An Engineered Injustice

by William L. Myers Jr.

  “And what did you do when you realized what you were seeing?” Vaughn asks.

  “I knew I had to do something, tell someone. But I didn’t know what, or who. So I made a video with my cell phone. A video of the video. And then, I . . . I did nothing for a long time. More than a month. But it was eating at me, what I saw. And what it meant. And I was afraid that Mr. Balzac knew I’d seen the video. So I told my friend Erin, Erin Doyle, and she had me show it to you.”

  “When was that?”

  “It was last week.”

  “You said that what the video meant was weighing on you. What did you mean by that?”

  “It was obvious. The video showed that Mr. Balzac knew the crash was going to happen. How else would he know to have the drone there, to videotape it?”

  “Wait! What?” It’s the judge, who looks at Vaughn. “Are you trying to persuade me that Mr. Balzac was somehow involved in causing the crash?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Vaughn answers, his voice rising with each word. “And what the evidence will prove. And not just him, but Geoffrey—”

  “Objection!” shouts Christina.

  “This is ridiculous!” It’s Balzac, now standing, his face almost up against the glass. “I’ve never seen that video before in my life! This is perjury! I want her cited for contempt!”

  “Outrageous!” declares Geoffrey Day, standing next to Balzac.

  The gallery is in full-blown pandemonium now. Half the people are out of their seats. Some of the crash victims are weeping openly. Others are shouting angrily. Members of the press corps disregard courtroom rules and talk excitedly into their cell phones.

  On the bench, Judge Johnson smashes her gavel. “Order! Order! I will have order, or I’ll clear the courtroom.”

  It takes some time, but Regina Johnson finally regains control. She looks at Vaughn and, through clenched teeth, says, “If you think I’m going to let you—”

  Christina sees the judge is about to shut it all down and jumps to her feet. “I want her!” she interrupts loudly. “I want cross-examination. I’m entitled to—”

  “The witness isn’t done testifying, Your Honor,” Vaughn interrupts. “I’m not finished questioning her.”

  Regina Johnson glares at Vaughn, then at the prosecutor. “You’re half-right, Mr. Coburn. Your witness isn’t done testifying. But you are done questioning her.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, counselor.” The judge turns to Christina. “All right—have at it.”

  The ADA almost runs to the podium. “So this tape you just showed us—it came from your cell phone?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “It’s not the original tape, or even a tape downloaded from a computer?”

  “No. It’s—”

  “And all we have is your word that it came from Mr. Balzac’s computer?”

  “Well, it did—”

  “Do you have proof of that? Corroboration of any kind that this video was recorded from Mr. Balzac’s computer?”

  Laurie closes her eyes. “No.”

  “How did Mr. Balzac get it?”

  “How? I guess—”

  “You guess? Do you know?”

  “No, I—”

  “When did he get it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Who took this video?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “So you don’t know who took the video, or when they gave it to Mr. Balzac?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know why it was given it to Mr. Balzac, assuming you’re telling the truth?”

  “You’d have to ask him—”

  “Did you?”

  “What?”

  “What do you mean, ‘What?’ You say you came across a video showing the train actually crashing. Didn’t it cross your brilliant legal mind, even for a second, to go to Mr. Balzac and say, ‘Hey, I accidentally saw a crash video on your computer. What’s up?’”

  Laurie lowers her head.

  “I’ll take that as a no.” Christina pauses to let it all sink in, to the judge, the press, the victims. Then, it dawns on her to ask, “Were you alone when you went into Mr. Balzac’s private office?”

  “That time, yes.”

  “That time? There were others? And people were with you?”

  “One other time.”

  “And when was that, and who all was in on it?”

  Laurie glances at Vaughn: I’m so sorry. “Mr. Coburn and Erin Doyle.”

  “Don’t make me call for order again,” Judge Johnson calls out to the gallery, which, once again, is in turmoil. “Proceed.”

  “Who is Erin Doyle?”

  “A friend. She works at Day and Lockwood.”

  “And her relationship with Mr. Coburn?”

  “They’re . . . dating.”

