Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  “Please be seated,” he mumbled into the microphone, a bevy of shuffling and low murmuring rising from the crowd as they retook their seats. Lynch didn’t bother to look up as the room settled in, his attention on the pages before him as he rifled through them, getting everything in order.

  “Good morning, everyone. We are back here today to hear the opening statements in the case of Bentley v. SynTronic, docket number 000216. Counsel for the plaintiff, are you ready to proceed?”

  On cue, Shane stood, calm confidence and rampant fear fighting for the upper hand in his stomach. Again he could feel a trickle of moisture run down the small of his back, his lungs constricting just a bit.

  “We are Your Honor.”

  “You may proceed,” Lynch said, peering down at Shane over the rim of his glasses.

  Shane paused for a moment at the table, glancing down at his hand written notes, the same ones he’d rehearsed a half dozen times that morning, the same ones he’d practiced twice that much the day before. He used the moment to draw in one last deep breath before stepping away from the table and his safety, out onto the biggest stage he’d ever known.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, good morning. My name is Shane Laszlo and I here before you today on behalf of my client Tyler Bentley.”

  As the words began to flow from him, his feet started to move, a steady gait back and forth across the floor, one that allowed him to look each of the jurors in the eye as he spoke.

  “The reason Mr. Bentley and I am here before you is to seek justice from the defendant, SynTronic Corporation, a medical device manufacturer. The testimony you will hear is going to be complicated at times and the job you will be tasked with doing is quite difficult, but allow me to start this morning by telling you that all you need to know, all you need to keep in mind while this plays out, is that in the end you are going to be asked to apply one very simple rule: Did the SynTronic Corporation build a faulty device that led directly to the loss of Tyler Bentley’s leg?”

  Shane paused for a moment and scanned the faces before him, all of them listening close, staring back.

  “Six months ago, Tyler Bentley was a football hero, the pride of Worland, Wyoming, the star player on the top ranked Ohio Tech Charging Knights. A finalist for the Heisman Trophy, awarded each year to the best player in the country, the MVP of the Centennial Bowl, despite playing in just the first half.

  “It was during the Centennial Bowl that Mr. Bentley suffered a very serious knee injury, through the fault of no one. An injury that was so severe that he was flown straight back to Columbus for treatment, not even waiting for the game to end.

  “The next morning he awoke in a hospital bed in the OTU Hospital to find his leg in ruins, all three bones of the knee broken, his kneecap shattered, the ligaments and tendons holding it together shredded. Conventional wisdom would dictate that such an injury takes a minimum, minimum, of eighteen months to recover from, but it would recover. The combined efforts of staff physician Dr. Leonard Pinkering and SynTronic representative Marcellus Sarconi convinced him that his leg was beyond repair and the only way he could ever hope to walk unaided again would be through the use of their new toy, the KnightRunner.

  “Now, what is a KnightRunner you might ask? The KnightRunner is a hot-off-the-presses artificial knee replacement that promised to get Tyler back on the field in time for this season, stronger and faster than he was before the injury. Despite his initial uncertainty, Dr. Pinkering and Mr. Sarconi convinced Tyler that this was the sole possible avenue for his recovery.

  “Faced with the possibility that he may never walk, let alone play football again, Tyler did the only thing he could do, what any of us would do. He allowed them to use the KnightRunner implant on him.

  “Just three months later, the damage done by the KnightRunner was so severe, doctors had no choice but to remove his leg.”

  Shane paused there, letting the words hang over the courtroom, shifting his head to glance at Tyler, Margie sniffling behind him on the front row.

  “Over the next couple of weeks, you are going to hear from a lot of very intelligent people speaking about engineering designs, about standard medical procedure, about informed consent. You might even hear the defense assert that all this was somehow the fault of Mr. Bentley, that somehow in the course of normal athletic training, he caused the implant to become faulty.

