be a small get-together with Eddy, Kate, his uncle Frank and his aunt Claire, and maybe one of Eddy’s sisters. It’s obvious to him now that it is going to be a much larger affair.

  Vaughn parks his Jeep and walks around the side of the house to the backyard. Half a dozen kids are playing on the cedar swing set and plastic slide that Frank and Claire erected for their grandchildren. The brothers Coburn—Frank and John—are up on the deck by the grill with two younger men Vaughn recognizes as the husbands of Eddy’s sisters. A number of the women—including Eddy’s two sisters—are seated around a table. Through the sliding glass doors, Vaughn sees more kids, cousins, and in-laws crowded around the island in the kitchen.

  Vaughn climbs the three steps to the deck, walks to the cooler, and pulls out a Budweiser. He kisses the women on their cheeks then moves over to the grill and shakes hands with his father, uncle, and cousins-in-law, waving along the way through the window at his mother and Aunt Claire. Before long, Vaughn is immersed in conversation with the men. They talk about the Phillies, the president, bad traffic on the Schuylkill, taxes, this one’s new roof, that one’s new driveway, how Frank’s gym is doing, how John’s bar is doing. They talk about everything except the thing. Even when Eddy finally shows up—driven by Tommy—and takes his position by Kate’s side, everyone treats Eddy as just another cousin or in-law. People do ask him how he’s doing, how he’s feeling or, more generally, how he’s holding up. But no one asks any pointed questions about the crash, the NTSB investigation, or the status of Eddy’s job at Amtrak.

  Vaughn decides that some agreement must’ve been reached not to bring up the elephant in the room. Still, he feels its presence, and he can tell that everyone else does as well. Everyone seems to be smiling just a little too broadly, laughing just a little too hard. Two hours into the picnic, Vaughn thinks he’s going to skate through it when he’s approached by Jean, the older of Eddy’s two sisters. Jean has always been a strong-willed woman, never accepting orders from anyone. Vaughn recalls that her temper and spiritedness got her into more than a little trouble in high school. But Jean made it through okay and now runs some sort of small business out of her house, which she commands like the captain of a whaling ship. Her husband, Tim, is a weak second mate.

  “We need to talk,” Jean says, approaching Vaughn with a beer bottle in her left hand, a sleeping infant in the crook of her right arm.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “You know what’s up. So does everyone. Are you sure you should be representing Eddy?”

  Vaughn opens his mouth, but before he can answer, Jean resumes.

  “I mean, you don’t have any experience with NTSB investigations, right? Or railroads.”

  “I’ve done my homework. I’m getting to know the players, and I have a good handle on the whole process.”

  Jean studies Vaughn for a long minute. “Eddy’s not a guinea pig. You shouldn’t be learning a new area of the law on him.”

  This pisses Vaughn off. “That’s not what I’m doing, Jean. And in case you’re unclear, it was Eddy—through Kate—who came to me. I didn’t seek him out as a client.”

  “You didn’t turn him down, either.”

  “Nor would I, ever.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem here. Maybe the old thing between the two of you is the only reason you didn’t turn him down, given your lack of experience. What Eddy could be facing if it gets screwed up—think about it. Would you have agreed to represent some stranger who called and said he just crashed a train full of people, killing dozens, injuring hundreds? Especially if he couldn’t pay you?”

  “What does it matter why I’m representing him so long as I do a good job?”

  “You’re missing the point. Maybe you aren’t doing a good job. You just don’t know it because you’re new to this area of the law, to this type of investigation.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “The other day, I was in the supermarket and two women were standing together, looking at me. And one of them said, ‘She’s the sister. You know, of that engineer.’”

  Vaughn, confused by the non sequitur, furrows his brow.

  “The point is,” Jean continues, “it’s not just Eddy you’re fighting for. We’re all in this, the whole family. My father almost came to blows with another retired cop who said the wrong thing to him on the street. Your own father has lost customers at his bar. I won’t even tell you about the toll this thing is taking on my mother.”

  Vaughn takes a deep breath, considers what Jean is telling him.

  “Just think about it. That’s all,” Jean says before turning and walking away.

  Vaughn hears someone else approach and turns to see Eddy limping toward him.

  “Don’t pay her any mind,” Eddy says. “Jean has an opinion on everything. Usually the wrong one.”

  Vaughn takes in Eddy’s words. “She made some good points. Maybe you and I should have a real serious talk about this whole thing. Your first instinct, or Kate’s, was to turn to me to help you through this. And I’m happy to do it. I’m proud to stand with you on this, Ed. I really am. But maybe neither of us has a clear head. I’m the only lawyer in the family, so it makes sense for you to look to me. And you’re my cousin—more like my brother—so my instinct is to fight for you. But we have a history, and it’s not a good one, thanks to me. So part of what’s going on, with me, is to try to make up—”

  “I want you in this with me,” Eddy interrupts. “But not because you’re a family member who happens to be a lawyer, or even because of how close we were growing up. You’re wrong about that. But you’re right about the other thing: we do have a past. And because of it, I know I can count on you to give everything you have to get me through this. No matter what happens. That you will not abandon me, no matter what comes out.”

