Silent Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Now let’s talk a moment about your testimony.” Colby eased back in his chair, relaxing his intimidating posture a hair. “Of course, I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to say. That would be improper and unethical. I would never encourage a witness to do anything but tell the truth.”

  Mark wondered why Colby paused. It was almost as if there was a but coming.

  “Given the work you did at the plant, it is inevitable that you will be asked about the waste-disposal process. The plaintiffs" lawyer is desperate to prove that somehow Blaylock poisoned the Blackwood water aquifer—which of course was more than half a mile away from the plant. It’s ridiculous, but that’s what they want to do. So it’s important that we be firm and consistent in our description of the waste-disposal plan H. P. Blaylock maintained at all times and without exception.”

  “Of course,” Turnbull said quietly.

  “As I understand it, the runoff from all equipment tables—anyplace these chemical solvents would have been used—was collected in plastic bins. When they were approximately two-thirds full, the bins would be poured into steel drums; a drum was conveniently placed in every workroom. When the drums were nearly full, they were sealed—airtight—and carried to the back of the plant, where every two weeks they would be hauled to a federally approved waste-disposal site. There is absolutely no way any of that waste could have contaminated the groundwater. None whatsoever.”

  Colby paused again, as if waiting for Turnbull to make some kind of response.

  “Is that your understanding of the situation, too?”

  Turnbull’s neck stretched. “Well … yes. More or less.”

  Colby pounced forward. “More or less? What the hell does that mean? A wishy-washy answer like that could cost your employer millions.”

  “But—you know”—Turnbull was struggling for words—“there were times—”

  “Excuse me? Are you saying that wasn’t the policy? Because I have it from Myron Blaylock himself.”

  “But … there’s a difference between policy and … implementation.”

  “Are you saying there was someone who didn’t follow the official corporate policy?” He grabbed a legal pad. “Because if there are such persons, I want their names now. They will be subject to summary termination.”

  Turnbull licked his lips, parted them, acted as if there was something he might say. But nothing came out.

  “I’m waiting, sir. Was this waste-disposal policy followed or not?”

  Turnbull finally managed to speak. “It … was.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. You should have said so in the first place.” He peered directly into Turnbull’s eyes. “Please remember what I said. Answer yes-no questions with a yes or a no. Period.”

  “Sorry,” Turnbull said, tucking his chin. “Yes. That’s how it was.”

  “Fine,” Colby replied calmly, a small smile playing on his lips. “That’s how I thought it was.” He stretched out in his chair, his hands placed casually behind his neck. “Mark, bring in the next one.”

  Chapter 17

  AFTER MYRON BLAYLOCK, BEN decided he needed a break from overtly hostile witnesses, so the next day he scheduled a few who didn’t work at Blaylock but whose testimony could nonetheless be critical.

  He started with Blackwood’s city engineer, a quiet man named Nathan Tate. He had principal responsibility for the water wells in Blackwood—in theory, anyway—and he was the one who had finally shut down Well B, after chemical poisons were identified by the EPA. Unfortunately, he had conducted no studies of his own; he took action solely on the basis of the EPA report. He also had no idea how the contamination occurred.

  “Have you made any effort to determine how the well became poisoned?”

  Tate cleared his throat. “The EPA report suggests some possibilities.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Ben replied. “But have you or anyone in your office tried to learn how the contamination occurred?”

  “Er, no. I’m afraid we don’t have a budget for that sort of thing.”

  “You’re saying you can’t afford to keep the wells safe?”

  “As soon as we learned the water was tainted, I closed them.”

  “But you haven’t determined the cause. Doesn’t that fall within your responsibility?”

  Tate straightened a bit. “Sir, chemical testing is expensive. If the city chooses not to fund me adequately, there is precious little I can do.”

  “So for all you know, the other water wells in Blackwood may be contaminated as well.”

  “After the EPA discovered the contamination of Well B, they systematically tested the other water wells. None of them had any problems.”