  “Hold on a second,” Judge Johnson interrupts. “Are you telling me that you and Mr. Coburn and his girlfriend broke into Mr. Balzac’s office?”

  “Well, I let them in. I work there.”

  “But you didn’t have your boss’s permission to be in his office.”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “When was this?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Last week?”

  “Yes.”

  “At night, I suppose? So Mr. Balzac wouldn’t be there to catch you?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Vaughn lowers his head.

  Eddy is leaning over the table, head in his hands.

  Behind them, Eddy’s mother, Claire, and Kate are crying. The men sit stone-faced.

  “I’ve heard enough from this witness,” says the judge. “I’m calling a recess. When we come back, barring some miracle, I’m going to rule.”

  Vaughn and Eddy stand as the judge leaves the bench. The deputies take Eddy out the side door and into the holding cell. Before they do, Eddy searches Vaughn’s eyes for something to hold onto. He finds nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” Vaughn says under his breath. But Eddy’s already gone.

  On the other side of the security glass, Geoffrey Day winces. His stomach is in knots. “I just want this to be over,” he says quietly to Balzac.

  “Shut up, you idiot,” Balzac shoots back. He resolves to buy Badger a second house, with a really big basement. And the first one to go in it will be this witless debutante. Him and his drone. Balzac takes a deep breath. Then another one.

  Badger, where are you?

  Balzac stands and leaves the courtroom, finds some members of the press conferring in the hallway, who ask him for a comment. Balzac pauses, then says, “I’ve sued some of the biggest corporations in this country. Sued them hard. But I’ve never sued someone as hard as I’m going to sue that little insect. Him and his girlfriend. And my fired-as-of-right-this-instant former associate.”

  Balzac affects a tone of outrage, and he is mighty pissed, but inside he’s sporting a rueful smile, too. What young Coburn failed to see coming was that the story he planned to peddle could never be sold—it was too implausible. The idea that a pair of personal-injury attorneys would crash a train just to drum up cases is so fantastic it just couldn’t be true. No reasonable person could accept it as a possibility. And therein lies the core genius of the whole plan: its audacity. Then again, audacity is at the heart of all great plans.

  Balzac pushes past the reporters, takes the stairs down a floor, and finds an empty hallway. He still can’t believe Laurie Mitzner showed up in court. Something went terribly wrong with Royce’s plan. He needs to find out what. He’s tried reaching Badger all morning, but all he gets is Royce’s voice mail. He wonders whether his old friend suffered a heart attack and is lying in some hospital. Or morgue.

  Vaughn waits until the judge’s staff has cleared the courtroom, then walks over to Christina Wesley, who’s still at counsel table. “I really need to talk to you,” he says.

  “I think you’ve said quite enough. You and your witness. The two of you, and your girlfri
end, make quite a little threesome, though I’d expect you could have thought of something a lot more fun than ransacking Balzac’s office in the dead of night. That part of her story, by the way, I believe. As for the video and the lunatic notion that Balzac—and Day, too, did I hear that right?—conspired to crash a train? Well, I think there’s something wrong with you, Vaughn.”

  “Christina—”

  “Look, I get it. He’s your cousin. You want to free him. But a preliminary hearing is not the place to do it. And your story . . . Jesus Christ, man, it’s like you’ve become unhinged. What are you thinking?”

  “But it’s true. All of it. Please!” he says, putting up his hand to stop her from interrupting. “Just listen. There’s a lot more than the video. Laurie found a note in Day’s desk drawer. It’s from a marketing firm in New York. And guess what’s written on the note: ‘You’re a dead man. Bang, bang, motherfucker, bang, bang.’”

  “So you molded your client’s testimony to fit the note—”

  “Then there’s Day’s and Balzac’s websites. The very day of the crash, within hours, they put up long, detailed sections on their sites about the history of train crashes and railroad law. Stuff that would have taken days, at least, to write and prepare.” Vaughn continues, spitting out every ounce of evidence they’ve found: the complaints that allege Eddy’s criminal history long before it came out in the press; Balzac’s link to Jack Bunting; Bunting’s likely link to Reggie Frye, who gave Eddy the cell phone; Day’s purchase of a drone. As he lays it out, Vaughn sees Christina studying him for any hint of bullshit, any clue that he doesn’t believe what he’s telling her.

