Kimberly took the seat directly across the table from me and put Beckman to her immediate left. Laurence Browning sat next to Beckman, and the junior associate sat next to Browning.
Deposition preliminaries are often casual, friendly events, with the lawyers shaking hands and catching up on recent events while they wait for the court reporter to take down the names of the parties and the attorneys and to confirm the caption, court, and cause number of the lawsuit. This one, however, felt like a psych-out contest before the start of a heavyweight boxing match. Kimberly said nothing, and her underlings followed suit, of course. Beckman sat placidly with his hands on the table in front of him, his fingers interlaced. I arranged my papers for the tenth time and waited for the court reporter to get ready. Finally, she finished jotting down information, put down her pen, poised her fingers over her shorthand machine, and looked at me with a nod.
“Let the record show,” I said as I turned from her toward Kimberly Howard, “that this is the deposition of Conrad Beckman. By Court order, the deposition is limited to two hours.”
There was a stirring across the table. I paused to watch Laurence Browning remove a stopwatch from the pocket of his suit jacket. He ostentatiously positioned the stopwatch in his hand with his thumb on the start button. He turned to me with a smirk. With his pudgy cheeks, thick pursed lips, and round pop eyes, he could have been a cartoon blowfish in an underwater production number in Disney’s The Little Mermaid.
Checking my watch, I announced: “The time is now 3:54 p.m. That means this deposition will last until 5:54, unless objections are made to any of the questions I ask Mr. Beckman.” I glanced over at Laurence. “To avoid any disputes about timing, I have asked the court reporter to bring a stopwatch with her. Do you have it, Jan?”
Jan nodded and lifted it to show everyone.
“Whenever there is an objection,” I explained, “Jan will stop the time, take down your objection, and then restart the stopwatch.” I looked over at Laurence and winked. He made an indignant harumph and turned toward Kimberly, who was writing something on her legal pad.
“Are we ready to begin?” I asked.
“We are,” Kimberly said without looking up.
There are several approaches to taking a deposition. The one I normally favor is to make the witness comfortable at the outset. I try to make my questions and his answers seem closer to a conversation than an interrogation, and usually start with a leisurely exploration of the one topic the witness is most familiar with and most comfortable talking about: himself. His background, his education, his prior job experiences—the goal being to get the witness relaxed. The more relaxed he becomes, the more talkative and less on guard he’ll be, and thus the more I’ll learn from him.
This was not one of those depositions. To begin with, I had only a limited time. Two hours for a deposition of this magnitude was but a blink of the eye. In a typical case, Conrad Beckman’s deposition would last several days. Moreover, the usual approach would never work with Beckman, especially within the time constraints. He was far too savvy and there was far too much at stake for him to allow himself to get relaxed and talkative. So, instead, I decided that I might as well get him uptight and keep him uptight for his two hours. Turning to the court reporter, I said, “Swear the witness.”
Jan turned to Conrad Beckman. “Raise your right hand, sir. Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
Beckman nodded. “I do,” he said in his deep raspy voice.
“Mr. Beckman,” I said to him, “you understand you are under oath?”
“Yes.”
“You understand that if you answer a question here untruthfully, you could be guilty of perjury?”
“Objection,” Kimberly said indignantly.
I ignored her and kept my focus on him.
He contemplated me with those icy blue eyes. “Yes.”
“Good,” I said, checking my notes. “Sir, do you maintain a personal appointment calendar?”
He smiled at my naïveté. “My secretary does.”
“When a new year begins, sir, what does she do with your calendar for the prior year?”
“I presume she places it in the file.”
“Which file would that be?”
He chuckled without a trace of warmth. “The one for old appointment calendars.”
“How far back does that file go?”
He shrugged. “Several years, I suppose.”
“Ten years?”
“Perhaps.”
“Longer?”
“Perhaps.”
I nodded. “In order to recall your activities on a particular day, say, fifteen years ago, would you need to refer to your appointment calendar?”
“On a particular day fifteen years ago?” he asked with mild amusement. “I should think so, Miss Gold.”
“And the same would be true for a particular day, say, five years ago?”
“Certainly.”
“Or twenty years ago?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
I turned to Kimberly. “Plaintiff renews its previous request for copies of Mr. Beckman’s appointment calendars going back as far as they are maintained.”
Kimberly gave me a frosty smile. “And defendant renews its previous objection to that request.”
I turned back to Beckman. Might as well cut to the chase.
“What is an IFB?” I asked.
Kimberly looked up from her notes.
Beckman frowned slightly. “In what context?”
“In the context of government contracts.”
He rubbed his chin. “An IFB is shorthand for an invitation for bid.”
“Is that the shorthand term used within your industry for the notices of proposed U.S. government procurement actions that appear in the Commerce Business Daily?”
“Excuse me,” Kimberly said. “Would you repeat the question?”