  “All of that information should be taken quite seriously and I urge you to consider it as you make deliberations, but at the end of the day I ask you to keep in mind that one simple question: Did SynTronic build and implant a device into Tyler Bentley that culminated in the loss of his leg?”

  Once more Shane paused for effect, panning each of the faces before him with a slow and even gaze. When all fifteen of the people before him had met his eye, Shane nodded once and retreated towards his chair.

  Prescott gave him a tiny, imperceptible nod as he did so, Tyler offering one that was a little more pronounced.

  “Thank you.”

  At the front of the room, Judge Lynch shifted in his seat and turned a page before him, his attention moving to the opposite side of the room. “Would the defense like to make an opening statement?”

  The sound of a chair scraping across the floor sounded out as Reed pushed back from the table. He rose to full height and straightened his solid red tie, buttoned his textured black suit coat across his midsection, and strode into the center of the room.

  Shane watched with a mix of nerves and curiosity as Reed stood ramrod straight, rotating on the balls of his feet, his fingers interlocked before him.

  “It is already quite clear to me that what you are about to hear in the coming weeks are two very different stories,” Reed began, his voice deep, almost operatic in its delivery. “One is the story Mr. Laszlo just shared with you, the story of a small town boy making good, of going out into the world and by the sweat from his brow managing to better his lot in life, only to have it stolen from him. Stolen from him by some nameless, faceless corporation, some greedy empire bent on turning a profit and taking over the world.

  “What Mr. Laszlo’s story fails to incorporate are a couple of key facts. Facts such as the one that SynTronic was not just some unthinking, unfeeling corporate behemoth trying to make a buck on the back of a promising young athlete. It was represented by men, medical professionals who were there with him every day, who saw and felt the same anguish he did, that acted in the way they saw fit to do right by him, both as an athlete and as a human being.

  “It also fails to take into consideration things such as the role that his client, Mr. Bentley, played in his own injury, wantonly disregarding product limitations in an attempt to get back on the field and regain his glorious past.”

  Reed paused there for a moment, his feet still planted in the same spot as he when began, turning just a small swivel from side to side to see all fifteen faces before him.

  “Before I forget, I want to thank you all for being here today. Your presence, your active participation, is the cornerstone by which our entire judicial system works and I urge you to take that responsibility seriously. I know that being here presents at the very least an extreme inconvenience on you, and at the very most lost wages and time away from loved ones.

  “Despite that though, I want you to give this case the time and attention it deserves. I want you to consider that maybe this isn’t as simple as Mr. Laszlo’s one catchphrase would have you believe, that maybe there was no second gunman, that perhaps what happened to Mr. Bentley was nothing more than a series of unfortunate occurrences.”

  He paused, as if there was more he wanted to add, but opted against. He pressed his lips together and nodded once.

  “Thank you.”

  Spinning on his heel, Reed turned and headed for his seat, his face impassive, his fingers still laced in front of him. Shane watched as he headed towards the defense table, a small but persistent feeling of loathing starting to grow in the pit of his stomach. Before he could let
that feeling fester and grow, use it to fuel him as he prepared to call his first witness, a small tug at the bottom of his jacket pulled his attention away.

  Once, twice, the tug gnawed at his coat, forcing him to turn towards the bench behind him. A look of surprise and confusion passed over his face to see Abby leaning forward, strain visible on her face, the bottom inch of his coat between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Counselor, is the plaintiff ready to call its first witness?” Judge Lynch asked, his voice still with a trace of boredom.

  “What?” Shane mouthed back at Abby, his face a mask of agitation, waving a hand towards the judge to indicate he was being called.

  Abby raised her other hand to reveal a pink cell phone, twisting it back and forth.

  “Counselor?” Judge Lynch said again, his voice rising.

  “Um, one moment Your Honor,” Shane asked, sliding back so his face was just inches from Abby’s and lowering his voice to a whisper. “What the hell is going on? I’m about to call my first witness.”

  “A friend of mine at Columbus General texted and said Heath was just brought in. His car exploded this morning, and he’s in bad shape.”

