Critical Reaction

by Todd M Johnson

“Counsel,” she began, “we’re here this morning, out of the jury’s presence, for a hearing to decide whether Mr. Patrick Martin will be permitted to testify—and the extent of that testimony. Mr. Hart, I’m going to let you go first.”

  Ryan stood at counsel table, Emily seated at his side. Kieran was in the gallery, beside Poppy Martin. The psychologist was in the gallery, too, seated not far from another man: the one with the sport coat who Ryan had occasionally seen in the gallery during the trial.

  “Your Honor, Covington’s counsel has presented a psychologist’s evaluation concluding that Mr. Martin is incompetent to testify because he can’t understand the difference between truth and fiction.”

  Ryan paused. “Trials are about juries sorting truth tellers from liars. We vest that power in jurors because we think humans are endowed, naturally and by life experience, with some skill in that department.”

  Ryan pointed to Dr. Janniston in the gallery. “Covington is offering the court a tool that it says is superior to that skill. It is a man who claims that the science of psychology has got this one figured out, that there’s no need to trouble the jury with Mr. Martin’s ravings. Take this psychologist’s word for it, Covington says: Mr. Martin is a liar—or at best, unequipped to tell the truth. They would have you believe that dozens of tests are better suited to judge Mr. Martin’s lucidity than your average man or woman in the jury box.”

  He leaned into the table. “It’s a fair question, when we’re being asked to put such faith in this psychologist and his tests, to ask where they found this man. Who hired him for the examination of Mr. Martin? Why now? Why not eight months ago?”

  He stood straight once more. “Those are important questions. But we don’t have to answer them to recognize one overriding and fundamental truth: that even if this psychologist’s role has been strictly professional and proper, Covington’s argument that this court should rely upon him to exclude Mr. Martin is contrary to our core belief in the jury system. The fact is, weeks of psych exams aren’t necessary to test Mr. Martin’s truthfulness or his sanity. That’s the jury’s role. And it’s also Mr. King’s job. Because Mr. King has the right to cross-examine the witness. If Patrick Martin spins a fantasy, Mr. King has the opportunity and the skill to point out the fallacies in his testimony. He can lay it all bare for the jury.

  “Judge,” he finished, “my personal experience is not evidence. But I will represent to this court that I spent hours this weekend speaking with this witness—a man who saw and heard things Covington saw fit to leave out of its investigation report. This is a man who Covington has been persecuting for weeks before trial in an effort to silence him. During all the hours with our team this weekend, Mr. Martin did not rant, he did not foam at the mouth. If he appeared agitated in this courtroom on Friday, it is only because he has seen and experienced extraordinary things, things that this court and jury need to hear. The court and jury can judge for themselves Mr. Martin’s competence through his own words. Two hundred years of American jurisprudence proves they’re very good at it.”

  The judge cocked her head. “All right, Mr. Hart. Then tell me just what Mr. Martin will say.”

  He’d hoped for this opportunity, and was prepared to take it. For nearly an hour, Ryan described Poppy’s story from the weekend, slowly and carefully, replete with details. And as he’d expected, he had the judge’s attention the entire time.

  When he finally sat down, Emily passed him a note. “Lucky it isn’t Renway on the bench right now.” Ryan nodded his weary agreement.

  Judge Johnston turned to Covington’s counsel. “Mr. King?”

  “Judge,” King began, standing, “Dr. Janniston is a preeminent psychologist. Neither you, nor I, nor Mr. Hart—and certainly not the jury—can judge the depths of Mr. Martin’s mental disorders. The government relies on people like Dr. Janniston to establish whether workers should receive a security clearance. They’re called upon, in effect, to determine who can safely guard our defense establishments. Why should we give any less credit to Dr. Janniston’s judgment as to whether Mr. Martin is competent to testify? Or whether a reasonable juror could discern Mr. Martin’s delusions?”