I turned to Jan, who had paused to click the stopwatch. “Jan,” I said, “please read back the question for Ms. Howard.”
When Jan finished reading the question, I turned to Beckman. I heard her start the stopwatch again.
“Yes,” Beckman said.
“You understand the nature of the claim against your company, correct?”
His nostrils flared slightly. After a pause he said, “I have read the allegations.”
“Then you understand that my client claims that your company conspired with five of its purported competitors to divide up the pending federal IFBs on certain wastewater treatment plants, correct?”
In a voice that remained impassive but with a hint of cold steel, he said, “I have read the allegations, Miss Gold.”
“And you understand that those five competitors are Eagle Engineering, Koll Limited, Muller Construction, Beek Contracting, and Eicken Industrial, correct?”
“I have read the allegations, Miss Gold.” This time more steel.
“And you deny those allegations?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Absolutely.”
I shuffled through my papers and found the photocopy of Max Kruppa’s American Express receipt. I studied it for a moment and looked up at Beckman. As I did, I lowered the sheet of paper until it was flat on the table facing me. Making sure that everyone on the other side of the table could see that I was referring to it, I asked, “On March 26, 1983, Mr. Beckman, did you meet for lunch in a private room at Morton’s restaurant in Chicago with representatives of Eagle Engineering, Koll Limited, Muller Construction, Beek Contracting, and Eicken Industrial for the purpose of dividing up the pending federal IFBs?”
There was a long silence. Kimberly and Laurence subtly leaned forward, trying for a better look at the photocopied receipt without being obvious about it. I kept my focus on Beckman as I watc
hed him consider the question and his answer. You could almost see those unruffled features getting winched a few turns tighter. He shifted his gaze toward me. “I have no present recollection of where I was or who I saw on March 26, 1983.”
“No present recollection,” I repeated. “In order to refresh your recollection, sir, would you need to refer to the March twenty-sixth entry in your appointment calendar for that year?”
A pause. “Perhaps.”
I looked at him curiously. “Perhaps?”
I knew what he was up to, but I might as well hear it now. We were both shooting in the dark, since neither of us knew what his appointment calendar showed for March 26, 1983.
He gazed at me coolly. “An entry in an old calendar may not refresh my recollection.” A pause. “Additionally, the entry may not be accurate.”
“Why would that be?”
He gave me an imperial shrug. “Occasionally an appointment is changed without the change being noted in my calendar.”
I nodded, suppressing the urge to smile. He’d been careful to carve himself an escape hatch just in case his personal calendar contained corroborating evidence of a Chicago meeting.
I turned the photocopy facedown on the table and reached for a set of photocopies from Max Kruppa’s appointment calendar.
Again, I placed the first page—the one that included May 25, 1975—faceup on the table. Even when viewed from across the table and upside down, it was obvious that I had before me a page from someone’s appointment calendar.
“What about May 25, 1975?” I asked, looking up from the page. “Did you attend a meeting in Chicago at the O’Hare Hilton with representatives of Eagle Engineering, Koll Limited, Muller Construction, Beek Contracting, and Eicken Industrial for the purpose of dividing up the pending federal IFBs?”
“What is that?” Kimberly asked, pointing at the photocopied calendar page.
I ignored her. “Well?” I asked Beckman.
“I asked you a question, Rachel,” Kimberly said, her voice rising. “What is that document you’re reading from?”
I glanced toward the court reporter, who lifted the stopwatch and clicked it to stop the time. I waited until her fingers were poised again over the shorthand keys. I turned toward Kimberly. “This is my deposition,” I said calmly. “That means I’m the one who asks the questions. I don’t answer them. That’s your client’s job today.”
Kimberly stood up, her eyes wide. “Are you refusing to answer my question?”
I ignored her and turned to the court reporter. “Could you please read my question back to Mr. Beckman?”
“Did you hear me?” Kimberly demanded.
I kept my eyes on the court reporter. “Go ahead,” I told her.
Kimberly remained standing as the court reporter leafed through her shorthand tape. “Here it is,” Jan said. “‘What about May 25, 1975?’” she read. “‘Did you attend a meeting in Chicago at the O’Hare Hilton with representatives of Eagle Engineering, Koll Limited, Muller Construction, Beek Contracting, and Eicken Industrial for the purpose of dividing up the pending federal IFBs?’”
Beckman crossed his arms over his chest. “I have no present recollection of where I was or who I saw on March 25, 1975.”
I turned over the next calendar page and asked the same question for September 12, 1975, and received the same answer. All the while Kimberly remained standing, unsure of her next move but unwilling to concede a thing by sitting down.
Ignoring her, I turned over the next calendar page. “What about October 8, 1987, Mr. Beckman? That was a meeting in St. Louis with those gentlemen. Over at the Missouri Athletic Club. Do you remember that meeting, sir?”
