by G. M. Ford
“How so?”
“The building didn’t meet any of the established specifications for seismic-resistant design.”
“Which are?”
Rozan waved a hand. “There is, of course, no ideal configuration for any particular type of building.” Klein opened his mouth to ask another question, but Rozan went on. “There are, however, a number of basic guidelines.”
“Could you enumerate those guidelines for us, please?”
Rozan went back to his fingers. “One: the building should be light and avoid unnecessary masses. Two: the building and its superstructure should be simple, symmetric, and regular in plan.” He looked over at the jury box. “You don’t want the building to be too much taller than it is wide. Three: the structure needs to have considerably more lateral stiffness than structures in nonseismic regions.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the stiffer and lighter the building, the less sensitive it will be to the effects of shaking.”
“How is it possible to build a structure that is both stronger and lighter at the same time?”
“That’s accomplished by the quality of the materials in conjunction with the quality of the workmanship.”
“And you say that the Fairmont Hospital was built without any of these qualities?” Klein looked to the jury and aimed his palms at the ceiling. “How can it be, Mr. Rozan, that a publicly funded structure in the most seismically active area of the country would be allowed to be erected without these safeguards?”
“It was not constructed according to specifications.”
Klein looked astonished. “Surely there must have been some system of checks and balances in place to assure that seismic guidelines were being adhered to?”
“On a project of that size, you’d normally have a pair of state building inspectors working full-time on the site.”
“Was that the case?”
“Yes, it was.”
“That would be Joshua Harmon and Brian Swanson.”
“Yes, it would.”
“Have you or any member of your staff spoken to either of these gentlemen?”
For the first time, Sam Rozan looked confused. “That wasn’t possible,” he said tentatively. “As you know, they…both of them were—”
Suddenly Elkins was on his feet. “Objection,” he said in a weary voice. “It’s obvious where Mr. Klein is heading with this, Your Honor.”
“I’m merely asking an expert witness about the standard procedure for an investigation of this nature.”
Elkins made a rude noise. “Mr. Klein seeks to inflame the jury with facts not entered in evidence. He seeks—”
Fulton Howell had heard enough. “Approach the bench,” he said.
As Elkins and Klein shuffled toward the front of the courtroom, Renee Rogers rocked her chair back onto two legs and whispered to Corso, “Maybe Warren does have a trick or two up his sleeve. This is very slick.”
Corso arched an eyebrow. Rogers checked the bench, where the muted discussion continued. “Ordinarily, we couldn’t include anything about crimes other than those with which the defendant is charged.” She flicked another glance at the front of the room. “Hell, we can’t even bring up crimes the defendant’s been convicted of. Except, in this case, where he’s asking an expert witness about his method of investigation….”
The sound of shoes snapped her head around. Klein wore victory on his face. “Mr. Rozan, allow me to rephrase my previous question,” he began. “When assigned an investigation of the scope of Fairmont Hospital, where do you and your staff generally begin?”
“With the on-site inspectors.”
“Always?”
“It’s the professional protocol.” He shrugged. “A courtesy.”
“But in this case you were not able to do so.”
“That’s correct.”
“Why was that?”
“Once again, Your Honor—”
The judge waved Elkins off. “Allow the witness to answer.”
“I must take exception—”
“Exception noted, Mr. Elkins.”
Klein stepped in close to the witness. “Once again, Mr. Rozan, could you please tell us why you were unable to question the on-site inspection staff?”
“They were dead.”
“Move for a mistrial on the grounds that—”
“Motion denied,” the judge snapped. He waved his gavel at Bruce Elkins. “As I explained to you during our sidebar, Mr. Elkins, so long as Mr. Klein’s questions regarding Messrs. Harmon and Swanson are solely directed toward establishing Mr. Rozan’s method of investigation, the information may be entered into evidence.”
Klein’s right shoe squeaked as he hustled toward the prosecution table. “The Alameda County file,” he said in a stage whisper.
Rogers handed him a bright yellow folder. Klein strode past the jury, headed for the front of the room.
“The People would like to introduce into evidence two autopsy reports provided by Mr. Eugene Berry, who was, at the time, medical examiner for Alameda County.”
“This is an outrage!” Elkins stormed.
“I am merely attempting to corroborate Mr. Rozan’s testimony as to why he was unable to conduct his investigation according to his established pattern of inquiry.”
“Continue.”
He waved his fistful of reports at the judge. “We can either have the reports read into the record in their entirety or we can stipulate that the circumstances of death surrounding Mr. Harmon and Mr. Swanson fall under the umbrella of common knowledge.”
“So stipulated,” Howell said. “But you will limit your stipulation to the barest facts of their disposition.”
Klein turned to face the jury box. “Seven weeks after the collapse of Fairmont Hospital, Mr. Joshua Harmon and Mr. Brian Swanson were found floating in San Pablo Bay. Each man had been shot twice in the back of the head. The medical examiner lists these wounds as the cause of death.”
