Ryan turned away and headed down the hall, refusing to care if the woman followed his advice.
Twenty minutes later, standing in the courthouse foyer, Ryan heard heavy footfalls approaching across the marble floor behind him. He turned.
“Mr. Hart, don’t see you enough around here these days.”
“Your Honor,” Ryan answered, nodding, relieved that it was Judge Freyling, with graying hair and a thickening frame. If he had to run into someone today, he’d prefer it be his favorite magistrate in the King County Courthouse.
“Say,” the judge went on, “there’s a rumor you were sighted in one of the upstairs halls of justice a short while ago watching some real lawyers at work in Tipton’s courtroom. This true?”
Ryan had tried half a dozen cases in front of Tipton, so the fact that he’d been recognized wasn’t surprising. “Talking to your neighbor in courtroom 431?” he asked.
Judge Freyling shook his head. “No. My bailiff ran into Tipton’s clerk in the hall a few minutes ago. I’m informed you left the courtroom with a pretty young lady who came rushing back a few minutes later to whisper in the plaintiff attorney’s ear—who then asked the judge for an early lunch recess. Don’t know what you told her, but it doesn’t matter: Tipton’s clerk’s taking heavy odds that the jury’s going to find against the plaintiff and his attorney—and Tipton’s clerk’s never wrong.”
Ryan thought for a moment about telling Freyling what he’d just witnessed. But there was no point; there was nothing he could do with a third-hand charge like that.
“Tell your bailiff,” Ryan responded, “to take those odds with a hundred bucks on the plaintiff.”
Judge Freyling’s eyebrows lifted with surprise. “You know, Counselor, that would be highly unethical and I’d have to fire her if she did.” He paused, then leaned close. “But if you’re sure, I’ll call Tipton and take the bet myself this afternoon.”
Ryan smiled as his tension uncoiled a notch. “Have I mentioned how much I appreciated your taking Emily on for that clerkship?” he said.
“Every time we pass in the hall,” the judge said, waving Ryan off. “Which is a lot, given that that was, what—almost three years ago. Is it that long since your daughter finished law school? Anyway, as I’ve told you, it was no favor—she had the grades and was the best candidate to apply. And I hear she’s done a great job in the Public Defender’s office these last two years since she left me. She’s learning her way around the courtroom fast. Like her old man.”
The judge took a step back and surveyed Ryan, his eyes narrowing. “You know, I’m in charge of distributing caseloads this year, and I haven’t seen many King County cases with your name on them.”
“I’ve been throttling back,” Ryan replied neutrally.
The judge nodded. “Um-hmm. You know, I still tell people about that first trial you had in front of me—against Lester Schmidt. Barely out of law school and you pummeled him. He deserved it. I could never figure out what fueled that man’s ego. Whenever I see Schmidt, I figure out a way to remind him about it.”
Ryan smiled again, just as the judge’s look turned serious. “You’re a fine trial lawyer, Ryan. I know this has been a rough few years for you—with Carolyn’s passing and all. But I’d hate to see you hang up your spurs. You’re too young. What would you do with yourself anyway—a hard charger like you.”
Ryan was relieved to see Emily coming down the hall from the elevator bank. This was a subject he wanted to avoid just now.
“Just considering a little break, Judge,” Ryan replied in a low voice. “But keep it to yourself.”
The judge glanced in the direction of Ryan’s look, then nodded knowingly. “All right. Well, I’d better get going. I’m off this afternoon—picking up my nephew at the airport. The boy’s expecting me to grill salmon for him. Like they can’t buy it in Minneapolis. Have a good lunch.”
The judge waved at Emily with a smile, then walked away as she arrived.
Her blond hair usually fell naturally across her shoulders, but today it was pulled back from her face with a clip. It made her look more serious, Ryan thought, especially with her dark suit. Like her mother when she’d dressed for court. He considered mentioning it, but he doubted the intended compliment would be welcomed from him.