“No,” he said forcefully.
I nodded. “Tell you what,” I said. “Let’s leave aside the particular dates, sir, and even the particular years, okay? Instead, let me ask it this way: at any time during the last thirty years, have you met with representatives of Eagle Engineering, Koll Limited, Muller Construction, Beek Contracting, and Eicken Industrial for the purpose of discussing pending federal IFBs?”
Again the stare. “I should think not, Miss Gold.”
I smiled. “Is that a no, Mr. Beckman?”
He leaned forward, his face dark. “That’s a ‘Hell no,’ Miss Gold.”
He had his story, and he was sticking with it. It was up to me to prove it false—a task better left for trial. As for now, I’d been able to fire an important warning shot across the bow. Although Conrad Beckman had far too much self-control to reveal any reaction, Kimberly was clearly rattled. So much so that she took a seat without another word.
I put the photocopies back in my briefcase, trying to look more confident than I felt. Although I’d had enough ammo for the warning shot, I had nothing else—no kill shots. At least not yet. Barely twenty-four hours had elapsed since we’d found the American Express receipt in the Eagle Engineering warehouse. Now there’d be witnesses to interview and documents to examine and plenty of opposition to battle, especially once Kimberly discovered that I’d outfoxed her in Memphis. She’d never let that happen again.
I shifted tactics and nibbled for a bit around the periphery of his daily obligations and responsibilities. I didn’t get much. When I checked my watch, I still had fifty minutes left. That was too much time and not enough, since I still didn’t have the types of documentary evidence I needed to put together one of those thorough examinations designed to back the witness into a testimonial corner—assuming a witness as savvy as Beckman could be backed anywhere he didn’t want to go.
Which still left me with fifty minutes.
Might as well go fishing.
“Mr. Beckman,” I said, watching him carefully, “tell me about San Carlos de Bariloche.”
He sat back in surprise. “Pardon?”
“Your company has done work there, correct?”
He paused, frowning. “I believe we may have. It was a long time ago.”
“Where is San Carlos de Bariloche?”
“South America.”
“Where in South America?”
He was glaring at me. “Somewhere in the Andes Mountains, I believe.”
“Your company built a groundwater treatment plant there, correct?”
“Objection,” Kimberly said, more out of bewilderment than anything else. “What does a groundwater treatment plant in South America have to do with this lawsuit?”
I ignored her. “Correct, Mr. Beckman?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Perhaps. It was many years ago, Miss Gold.”
“I believe you did that project as a joint venture with Eagle Engineering, correct?”
Beckman’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Objection,” Kimberly said. “Irrelevant.”
I kept my eyes on the witness. “You may answer the question, sir.”
“Perhaps it was a joint venture,” he said. “I don’t recall the details.”
“Mr. Beckman,” I continued, “how did a St. Louis company end up building a wastewater treatment plant in South America?”
“We have occasionally performed work outside of the United States,” he said.
I turned to the court reporter. “Jan, please read the question to the witness.”
She nodded and reached for the roll of shorthand tape. “‘Mr. Beckman,’” she read, “‘how did a St. Louis company end up building a wastewater treatment plant in South America?’”
Beckman stared at me, his jaw clenched. This was obviously a new experience for Mr. Chairman: having to actually answer someone else’s question. Finally, he said, “I don’t recall.”
“How did your company end up in a joint venture with Eagle Engineering on a project in South America?”
This time the answer came quicker and more forceful. “I don’t recall.”
I spent the next thirty minu
tes moving around the periphery of the case, asking him about bidding procedures, industry meetings, chains of command within each of the divisions.
When there were less than ten minutes left, I reached for the last of the photocopies. This was the carbon copy of one of the letters in Max Kruppa’s file. I hadn’t yet received the English translation. Jacki had sent a copy to a professor of German when the documents arrived earlier today, but he wouldn’t get to it until the weekend. I was hoping that Beckman might be able to do the translation at the deposition. After all, the letter was addressed to him.
“Mr. Beckman, who was Max Kruppa?”
“He was the president of Eagle Engineering.”
“Was?”
“He is no longer alive.”
“Did you know him?”
“Yes.”
“When did you first meet him?”
Beckman paused as he tried to recall, or pretended to. “Many years ago,” he said.
“Did you know him as far back as 1939?”
“Objection,” Kimberly said. “Irrelevant.”
I waited.
Beckman shrugged. “I don’t recall.”
“Back in 1939, did you live at 1923 Pond Avenue in St. Louis?”
He rubbed his chin. “I don’t recall.”
“Did you ever live at 1923 Pond Avenue?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“You’re just not sure whether you lived there in 1939?”
“Correct.”
“You may have, right?”
“Yes,” he said impatiently. “I may have.”
“If independent documentary evidence showed that you lived at that address in 1939, would you dispute it?”
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