Klein dropped the reports on the desk of the court clerk and walked back over to his witness. “You said earlier, Mr. Rozan, that you believed the causes for the collapse of Fairmont Hospital were”—he hesitated, putting a finger to his temple—“I believe your phrase was that it was a no-brainer. Is that correct?”
“Yes. It was.”
“Could you give us an example of what you meant?”
Sam Rozan looked over at Ray Butler, standing by the easel. Ray pulled the collapse picture off and leaned it against the legs. The next photo was of a splintered square of concrete. A yellow ruler had been placed along the base, for scale, seventeen inches a side.
“Mr. Rozan, could you give us some idea of what it is we’re looking at in this exhibit?”
“The picture is of one of the pillars that supported the rear wall of Fairmont Hospital.” He started to get to his feet, stopped, looked at the judge. “May I?”
Judge Howell nodded his assent. Rozan walked to the oversized photo and pointed with a stubby finger. “Here—where the outer layer of concrete has fallen off—you can see the honeycombing.” His voice began to rise. “This is a main structural support. It’s supposed to be solid.” He brushed the back of his hand across the picture. “This is unconscionable.”
“Was this defect present in other back wall columns?”
“It was consistent with virtually every other pillar and column in the entire structure.”
“To what do you attribute this lack of solidarity?”
“Everything,” Rozan said quickly. “The concrete mixing, the placement, the consolidation, the curing—all of it was cheap, quick, and dirty.” He pointed at the picture again. “You could peel away the outer layer of concrete with the kick of a boot.”
Klein walked him through four more photos without Elkins so much as clearing his throat. By the time Klein thanked his witness and returned to his chair next to Rogers, the jury could be heard twisting around in their seats.
“Cross,” the judge intoned.
&nbs
p; Elkins stayed seated. “Not at this time, Your Honor. I would, however, like to retain the right to question this witness at another time.”
Klein got to his feet. “As would I, Your Honor.”
“So noted.” Bang. The judge sat back in his chair and sighed. “We’ve run considerably past the customary adjournment hour. And as Mr. Elkins does not wish to cross-examine the witness at this time, this seems to be a suitable place to quit for the weekend.” He looked from lawyer to lawyer. “If neither of you gentlemen objects.”
Friday, October 20
5:28 p.m.
Bruce Elkins sat down at the defense table and looked over at his client, Nicholas Balagula. “You pay me for my best legal advice,” he said.
Balagula nodded in agreement. “Handsomely,” he said.
Elkins’s gaze was stony. “I’ve changed my mind about our strategy. I have an obligation to give you the opportunity to find new counsel, should you disagree with what I now consider to be your best legal option.”
“What strategy would that be?” Balagula asked.
Elkins leaned in close to his client. “I don’t think we should put on a defense,” he said in a low voice.
Balagula and Ivanov exchanged glances. “Really?” Ivanov said.
“At this stage of the proceedings, that’s my best legal advice.”
“And if I disagree?”
“Then it is my advice that we seek a plea.”
Balagula waved a hand, as if shooing a fly. “Not an option,” he said.
Elkins ran a hand over his head. “I don’t like it either,” he said. “You heard the testimony. If the state can connect you in any way to the construction conspiracy, prison could turn out to be the least of your worries.” He held Nicholas Balagula in an unwavering gaze. “You could very well find yourself looking at a lethal injection.”
“Why no defense?” Balagula asked.
“Because that way—even if this Lebow person connects you to the conspiracy—that way you’ll have grounds for appeal on the basis of having been provided an incompetent and insufficient defense.”
“Mr. Lebow can connect me to nothing,” Balagula said.
“That’s not what my sources are telling me. I’m being told he’s going to testify that he was in the room when you ordered the falsification of the core-sample test results.” Balagula started to speak, but Elkins cut him off. “If that happens, the party’s over. Not me or anybody else can get you out of this.”
Nicholas Balagula got to his feet. “You do what you think is best,” he said.
22
Friday, October 20
5:54 p.m.
She was right where he expected to find her. Leaning back in a booth at Vito’s, a half-empty martini glass on the table in front of her. On the jukebox, Otis Redding was working his way through “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long.”
Corso stood in the doorway until his eyes adjusted to the deep-space dark. Half a dozen regulars held down the bar stools. Renee Rogers had the booths to herself.
He got all the way to the table before she looked up and made eye contact.
“Well, well,” she said. “I guess I’m going to have to work on being less predictable.” She gestured with her hand for Corso to take a seat.
“Good thing Elkins didn’t want to cross-examine,” he said.
“Mercifully.” She raised her glass in a toast, took a sip of the clear liquid.
“Klein’s on a roll in there.”
Her eyes were suddenly serious. “It’s too damn easy,” she said.
“How’s that?”
She thought it over. “It’s hard to describe,” she said finally. “You do this for as long as I have and you get a feel for the pace of a trial. The ebb and flow. A trial falls into a rhythm, like a song.”
“And?”
She waved a hand and looked at the ceiling. “Something’s not right. Raymond can feel it too. It’s hard to describe. The timing is off. It’s like we’re rolling downhill with no brakes.” She looked over at Corso and made a face. “It’s a lawyer thing.”