She approached, stopping short of an invitation to a hug.
“Thanks for doing this,” she said, smiling congenially. As she might to a client, he thought painfully. “I’ve got to rush, Dad; things are crazy upstairs. How about we go to Ivar’s for a quick bite and I can tell you why I called.”
It was unusually cool for mid-June and the wharf around the restaurant was uncrowded. Ryan found an empty bench looking out on the Sound. Emily came out of the shop a moment later with their orders of clam strips; she’d insisted on buying today.
She approached, walking with her mother’s grace. “You move like a dancer,” he said as she drew close. She barely acknowledged the familiar line he used to tell her at breakfast each morning.
“How’s the practice, Dad?” she asked, sitting with her back to the water.
“Great,” Ryan replied, looking away. “Just great.”
It felt lousy to start their first conversation in months with a lie.
Emily tried, over the next half hour, to ignite a conversation. Their small talk proved desultory and unsatisfying. That’s what came from not seeing one another more than quarterly, Ryan thought, saddened.
But then he hadn’t reached this place of twilight with his only child by accident. He’d done it by slow neglect. He merited no absolution simply because their final breaking point had resulted from the year and a half he was trying to save Carolyn. Emily had desperately needed him at the time, too. And that period was only the crown on a lifetime of neglect by distraction.
He finally turned the conversation to the point of this surprise invitation to lunch. “So what’s the problem?” Ryan asked, starting into the strips.
Emily hesitated a moment, moving a strand of hair that blew across her eyes. “I have a friend from college who needs a lawyer.”
“Anyone I know?”
“No,” she said, then paused. “I mean, I probably mentioned him. But I never brought him home. I only knew him for a year, when we were juniors at UW, back when Mom had just gotten sick. His father had cancer, too, so he really understood what I was going through. But he left college to help his family before his dad died that spring. We talked and texted after, but I haven’t seen him since.”
“What’s his name?” Ryan asked.
“Kieran Mullaney. He left a message, and it doesn’t sound good. I’d heard he was working out at Hanford. You remember that explosion last fall?”
Ryan nodded.
“I think maybe he was in it. All I know so far from his message is that he thinks he was exposed to radiation. Apparently he started a lawsuit and his lawyer’s withdrawn right before trial. He’s looking for a new lawyer with civil experience—product liability if possible. I’ll call him later today, but I wanted to talk to you first.”
Ryan looked up at a trio of gulls fluttering only a few feet away. Biding his time, he watched their aerial choreography of begging—then picked up a French fry and flipped it in the air. One gull stabbed at the offering, catching it in its beak.
Emily was waiting for an answer. “I could make a few calls if you’d like,” he said carefully.
Her face was stony. It wasn’t the response she’d hoped for. “With your experience and all, I wanted to tell him you’d take a look at it, Dad,” she said. “He sounded pretty desperate. I know it’s tough jumping in so late, but Melissa told me you’re not as busy these days.”
So Emily’s still in touch with Melissa, he thought . . . curious. Then he considered her request. Rescuing a case in the late stages of demise—any trial lawyer’s definition of torture. And stepping back into the gladiator ring—his own definition of torture. Besides, despite her words, Emily couldn’t imagine the price of
jumping into a case like this at the last minute—the hours and the pace. Like zero to sixty in three seconds. And there usually was a good reason a client and lawyer divorced on the courthouse steps: attorneys quitting last minute were one of nature’s warning signs to the rest of the bar to stay away.
“You know, Ems,” he began, “I’m sure your friend would be better served with an attorney from eastern Washington. They know the judges, the lay of the land. They know opposing counsel.”
His daughter’s voice was part impatience, part plea. “Dad, I’ve got a feeling he’s tried that. He wouldn’t call me out of the blue if he hadn’t already tried to land other lawyers himself. Won’t you just look at it? You should have heard how he sounded.”