  The hairs on the back of Vaughn’s neck stand straight up at his cousin’s words.

  No matter what happens. No matter what comes out.

  Eddy is hiding something.

  Vaughn is about to ask him what’s really going on when Kate sidles up beside him. She’s uber-pregnant and looks miserable. The three of them exchange a few minutes of uncomfortable small talk before Vaughn excuses himself to walk back up on the deck and say his goodbyes. It takes a good thirty minutes for him to extricate himself from the party. Just as he’s through the threshold of the front door, his aunt Claire calls after him and follows him to the front walkway.

  Vaughn sees worry in his aunt’s eyes, but steel as well. She reaches out to him, takes both of his hands in her own, and gets right to the point. “Eddy can’t go back to prison.”

  “Prison? Why—”

  “You have no idea how hard it was on him the first time. The things he had to put up with. T
he things that happened to him—”

  “Aunt Claire—”

  “You have to promise me that you’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that Eddy stays out of jail.”

  “Well, of course. I’ll do everything in my power to—”

  “No! That’s not enough.” Claire tightens her grip on Vaughn’s hands. “I’m not asking you to do your best or try your hardest. I want a guarantee, Vaughn. A promise. Your word that you’ll find a way—whatever you have to do—to see that Eddy doesn’t get locked up again like an animal.”

  Vaughn stares into his aunt’s eyes, which bore into him. He knows he can’t give her the kind of promise she’s asking for. No lawyer can guarantee a certain result. Only a fool would do so. Vaughn takes a long time, then slowly nods his head. “All right.”

  Claire Coburn throws her arms around her nephew and squeezes for all she’s worth.

  Driving home, the full weight of Jean’s words and his promise to his aunt settles on Vaughn’s shoulders.

  If I fail, Eddy won’t be the only one who pays the price. The whole family will be torn apart.

  And it hits Vaughn that’s the message he was supposed to take from the picnic. That was the whole point of the get-together. To show him who he was fighting for. Not just Eddy, but all of them.

  15

  SUNDAY, JULY 13

  Balzac grunts. The final reps tax him of his last reserves of strength and will; he puts enough weight on the bar to make sure of it. He pushes it up the last few inches, until his arms are fully extended. Then he slowly lowers the dumbbell onto the holders. After a moment, he sits up, then lifts himself from the bench press and walks over to his towel hanging on a spike driven into the wooden support beam.

  Balzac dries his face and upper body, rehangs the towel, and walks over to the full-length mirror leaning against the basement wall. His upper arms are thick as tree trunks. He has an eighteen-inch neck. His thigh muscles bulge from all the squat work.

  Not bad for a sixty-year-old man.

  Balzac stands on a worn pair of old-style Converse sneakers. He’s wearing white gym socks with blue stripes, a wife-beater T-shirt, and cotton gym shorts that extend only two inches below his groin. None of that fancy, moisture-wicking workout wear for Benjamin Balzac. No ergonomically designed weight machines, either. Balzac lifts free weights. He’s used the same set for almost thirty years.

  And why not? he thinks. Iron doesn’t wear out.

  Balzac keeps his gym in the basement of his Gladwyne mansion. When he moved in fifteen years earlier, the space was fitted with a $100,000 home movie theater. Balzac had it torn out. Not just the retractable screen, reclining leather seats, and Bose sound system, but the paneled walls, carpeting, and coffered ceiling. He had the contractors strip the cellar to the cinder-block walls and cement floor. That’s what a man’s workout room should be like, he told himself. Primitive, rough, unrefined. A proper place for pain. He’d felt that way ever since he’d seen Mr. T. doing pull-ups on a basement pipe while the champ pranced around his upscale gym in Rocky III.

  Balzac climbs the basement stairs to the kitchen. Loki and Thor, his twin 150-pound English mastiffs, rise to greet him. He pulls a bottle of Pellegrino from the Sub-Zero refrigerator and walks down the hall to his study, the great beasts at his heels. The room is cavernous, more than forty feet long with fifteen-foot ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out onto a rolling lawn. The interior walls are fitted with bookcases made from the same dark mahogany as the flooring. The room’s most prominent feature is the massive leather-topped desk, a $35,000 masterwork by local craftsman John Previti. Following Balzac’s own design, Previti adorned the desk with intricate carvings of roaring bears. Balzac had always felt an affinity for Ursus arctos, particularly the enormous Alaskan browns. It’s one reason he always kept a full beard.