  Shane’s face fell flat as he stared at Abby, her eyes already rimmed with moisture, puffiness just a moment away. His tongue felt like it had swollen several times too large for his mouth, every bit of moisture within him evaporating.

  “Counselor!” Judge Lynch said, his tone unmistakable.

  “Permission to approach the bench,” Shane spat out, spinning and rising to full height in one movement.

  Judge Lynch stared down at him over the rims of his glasses for several long seconds, malevolence splashed across his face. At last he relented, motioning him forward with a flick of his hand.

  Reed fell in beside Shane as they walked forward, Shane’s legs feeling like they were made of lead, every bit of the confidence he felt just a short time before gone. He continued trying to work some saliva back into his mouth as they walked, the Judge’s glare burning into his chest.

  “What is this all about?” Judge Lynch asked, his voice just able to be contained in a whisper.

  “Your Honor, I apologize, but we were just given some very distressing news,” Shane said. “A member of my legal team was in a serious accident this morning on his way to court and is in bad condition. If it pleases the court, I would like to request a recess so we may see to our colleague.”

  Judge Lynch continued to stare at Shane, his face softening just a tiny bit. He shifted his attention over to Reed and asked, “Objection, Counselor?”

  Reed flicked his gaze from the judge to Shane and back again, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “None.”

  The sound of the gavel pounding against the desk shot through Shane’s head, leaving a dull, persistent buzz in his ear.

  “The court will now stand in recess until nine o’clock tomorrow morning, at which point the plaintiff will call its first witness.”

  “I hope your man is alright,” Reed said, reaching out to pat Shane on the shoulder.

  The hand never got there, as Shane was already back to his desk, gathering up his belongings.

  “Abby, text your friend back and tell them we’re on our way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Thunderstruck by AC/DC poured out of the speakers, the steely voice of Brian Johnson filling the tiny space of the Honda, reverberating off the windows. Abby winced as the music burst to life, hunching her shoulders in the passenger seat, the combined things of both her and Shane balanced on her lap.

  “Sorry,” Shane mumbled, reaching out and snapping the music off as he exited the parking lot, heading straight for the hospital. The silence seemed just as startling in the small space, coming right on the heels of the pounding music.

  “Little something to get you going this morning?” Abby asked, her voice distracted, her eyes watching the streets outside.

  “Everybody has their own pregame routine,” Shane said, his voice just as distracted. “General’s on Rivers, right?”

  “Yeah,” Abby said, shooting a finger out to the left, pointing across Shane’s field of vision. “Take Henderson and come in the back way, it’s quicker.”

  Shane turned a hard left onto Henderson without question, nosing the speed on the Honda up over forty and passing through two consecutive yellow lights. Both sat in complete silence as they went, their faces drawn and tight.

  Under normal conditions it would have taken ten minutes to make the drive from campus to the hospital, fifteen if traffic was heavy. Shane made it in just under five, swinging up alongside the curb and reaching over to take the materials from Abby.

  “Go on in and see where he’s at. I’ll park the car and be right behind you.”

  Nodding her understanding, Abby climbed out of the car and headed inside, Shane dropping the box in place behind her and heading for the parking lot. The midday crowd was heavy and he had to park near the back of the lot, leaving everything but his phone and wallet in the car and jogging back to the front door, sliding between rows of parked cars as he went.

  Shane burst into the front lobby of the Columbus General Hospital and slid to a stop in an open-air foyer, a pair of fountains spaced equidistant apart in front of him. A bevy of foot traffic moved in various directions, ranging from aged individuals in hospital gowns to young children visiting relatives. He slowed his pace to a walk and stepped forward through the space, twisting his gaze from side to side in search of Abby. Not until he was almost to the reception desk against the back wall did he notice her tucked off to the side, deep in conversation with a pair of officers in matching black uniforms.