“You shared this with Klein?”
She snorted. “Both Ray and I tried, but Warren doesn’t want to hear about it. He’s convinced his case is so airtight that Elkins’s finally giving up the ghost and facing the inevitable.”
“Last time I saw the evidence connecting Balagula to the construction companies, it seemed pretty thin to me.”
“It still is. It’s the weak link in the case. Balagula did a great job of insulating himself from their businesses. No matter how you look at it, the construction trail always leads back to Harmon and Swanson.”
“The two guys they found floating in San Pablo Bay.”
“And the only two people on earth who could tie Balagula directly to the contractors.” She took another small sip from her drink. “You were at the second trial. Elkins objected to every chart, every graph, and every witness I put up there. He had citations for every instance and objection.”
“I remember.”
“Today, he’s Mr. Rogers. He gets up just often enough to look like he’s doing something. Last time out, it took us two weeks to get through what we got through today in two hours. He’s going through the motions. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe Klein’s right. Maybe he has got Balagula by the balls.”
She gave a grudging nod. “Maybe,” she said. “If we can prove that Balagula and Ivanov arranged for the fake inspections and the fabricated core tests, then by extension we prove they must have had some interest in the companies involved; otherwise there’d be no reason for them to be going to all that trouble and taking all that risk.”
“And this Lebow guy is gonna make the connection?”
“He says he was present when it was discussed. That both Ivanov and Balagula were in the room at the time and that Balagula gave the order.”
“That ought to do it,” Corso said.
Renee Rogers massaged the bridge of her nose several times and then waved her hand disgustedly. “Enough already,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m obsessing over it. Either way, I’m out of here when the trial’s over.”
The bartender wandered over. Corso asked for ice water. Rogers covered her glass with her hand and shook her head. “What about you?” she asked. “How’s your friend doing?”
“The same.”
“You making any progress?” She ran her finger around the rim of the martini glass, as he told her about what he’d learned. “Sex and money,” she said, when he’d finished. “The deadly duo.”
“None of it gets me any closer to finding out what came down.”
“You sound like I feel,” she said.
They sat in silence for a moment. The ice water appeared. Corso downed half of it.
“Where’s that market where they throw the fish around?” she asked. “The one they always show on TV.”
“First and Pike. Four blocks west and six blocks north. Why?”
“Since I’m off for the weekend, I thought I might do a little sightseeing. I spent four months here last summer and never saw anything except the hotel, the bar, and the courthouse.”
She watched as Corso took another sip of water and then sat back in his chair. Her eyes sparkled.
“You’re not very quick on the uptake, Mr. Corso.”
His face was blank. “How’s that?”
“This is the point in the conversation where you’re supposed to go all gallant and offer to show me around town.”
“I know,” he said, with a chuckle.
“If you’re not careful, you’re going to have me worrying that I’ve lost my charm. I could get a complex or something.”
He laughed again. “Your charms are intact.”
“Well, then?”
“I’m not much on the tourist traps.”
“Then show me something else. Something only the locals get to see. Something known only to one of the city’s true chroniclers such as yourself.”
Corso thought it over. “You bring a pair of jeans and some real shoes?”
She looked down at her feet and then back up at Corso. “Yes, why?”
Corso threw a five-dollar bill on the table and stood up . “Come on,” he said.
“I’ll need an hour,” she said, as she gathered her things.
He looked as if she were standing on his foot.
“You don’t spend a lot of time with women, do you?”
Friday, October 20
7:32 p.m.
Corso poked his head out the pilothouse window. “Okay, now the stern line!” he shouted. Renee Rogers freed the line from the cleat and looked up at Corso through a cloud of diesel fumes. “Just bring it with you,” he said, not wanting to risk her throwing the line on deck. If she missed, it would end up in the water, uncomfortably close to the props.
She came down the dock and then up the stainless-steel stairs to the deck. Corso opened the starboard door and pulled her inside as he backed the boat out of the slip. A fender groaned as the big boat rolled it along the dock. Corso dropped the engines to idle, reversed the transmissions, gave the starboard engine a little diesel, and swung the bow out into the channel.
Renee Rogers climbed the three steps into the pilot-house. “This was not quite what I had in mind,” she said.
“You said you wanted to see something only the locals get to see.” Corso held the wheel straight and let the bow thruster push the nose out into Lake Union. “Hold the wheel,” he said.
“But I’ve nev—”
He hooked her with an arm and moved her behind the wheel. Instinctively, she grabbed the big teak wheel with both hands.
“Just aim at the other side of the lake and don’t hit anything,” he said.
It took him less than five minutes to stow the stairs, clean up the lines, and get the fenders back aboard. He swung the hinged section of rail back into place and stepped into the galley. Renee Rogers looked down from the pilothouse. “This is really something,” she said. “I had no idea this huge lake was right in the middle of the city.”
Corso stowed his coat in the forward shower. He climbed into the pilothouse, slipped behind Renee Rogers, and settled into the mate’s chair.