She looked him in the eye. “I’ve got a lot of leave, and Frank told me I’ve got to take it,” she went on. “I could even ask for a leave of absence if that wasn’t enough. I thought if you took the case, maybe you and I could work together on it.”
The breeze off Puget Sound was chilly, especially as the sun drifted behind a low bank of clouds.
If they’d been in touch, he would already have told her he was easing out of the practice. Carolyn’s life insurance made every day in the office a choice, and he was choosing to stay away. If he’d told her that before, she might not have believed him—but it would have been out there. If he raised it now, it would just sound like an excuse not to help her.
He looked back at Emily. Oh, those eyes. Reminding him how little he’d been around. Enticing him with the possibility of a détente between the two of them—or better. Broadcasting a belief, despite her words, that it would be as simple as driving together over the mountains, picking up the file, and marching into the courthouse to save the day.
Ryan pulled his sport coat tighter against the chill. He did owe her. Missed family dinners, recitals: the list would stretch to Tacoma. And when he was home, still mentally elsewhere. Then throwing himself into Carolyn’s care like it was another case he could win—deserting a daughter to carry the weight of what they both were losing alone.
But Emily was chasing a ghost, expecting him to save the day. He’d been putting his career in the rearview mirror for years now.
Ryan looked into those hopeful eyes, then past Emily to the Bremerton ferry approaching on the choppy waters.
“Let me think about it tonight,” he said.
“Great, Dad,” Emily said, smiling broadly for the first time and turning back to her plate of clam strips. “That’s great.”
The small talk immediately improved. Ryan brushed away a flash of guilt. He’d avoided disappointing his girl one more time this afternoon; he’d deal with the cost later. For now, he’d enjoy the smile in her eyes, the water on the Sound, and the best clam strips money could buy.
Ryan reached for another fry and, with a flick of his wrist, sent it into the air amidst the growing flock of expectant gulls.
Chapter 3
Four hours later, Ryan strode slowly up the steps to the Queen Anne house that served as office and home. The door was unlocked—Melissa must have still been there. He walked in, threw his coat across the bannister leading to the upstairs apartment, then turned right past the vacant reception desk, past the row of empty offices.
Melissa looked up from her desk beside his corner office with a tired smile. “You’re here late, Mel,” Ryan said. “Already told you, there’s no overtime at Hart and Associates.”
The fortyish secretary shook her head with mock disapproval. “After fifteen years, imagine you paying me what I’m worth. But don’t worry, I’m just cleaning up. I won’t charge you.”
Ryan looked at the stack of boxes behind her desk chair. Closing down was more apt. He recognized the Glenwater and Schraeder files. Velder and Proffler. All settled or tried the past three years.
“How was lunch with Emily?” she asked, concerned.
“Fine.”
“Wasn’t that nice of her to call? I suppose she wanted to get caught up.”
The logic of the misinformed, he thought. He told Melissa about the signaling lawyer at the courthouse. His secretary shook her head again, disappointment on her face. “What those lawyers will do to win a case.”
Ryan turned toward his office.
“If you’re going to your desk to check messages,” she said, raising a hand, “I can save you the extra steps: there aren’t any. Except a threat of an ethics complaint from the Glenwater case just came through.”
That was expected. “All right,” he said, picking up a stack of mail on the front of Melissa’s desk.
She looked at him with concern. “You can’t keep losing your temper at depositions like that, Mr. Hart. You’re getting a reputation. And some lawyers don’t seem to have a sense of humor about that kind of thing.”
Especially silk stocking lawyers from firms like Cochrane, Dickerson and Western, he thought. He looked back at his longtime secretary. “No rules were broken, Mel. Just a little growling.”
She smiled consolingly. “Well, you didn’t used to growl enough to risk an ethics complaint.”
Sure he did. He was just more skilled about it when his heart was still in the game.
Her voice grew more serious. “You think they’ll file a complaint against you?”