  “So there must be some specific distinctive event which caused the Well B water to go bad.”

  “I … suppose that’s true.”

  “But you have no idea what that event was.”

  Tate glanced across the table at the Blaylock team, then returned his eyes to Ben. “I have no concrete evidence on that subject, no.”

  Ben nodded. “Thanks a million.”

  The government official who had direct authority over Tate was the state inspector, a man named Paul Schoelen. He was no more help than Tate—possibly less. He had received all kinds of complaints about the water in Blackwood, but nothing that concerned him until the EPA report was released. After that report, he would’ve closed down Well B—except that Tate had already done it.

  “What kind of reports did you receive about the water in Blackwood?” Ben asked.

  “Oh, the usual sort of thing.” The inspector was an average-looking middle-aged man, with a haircut that dated back to the Seventies and wireframe glasses. He’d held his position for over twenty years and, as far as Ben could tell, had survived that long by doing as little as possible. “Mothers complaining that their water smelled funny. That it had a bad aftertaste. A few letters suggesting that children developed rashes after baths or showers.”

  “Did you investigate these complaints?”

  “Not at that time.”

  “Why not?”

  He flipped his hand in the air. “You have to understand—there are literally thousands of water wells in the state of Oklahoma. I have a very small staff. Our budget is minuscule. We can’t go running around every time some mommy thinks the water smells funny.”

  “So you did nothing.”

  “Nothing at that time.”

  “At any time?”

  Schoelen squirmed slightly. “Well … after the EPA report …”

  “You’re saying you didn’t become involved until after the well was closed?”

  “That would be correct.”

  “When did you first receive complaints about the water in Blackwood?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t say for sure without checking my files. About five or six years ago, I’d guess.”

  “Five or six years ago?” Ben was aghast. “Every one of the parents in this lawsuit lost their child in the last five years. If you had acted on those complaints, they might have been saved.”

  “Now don’t you try to blame those deaths on me. I didn’t poison the well.”

  “I didn’t say you caused the deaths. I said you might’ve prevented them.”

  “Do you have any idea how many complaints I receive every week?”

  “No,” Ben said, “but I know this. I know when people give their tax dollars to a state inspector, they have the crazy idea that he’s out there inspecting, not sitting behind a desk ignoring complaints.”

  “I resent that remark.”

  “And I resent the fact that if you’d done your job, some of these tragedies might’ve been avoided.” Ben pushed away from the table. “Taxpayers finance people like you to protect them from dangers they can’t possibly detect on their own.” He shook his head sadly. “But all that money really doesn’t buy them much, does it?”

  After the lunch break, Ben started in on the Blaylock employees. There were dozens of potential witnesses, any one o
f whom might know something about the waste-disposal procedures followed at Blaylock. Ben had no way of knowing which witness might be more important than the others, and of course Colby’s interrogatory answers had intentionally given him no clue. So he would have to depose them all. And taking depositions was very expensive—usually a couple of thousand dollars per day.

  In order to save time—and money—Ben tried to move as quickly as possible. But he knew that if he hurried too much he might miss something important, thereby defeating the whole point of the deposition in the first place. For the most part, he had to plod methodically through the long list of witnesses, doing his best to learn what he could, trying not to think about the huge bill he was running up but would eventually have to pay.

  The first two Blaylock witnesses were executive types, vice presidents of this or that. Although Ben couldn’t avoid deposing them, he knew his chances of getting anything out of them were slim. They had far too much invested in their careers. They had fancy cars, stock options, and a medical plan. They weren’t going to risk angering Blaylock by giving Ben anything useful.

  After the executive parade was over, Ben began deposing some of the men and women who worked in the plant-—chemical employees, machinery cleaners, janitorial squads. The timbre of these depositions was different; Ben didn’t sense so much evasion, so much artifice, so much concerted effort to mislead. Some of them had no idea how the chemical runoff was disposed of. Those who had an opinion on the subject toed the party line: it was carefully transferred to steel drums, which were then transported off the premises. Nothing ever spilled on the ground. They could not have contaminated the water supply.