  “Vaughn, I don’t even know how to respond to all that, other than to say that you need help. And I’m not saying that to be mean. I’m saying it as a colleague. You need to take a break. Give this case over to someone who can be objective about it. And find a good therapist.”

  38

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 1, CONTINUED

  Vaughn watches Christina pass through the security door, then looks at Erin and Laurie, who are waiting together for him at the back of the gallery. He nods but doesn’t join them. He has nothing to say. The fight is over. He sits at counsel table and waits.

  Five minutes later, Vaughn is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of someone knocking on the security glass behind him. He turns and sees Tommy, who points to James Nunzio and Johnny Giacobetti, now sitting in the second row. Tommy waves several pages of white copy paper and signals that he got them from the mobsters. Vaughn walks to the security door, buzzes it open, and takes the pages, then stands by the door and reads them.

  Holy shit. Holy. Effing. Shit.

  Vaughn turns to Nunzio and Giacobetti, a huge smile on his face. They ignore him, but he smiles nonetheless. He sits and studies the pages in detail. It’s all set out for him: what questions to ask the witness and what the answers will be. Vaughn’s hands are shaking. He struggles not to hyperventilate.

  Fifteen minutes after she called the break, Judge Johnson is back on the bench. Before she has the chance to say she’s reached her decision, Vaughn is on his feet. “The defense has one more witness, Your Honor.”

  “It’s a little too late for—”

  “The defense calls Royce Badgett,” Vaughn announces over the judge.

  “Absolutely not!” Balzac’s stentorian voice booms from behind the safety glass. “I forbid it!” He’s on his feet, fists pressed against the glass.

  Vaughn turns immediately to Christina Wesley, his eyes pleading: Don’t object—help me do this.

  But Christina isn’t looking at Vaughn. She’s staring directly at Balzac. And Vaughn realizes what’s happening: Christina is having an Oh shit! moment. She’s thinking, What if it’s true? What if Balzac really was behind the crash? In Vaughn’s mind’s eye, Christina is mentally reviewing the in-cab video showing Eddy diving for the floor, the drone video showing the crash. She’s trying to recall what he told her about the complaints and the websites and the “bang, bang” letter in Day’s desk, and the relationships between Balzac and Bunting and Frye.

  Christina turns from Balzac to Vaughn. Her eyes are wide, her mouth hanging open. They stare at each other until the judge’s voice pulls them apart.

  “Sit that man down!” Regina Johnson is angry, and the sheriff’s deputies rush toward Balzac and push him into his seat. Then, to Balzac: “I will make the decisions as to who testifies and who doesn’t.” Turning to Vaughn, she demands to know who the witness is.

  “He’s a personal friend of Mr. Balzac, Your Honor, and he has firsthand information into exactly what caused the crash.” Vaughn pauses, looks at Christina, and says, “I’ve spoken with the prosecution, and she does not object.”

  “Is that true?” the judge asks from the bench.

  Christina Wesley looks hard into Vaughn’s eyes. Her message: You better not screw me on this.

  “The Commonwealth has no objection.”

  “Then you may proceed, Mr. Coburn. But get this done fast. I’m ready to rule.”

  Vaughn turns to the gallery, signals to Tommy, who is at the back door. Tommy opens the door, and through it passes Royce Badgett—or what’s left of him. Badgett’s dominant right hand is wrapped in gauze. Beneath the gauze is a nailless thumb and four stumps where his fingers used to be. He’s limping badly, thanks to drill holes in his left kneecap and an anal orifice so wide it could accommodate more traffic than the German autobahn. His face is purple and swollen.

  It takes Badgett quite a while to pass through the gallery and courtroom. He grunts as he shuffles, moans as he climbs the witness stand, and whimpers as he slowly, oh so slowly, sits.

  “Mr. Badgett, you look like you’re in a great deal of pain.” Regina Johnson leans down from the bench. “Mind telling me what happened?”

  Royce thinks for a moment. “I fell.”