  Shane waved off the woman sitting behind the reception desk staring at him and walked over to Abby and the officers, concern on his face. Abby turned towards him as he approached, motioning a hand in his direction, her words inaudible. Both officers turned as well, one holding a pencil and notebook in hand, the other with his thumbs looped into the waist of his pants.

  “Hi, sorry to interrupt,” Shane said, extending his hand, “Shane Laszlo.”

  The closer of the two returned the shake, a middle-aged man standing a few inches shorter than Shane, his hair gelled into place, a dimple on the end of his chin. “Mr. Laszlo, I am Officer Murphy, this is Officer Ryan, CPD.”

  Behind him Officer Ryan, a light skinned black man with a thin mustache that looked to be somewhere between twenty-five and thirty nodded, the pencil and paper still poised before him.

  “Ms. Hill here was just telling us that you worked with Heath Wilson?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Shane said, glancing between Murphy and Ryan. “I’m sorry, I know I’m a little late, but is he okay?”

  “Mr. Wilson is in surgery now to repair his arm and some minor burns,” Ryan said. “The injury is serious, but not fatal.”

  “My God,” Shane whispered, his gaze drifting towards the floor. After a moment, he returned to Murphy and asked, “What happened?”

  “From what we can tell, Mr. Wilson came out to get into his truck this morning, based on his attire when we found him, we assume it was to head to court,” Murphy said, his tone matter-of-fact as he rattled off the information.

  Shane nodded. “Yes, we were scheduled for nine o’clock this morning.”

  Murphy looked over his shoulder to Ryan, who nodded. “That fits the timeline.”

  “The crime scene techs are going over it now, but from what we can tell, Mr. Wilson was approaching his truck from the driver’s side and used his keyless entry to unlock the vehicle. The moment he did so, the entire truck exploded. Mr. Wilson was hit with some bits of shrapnel but managed to call 911 before passing out. Uniformed patrol found him unconscious in the parking lot of his apartment building, EMTs brought him straight here.”

  Shane’s eyes bulged as he heard the recount, glancing over to see Abby with a hand raised to her nose, tears streaming down her face. He stood slack-jawed for several seconds, forcing his body to process what
he was told.

  “Wait, you mentioned the words crime scene, does this mean you’re suspecting foul play? That this wasn’t some kind of electrical malfunction?”

  “Our guy that specializes in these kinds of things told us earlier that there was no way an electrical short could cause that kind of explosion,” Ryan said, waving the pencil and paper around as he spoke. “No chance that would stem from unlocking the doors. At most there would have been a fire.”

  Dazed, Shane shook his head and tried to comprehend what he was being told. Twelve hours before, he had been discussing the narrative portion of his opening statement with Heath, an hour before he’d been delivering that opening statement. Now, he was standing in the lobby of a hospital talking to two officers about a situation that could have easily taken a life.

  “Mr. Laszlo, what is the nature of the case you’re working on with Mr. Wilson?”

  Shane pushed his lips out a bit. “Simple negligence claim, medical malpractice. You don’t think the two are connected do you?”

  Murphy ignored the question, his tone not quite firm, but not conversational either. “Is that the only case you and Mr. Wilson are working on?”

  “Yes,” Shane said, nodding for emphasis, turning to extend a hand towards Abby. “I hired Heath and Abby both about a month ago to help me with it, which I’m handling for a friend. I had never met either one of them before, in fact I was working at a firm in Boston up until two days before they agreed to come on board.”

  Murphy regarded Shane as Ryan scribbled into his pad, the look on Murphy’s face making it clear he was debating what to make of Shane. After a moment he nodded and extended a hand towards him.

  “Mr. Wilson is in the surgery ward in the basement. There’s a waiting room on the first floor where you can stay until he’s out. His family has been notified and should be here within the hour.”

  “Thank you, Officer,” Shane said, returning the handshake.

  “Do you have a number we can contact you at if we need anything further?” Ryan asked, closing the pad and stowing it in his front shirt pocket.