It was unlikely. Ryan knew he was still drawing on a reservoir of goodwill. “No,” he responded. Ryan couldn’t continue this conversation. “I’m heading upstairs. You’ll lock up on your way out?”
She gave him a last glance. “Don’t I always?”
He headed for the staircase.
Upstairs, Ryan crossed the small living room of his apartment, dropping his keys onto the kitchen bar. The light wasn’t working under the cupboards, oscillating between light and dark like something out of a horror movie. He’d have to call the contractor to fix it in the morning.
Ryan glanced around at the renovations just completed that week. He’d wanted the apartment different than when he and Carolyn first moved in twenty-five years before when the upstairs had served as their home until they could afford a separate house elsewhere in the city. He had the contractors repair the old plumbing and drafty windows that hadn’t troubled newlyweds starting a life and career together. But so far, the change hadn’t ended the restless nights that had plagued Ryan in their Magnolia house since Carolyn’s death.
He turned to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of iced tea, then rustled through the spare cupboards. Grabbing a box of Wheat Thins, he kicked off his shoes and shuffled through the new carpet smell toward the study, bypassing moving boxes still littering the floor.
He and Carolyn had loved watching the sun as it appeared now through the study window, sinking into the Olympic Mountain range across the Sound, melting into a widening puddle of orange. He opened the window to let in some fresh air.
His eyes were drawn to a box of memorabilia under the sill, topped with his boxer’s speed bag. He considered going down to the basement to hang it up where it used to rattle the house to Carolyn’s complaints. Instead, he picked up his MacBook Pro from the desk and settled back onto the leather love seat, the Wheat Thins at his side.
His most recent email was from Emily, sent since their lunch. An attachment held the Complaint in her friend’s case. “I just got this from Kieran. I really appreciate your taking a look at it,” her message read. Ryan nearly closed it out. Instead he enlarged it to fill his computer screen.
Kieran Mullaney v. Covington Nuclear Corporation, the caption read. It was a no-frills pleading with a bare recitation of the facts and a statement of the single claim. The Complaint described Kieran Mullaney being exposed to chemicals and radiation from an explosion on the third floor of a mothballed building on the Hanford Nuclear Reservation called LB5. The claim was that Covington was liable based upon its responsibility for safety, maintenance, and cleanup at the Hanford nuclear site, working under contract with the Department of Energy.
Covington Nuclear. A quick Internet search confirmed that the company
operated nuclear plants around the country, as well as DOE superfund cleanup sites like Hanford. At one time, in the Cold War days, the company also had a role in nuclear weapons production.
It was a clean case. So why had the boy’s attorney withdrawn? And why was he having a problem finding replacement counsel?
Covington was represented by Eric King, of McNary and King in Sherman, Washington. The lawyer for plaintiff Kieran Mullaney was Pauline Strand. Ryan could find no website for the lawyer—almost unheard of in this day and age. He checked her in the bar directory. She was a solo practitioner, with no photo. Based on her bar admission date, Ryan calculated her to be in her late sixties.
Pretty gutsy for a sixty-year-old solo practitioner to take on a Fortune 500 company all by herself, he thought. Gutsy or stupid.
The room had grown dark. So what would he tell Emily?
In the dim light, his gaze fell on the photo of Carolyn on the study desk. What would Carolyn say to all this? He was having difficulty conjuring her voice in the growing darkness.
Ryan studied the photo, tracing the curve of her cheeks and the smile in her eyes, trying to recall the first time he’d heard Carolyn speak—or at least the first time he’d really paid attention to her. In law school, he’d played the monk, spending three years in serious study with no social life, committed to launching a career as a trial lawyer without any personal baggage. Then, his last semester, his mock trial professor had him present closing arguments in the same slot as a slender blond girl with icy blue Scandinavian eyes.
The day they’d presented, he’d crushed his argument for the three volunteer judges. They didn’t look away the whole forty-five minutes he spoke. Ryan didn’t wonder: he knew he’d make the other student’s effort pale by comparison.
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