  King pointed into the gallery toward Poppy. “Mr. Martin suffers from PTSD and related paranoia. That should be self-evident in the fantastic stories this man has already told of persecution, harassment, and missing guards. If he’s allowed to spin those tales for the jury, we’ll turn this trial into a drawn-out circus. Covington will be forced to call Dr. Janniston to demonstrate Mr. Martin’s incapacity—adding days or more to this trial. Then we’ll need to bring in half a dozen witnesses to establish that he’s not telling the truth. None of this should be necessary, Your Honor. We implore the court to avoid delay, and evidence misleading to the jury, by prohibiting Mr. Martin from testifying.”

  Judge Johnston put a finger to her lips and gazed into the gallery—first at Poppy and then at Dr. Janniston. At last she shook her head skeptically.

  “Mr. King, Dr. Janniston may be one heck of a psychologist, but I’m not prepared to surrender my own judgment or the jury’s to the opinion of an expert. Unless I see obvious signs of delusional behavior, I’m going to allow Mr. Martin to speak his peace.”

  She turned to Ryan. “So I will allow Mr. Martin to testify. He can describe what he saw on the roof that night—including the other guard appearing to fire a shot. He can testify about the health impacts he’s suffered, since that’s germane to Mr. Mullaney’s fears of injury. Finally, he can tell the jury about Covington’s pressure that he change his original statement, and the psychological testing that followed. But I see no relevance to Mr. Martin’s claims of persecution in the form of the buried crows and vans—absent proof linking those actions to Covington Nuclear. Nor will I allow the hearsay Mr. Martin claims he was told over the telephone by this Beverly Cortez about what his partner allegedly saw. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” he said, rising.

  Ryan’s satisfaction was tempered by the limits of the judge’s order. Poppy would testify he heard Vandervork fire his weapon; Covington would counter that he was too far away to have heard the weapon and mentally impaired. Poppy would say he was being strong-armed by the psychologist to change his report. Covington would put Janniston on to say that was part of his paranoia.

  It was far from a knockout punch. That would only be possible with more support for Dr. Trân’s opinions. Still, it was something, and he savored this rare victory in the case.

  “One more matter, though,” Ryan went on, still on his feet. “While the jury is still in recess, we wish to renew our motion for an inspection of LB5.”

  The judge shook her head in frustration. “We’ve had this discussion, Mr. Hart.”

  “Yes, Your Honor, but Mr. Martin’s description to this court of activity in LB5 supports the possibility of other detonation materials in the building. Without a chance to explore the lower levels, we can’t establish possible evidence supporting Dr. Trân’s opinions and—”

  “Hold it right there, Mr. Hart,” the judge interrupted, holding up a hand. “This is strike three. You brought this up once with Judge Renway and now twice with me. We have a trial to complete. If you bring me other more compelling evidence of stored explosives in the LB5 building than I’ve seen to date, maybe I’ll consider it. But otherwise, this discussion is over.”

  Ryan nodded woodenly back at the judge. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The judge turned to the bailiff. “Bring in the jury.”

  The jury shuffled into the room again as Emily replaced him at the podium. She’d do a better job with Poppy Martin than he could on this, Ryan thought. Poppy’s story was one needing empathy, not confrontation. She’d do a good job, and the guard’s testimony should pump some interest in Kieran’s case back into the jury—even if it fell short of convincing them of Dr. Trân’s theories.

  Tired but momentarily content, Ryan settled back into counsel’s chair as Poppy Martin took the stand.

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nbsp; Chapter 41

  Her father had gone for a run as soon as they returned from the adjournment that followed Poppy Martin’s testimony. Now Emily sat tensely in the living room, waiting for Kieran to return from the bathroom.

  She was going to get some answers tonight.

  Kieran came around the corner. “I probably should run a couple of errands for the house,” he said, reaching into his pockets. “Got time for dinner later?”

  “We’ve got to talk first,” Emily answered tersely. “About Ted Pollock.”

  Kieran had come away from the courthouse more upbeat than she’d seen him in days. Now she saw him wilt again.

  “I’ve already told you about Ted,” he responded hollowly.