  “You suffered all those injuries in a fall?”

  “It was a nasty fall, Your Honor. Plus, I was carrying hedge trimmers,” he adds, holding up his right hand. “And there was bees, a whole swarm of ’em,” he says, motioning toward his face. “I’m allergic to bees. And nuts.”

  “You were carrying nuts when you fell?”

  “No. Don’t get near ’em. I’m allergic.”

  The judge rolls her eyes. “Just . . . get on with this,” she says to Vaughn.

  Vaughn waits a beat, then gets right to it. “Mr. Badgett, where were you and what were you doing at 12:18 p.m. on June sixth of this year?”

  Royce Badgett glances into the gallery, where his eyes fix for a moment on the faces of James Nunzio and Johnny Giacobetti. Then he looks to Balzac.

  “Mr. Badgett? Answer the question.”

  Badgett’s shoulders slump. He closes his eyes, then opens them. “I was kneeling next to Track 2, about eighteen hundred feet north of the Torresdale curve, aiming my semiautomatic M25 at Amtrak Train 174, firing bullets at the windshield at two-second intervals.”

  The gallery explodes.

  “Order! Order!” Judge Johnson, almost shouting, bangs her gavel—something that almost never needs to be done during a preliminary hearing.

  Vaughn takes the opportunity afforded him by the uproar to glance back at Benny Balzac. The monster’s eyes are filled with rage, his face is purple, the veins in both temples throbbing. His fists are balled. Vaughn can tell the only reason Balzac hasn’t already smashed his way through the security glass is because both his shoulders are being held down by the meaty hands of sheriff’s deputies.

  Order is finally restored, not because of Regina Johnson’s gavel banging, but because everyone wants to hear what’s coming next. The judge gives Vaughn the go-ahead, and he resumes his questioning.

  “Why were you firing at the train?”

  “The boss asked me to.”

  “Who is the boss?”

  Badgett glances past Vaughn. He hesitates again, and it becomes clear to Vaughn that what Badgett’s about to do is killing him. He suspects that Badgett would
rather die than betray his lifelong friend. Judging from Badgett’s injuries, Vaughn guesses that Badgett begged to do just that on Nunzio’s jet.

  “Ah, that’d be Benny. Mr. Balzac.”

  “How do you know Benjamin Balzac?”

  “We grew up together.”

  “And Jack Bunting?”

  “Him, too. Me, Benny, and Jack were best friends. Then, and now.”

  “That’s a lie!” It’s Balzac. He’s managed to free himself from the deputies, and he’s on his feet again. “That man’s not my friend. I haven’t seen him in almost thirty years! He’s nothing to me!”

  Badgett shrinks, his heart clearly broken. After a moment, he looks up at the judge. “You remember that music from Star Wars?” he says. “What they played whenever Darth Vader showed up? The Empire’s theme?” Judge Johnson nods, and Badgett hands her his cell phone. “Press ‘Star,’ then ‘One.’”

  Regina Johnson takes the phone and hits the keys. After a few seconds, those sitting near Balzac hear the muffled music.

  Someone in the gallery stands, points to Benjamin Balzac, and yells to the judge, “It’s coming from him!”

  The judge orders the deputies to remove Balzac’s cell phone from his suit jacket. When they do, Darth Vader’s theme is heard in the gallery and courtroom proper. One of the deputies looks at the phone and shouts up to the judge. “The screen identifies the caller as ‘Honey Badger.’”

  “My nickname,” Badgett tells the judge.

  Regina Johnson cringes.

  “Was anyone with you when you were shooting at the train?” asks Vaughn.

  “That tall guy, in the tan suit,” Badgett says. “Behind Mr. Balzac and Mr. Day.”

  “Let the record reflect the witness has identified Corey King, an associate at Day and Lockwood.” Vaughn pauses long enough to enjoy the horror in Corey King’s eyes. Then he asks, “What was Mr. King doing?”

  “He was on the phone with the engineer.”

  “What was he talking about?”

  “He wasn’t really talking. He was, like, scaring him.”

  Vaughn pauses. “You’re a dead man. Bang, bang, motherfucker. Bang, bang?”