  Balzac sits quietly for a minute, then reaches for a briefcase leaning against the desk. He withdraws a memory stick and plugs it into the Apple laptop in front of him on the desk. He pushes the power button, and then, once the computer boots up, plays a video. It opens with an aerial view of a railroad track taken from about sixty feet off the ground. In the distance, a passenger train enters a curve. The train rounds the curve into a long straightaway, heading in the direction of the camera. As the train passes below, the camera turns to follow it. For a brief instant, two figures—walking quickly away from the track—are visible below. A few seconds after the camera turns, the ACS-64 crashes into a huge track machine. The car directly behind the engine crashes into it, compressing like an accordion. The cars behind the first car fly off the tracks, some to the left, others to the right.

  It’s all over in a matter of seconds. Then the screen goes black.

  The memory stick containing the video arrived at Balzac’s office a week after the crash. It was hand-delivered by a courier who’d been given strict instructions to turn it over only to Balzac himself. The sender was obvious to Balzac from the return address on the envelope.

  “Idiot,” Balzac says.

  He knows Day’s purpose in delivering him the video—to send a message. I have something on you.

  The gesture has troubled him ever since he received it.

  Balzac yanks the memory stick from the computer and walks to the fireplace, Thor and Loki following him. He presses a button and the gas flame ignites. For a long moment, Balzac and his beasts stare into the blue flames. Then Balzac tosses the memory stick into the fire and watches it melt.

  “Idiot,” he says again.

  “Mr. Balzac?”

  “Annika.” Balzac turns toward the door to his study, where his twenty-four-year-old cleaning lady stands holding a bucket of cleaning supplies. He’d forgotten all about her. He shouldn’t have. Sunday is her regular cleaning day—a sore point with her because she’s a devout Catholic. But he insisted, and she stopped protesting. Not that she had much choice, since Balzac had agreed to be her sponsor toward getting permanent-resident status. Annika had emigrated to the United States four years ago with her mother, from some ex-communist shitzelvania. For reasons neither she nor her mother will get into, they are both deathly afraid of going back.

  Balzac studies Annika as he moves back to his desk and sits down. The girl’s own eyes are on Thor and Loki. She’s told Balzac several times she’s afraid of dogs, and terrified of those two, in particular.

  “Thor. Loki. Where are your manners? Go say hi to Annika.”

  Balzac watches Annika stiffen as the dogs approach. They take their time sniffing her before moving away and sitting on either side of the door.

  “Mr. Balzac, would it be possible for me to leave a little early today? I’m not feeling well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but no. I may have some visitors this week, and it’s important that the house be spick-and-span. That includes the garage. And the pool area.”

  Annika forces a smile. “Of course.” She turns toward the door—and the dogs—and starts walking fast, arms glued to her sides to get out as quickly as possible.

  Balzac calls out to her, “Don’t forget to clean those two big rooms on the third floor. The dogs have been shitting there again.”

  16

  MONDAY, JULY 14

  It’s 9:00 a.m., and Erin has been plodding through a defense brief for more than two hours. Her third cup of coffee sits empty on her desk. She’s about to get up and walk to the kitchen for another when her phone buzzes. Its Geoffrey Day’s secretary, Kristen.

  “Erin? It’s, uh, Kristen. Are you available?”

  Erin hears stress in Kristen’s voice. “Yes. Are you all right?”

  “I’m not sure. You’ll never guess who just showed up to meet with Geoffrey.”

  “Who?”

  “James Nunzio,” Kristen whispers. “The mobster. He’s here to interview Geoffrey about representing his son’s estate against Amtrak.”

  Erin’s heart skips a beat.

  “He wants you in on the meeting,” the secretary says.
<
br />   “Why would Geoffrey want me there?”

  “Not Geoffrey. Nunzio. He told Geoffrey he wants you to be part of the conversation.”

  “But I’m not working on that litigation.”

  “I know. Geoffrey doesn’t get it, either.”

  Erin takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m on my way,” she says, trying to keep her voice even.

  Vaughn shared with her his fear for his cousin’s life and told her about Jimmy Nutzo’s enforcer being parked outside her building the other morning. And now the psychopath is at her firm, undoubtedly seeking to figure out what she’s up to with Vaughn. She does not like this one bit.

  Erin walks to the private conference room adjoining Day’s office. She knocks on the door and enters. “Erin Doyle,” she announces, extending her hand and looking directly into Nunzio’s gleaming black eyes.

  “Firm handshake,” the mobster says. “I like that.”

  “Well, now that we’re all here,” Day says after Erin is seated, “let me say how honored I am that you’re looking to Day and Lockwood to represent your son’s estate—”

  “I’m considering your firm, Mr. Day. I haven’t made any decisions yet.”

  “Of course. You’ll want to interview some other firms as well. I can certainly understand that.”

  Geoffrey Day is talking fast, and Erin can see that it’s because he’s nervous. She can tell that Jimmy Nunzio sees it, too.

  Corey King opens the door and walks in. “Sorry I’m late, everyone. I had Judge Nyquist on the phone. He talks forever.”

  “This is Corey King,” Day says. “He’s one our brightest attorneys. Mr. King was honored this year as a ‘rising star’ by the Pennsylvania Super Lawyers.”

  Nunzio looks King up and down. “Yeah. He can leave now.”