  Emily shook her head. With her exhaustion after the Trân testimony, then the craziness surrounding Martin leading to his testimony today, she’d thrust her conversation with Pauline Strand into the background. Even so, it was taking a toll on her feelings for Kieran. Weighing it all, Emily had finally decided on today’s drive back from the courthouse that she couldn’t wait any longer—either to force Kieran to divulge his relationship with Pollock or to reveal what she knew to her father.

  “Don’t do this,” Emily answered wearily, almost sickened by Kieran’s continued evasiveness. “I’ve spent two months out here. I’ve put my career on hold. I dragged my father and his bank account into supporting you.” She stopped herself before going any further.

  Kieran surveyed her unyielding eyes painfully. “Emily, I haven’t lied to you.”

  “I’ll judge that. Just tell me about Ted Pollock. And if you value our relationship, you’ll do it now.”

  If it wasn’t obviously personal before, she’d clearly made it so with these words. To her relief, Kieran’s face fell with final resignation. He made his way to the couch and dropped down.

  “He approached me first, Emily. Long before I came to you.”

  Ryan took the hill like he was storming a castle today. This Martin’s testimony, even with its limitations, had put his energy levels on fire tonight. He felt like he was flying. There were still big hurdles to overcome, but in Ryan’s experience breaks tended to generate more breaks. It was a potential new landscape in the courtroom tomorrow.

  Ryan came over the crest onto the ridgetop. There, by the bench, stood Larry Mann. The insurance agent saw him and waved as he approached.

  He looked more tired than usual today, Ryan thought. Rings surrounded eyes glazed with fatigue. Mann stood as though weighted to the ground.

  “Hello, Ryan,” Mann said as he neared. “You’re looking fast today.”

  “Feeling fast today.”

  Larry smiled. Ryan expected to be asked why. The question never came.

  Ryan walked in a circle, keeping loose. “How about dinner tonight?” Mann asked suddenly.

  That was a surprise. They’d only talked maybe three times to date, when their paths had crossed on this hill. Mann had never once suggested getting together.

  Ryan shook his head. “Not tonight, sorry. Too busy.”

  “Trial prep?” Larry asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Going well?”

  Ryan hesitated. “Better, anyway.”

  He could see that Mann wanted to ask him more. But he didn’t.

  Instead he flashed a weak smile. “Well, that’s great. Maybe dinner another time?”

  “Sure,” Ryan answered.

  Ryan turned to begin his jog away. “I’ll get in touch,” Mann called.

  “Sure,” Ryan answered again over his shoulder.

  That was a strange encounter, he thought as he left the bench and Mann behind. It was as though he’d been waiting for him. Then that invitation out of the blue. Ryan wondered what triggered the sudden desire to spend more time together.

  As Ryan dropped onto the downward slope back toward town, one other thought occurred to him as well. How could Mann get in touch when he’d never told the man his phone number or where he was staying?

  Ryan pulled the Annex door shut behind him then turned to see Kieran seated on the couch. In that instant, Emily emerged from the kitchen.

  Both wore expressions of dour seriousness that hadn’t been there when Ryan had left for his run.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Dad,” Emily immediately launched in, “Kieran has filled me in on a few things. You need to hear this.”

  “Can I shower first?”

  To his surprise, Emily shook her head. “I think we should talk first.”

  Ryan draped a towel he’d left by the front door across the easy chair, then sat. “All right, what’s the news?”

  Emily crossed the room to another chair by the window—bypassing, Ryan noted, her usual spot on the couch beside Kieran. “Dad,” she began, “Dr. Trân didn’t just run into you in the airport like you told me. That happened on purpose.”

  Ever since his relief that Dr. Trân had testified so forcefully in support of his expert opinions, Ryan had almost convinced himself—despite all his instincts—that their meeting had been fortuitous after all. “Go on,” he said.

  Emily looked at Kieran, who kept staring at the floor. “Kieran?” she called.

  The young man looked up reluctantly. “Dr. Trân was hired by Ted Pollock to help you in my case,” Kieran said. “He arranged for the doctor to come to Sherman and cross paths with you. He even paid most of Trân’s fees.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ryan said instantly, in a bewildered understatement.

  Kieran’s embarrassment or shame muted his response. “Last November, Ted approached me. I was trying to bring the lawsuit, but was having trouble finding a lawyer. I was ready to give up when he came and encouraged me to go ahead with the lawsuit. He said he’d help. Then he hooked me up with Pauline.”

  Ryan looked to Emily. “And you didn’t know any of this?” he asked.

  His daughter returned a flash of her own anger. “No, Dad. Of course not.”

  Ryan returned his stare to Kieran. “Why would he do that?”

  Kieran looked to Emily, who stared back, unmoving, from her seat across the room.

  “Because Ted has a stake in this case,” Kieran said. “He thinks something’s going on out at LB5, and he needs my case to help prove it.”

  Chapter 42

  Ryan drove his Avalon carefully over the rough dirt road. Even moving slowly, the potholes kept pitching the car into the air, and with it all three of the occupants of his car.

  They rounded a final curve. Directly ahead was a single-story ranch-style house with a long, roofed front porch. Two outbuildings bracketed the place. Even through the Avalon’s closed windows, Ryan could hear the whinnying of horses as he turned off the car.

  Kieran got out and walked alone to the front door of the house, disappearing inside. Ryan followed. He noticed that Emily stayed close to him rather than joining Kieran.

  The entryway opened into a large room with a rock-faced fireplace along one wall. Opposite the fireplace, dozens of framed photographs rose nearly to the ceiling. Most depicted Native Americans, some on fishing platforms extended over a river, others holding catches. Many were family photos taken on the open plain or with this house as a backdrop.

  One showed a fast-flowing reach, framed together with a photo of a dam.

  “Celilo Falls,” Ryan heard a voice say, “before and after the government built its dam.”

  Startled, Ryan turned. A tall man in his late sixties stood at his shoulder, with thick shoulders, sun-weathered skin, and long hair bound in twin braids.

  “My name’s Ted Pollock,” he said.

  “Ryan Hart. And this is my daughter, Emily.”

  “Yes,” Ted said, looking at Emily. “I’ve seen your daughter before.”

  Ted looked them each over silently for a moment. “Kieran’s in the back with my wife. I’ve got things to do in the barn. Walk with me.”

  Without another word, the rancher left the house. Ryan and Emily followed him back into the
calm air, still warm in the early evening. They matched the man’s slow gait toward the nearest outbuilding, where they stepped through a door into cooler darkness and the sudden musk of horses.

  Ted walked to one of the dozens of stalls, this one occupied by a tall quarter horse. Stepping over a waist-high rope, he entered the stall and picked up a brush. “You want to know about Dr. Trân,” he said from inside the stall.

  “No,” Ryan responded. “I want to know everything.”

  Ted didn’t acknowledge the statement at first, but began to pull the brush rhythmically across the horse’s flank. It was several minutes before he finally asked, “Where do you want me to start?”

  “Did you send Dr. Trân to me?” Ryan asked.

  Ted nodded. “Yes.”

  “Did you pay part of his costs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It seemed fair. Dr. Trân had worked for the Yakama tribe on projects through the years. You needed him to save your case. I wanted your case to be saved.”

  “Kieran told you we were having trouble getting an expert?”

  “He said that, yes.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  Ted hesitated. “Ask me again later,” he said.

  Ryan thought about insisting otherwise, but after a moment went on. “All right. Why didn’t you send Dr. Trân to Pauline Strand?”

  Ted was reaching beneath the horse’s belly now, drawing the brush across it in swift, practiced strokes.

  “Pauline Strand is an old friend and a fine woman. She did good work for Kieran. But she never had a chance to win the lawsuit. With or without Dr. Trân’s help.”

  “And you thought we could.”

  Ted set the brush aside and pulled a hoof pick from his pocket. He ran a hand along a rear leg until the horse obediently responded, raising its hoof for cleaning.

  “Well, we hoped so. But Kieran’s been telling me you think otherwise.”

  “That’s right,” Ryan answered. “Dr. Trân’s theory about the three explosions at LB5 and other detonation materials in the building is logical, but falls far short on proof.”