  On the fourth day of these depositions, Ben questioned a man named Archie Turnbull. He seemed a simple, prepossessing fellow; Ben initially liked him, which had not been the case with most of the witnesses he’d had to tackle. Turnbull had been supervisor of the machine room in the rear of the plant that transferred waste to cans and packaged them. Part of his duties included supervising the removal of the waste product.

  “What kind of waste are we talking about here?” Ben asked.

  “Principally spilled machine oil and grease.” Turnbull had a habit of biting his nails that reasserted itself anytime Ben asked a sufficiently long question.

  “Any solvents?”

  “We … do use solvents in the plant. To keep the machinery in top condition.”

  “What solvents do you use?”

  “I’m not in charge of ordering that stuff.”

  “But you are the area supervisor. You must know.”

  The nibbling intensified. “All those chemical names sound alike to me.”

  Ben removed a document from his notebook. “Mr. Turnbull, during document discovery we received a copy of a receipt for the purchase by Blaylock of twelve gallons of perc.”

  “Oh?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes. And unless I’m mistaken, those are your initials at the bottom.” He pointed to the spot. “Right?”

  Turnbull swallowed. “Yes. I suppose they are.”

  “So your plant does in fact use perc.”

  “I … guess so.”

  “And you also use or have used TCE, right?”

  “Well … I …”

  Ben reached into his notebook and retrieved another piece of paper.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Turnbull conceded. “We have used TCE. Though I don’t believe we do anymore.”

  “Have you used it in the last five years?”

  “Uh … yes.”

  “I see.” Ben was glad to hear it—especially since the last piece of paper he’d retrieved from his notebook was an interoffice memo discouraging employees from spending too long in the bathroom. “So it’s possible that some of these solvents could have been included in your waste product.”

  Turnbull glanced unhappily at Colby. “I … suppose it’s possible.”

  “Tell me how you dispose of the waste.”

  “Well, of course, I didn’t do it myself.”

  “The workers under your supervision, then.”

  “Basically, we collect it in plastic bins placed beside every worktable in the area. When they start to get full, we carefully dump the contents into steel drums. The drums are placed out back, until they’re taken away.”

  “Do the drums ever leak?”

  “Oh, no. They’re made of steel.”

  “But perhaps if the lids are not placed securely?”

  “That never happens.” His eyes darted one way, then the other. “We’re very careful.”

  “Where are the drums taken?”

  “I forget the name of the place, but it’s an approved disposal site somewhere in the southern part of the state. Near Texas.”

  “How often is this done?”

  “Every two weeks.”

  “Without fail?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Was there ever a time when this procedure was not followed?”

  Turnbull’s hands were shaking so much that he lowered them out of sight and sat on them. “No.”

  “Not to your knowledge?”

  Turnbull glanced over at Colby. “Never. I would’ve known. The procedure was always followed.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  His voice squeaked slightly. “Absolutely positive.”

  Ben leaned thoughtfully back in his chair. He hated to leave the matter like this, but his current approach was getting him nowhere. He needed to try something different.

  “Mr. Turnbull,” he said eventually, “do you have any children?”

  “Yes. Six.”

  “Six?” Ben blinked. “That’s quite a family these days.”

  He looked down shyly. “My Carrie Sue and I love kids.”

  “Good thing.” Ben pushed out a map of the city of Blackwood. “Sir, do you and your family live in the Well B region?”

  “Objection,” Colby barked. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Objection noted,” Ben said. “The witness will answer.”

  “No,” Turnbull said. “We’re over here.” He pointed on the map. “In the newer part of town. The Well D area.”

  “Lucky for you. Do you know anyone who lives in the Well B area?”

  “Again I must object!” Colby said. “This is absolutely of no relevance.”

  “But the witness must still answer the question. Please answer, sir.”

  Turnbull cast a nervous sideways glance toward Colby. “Sure. I know lots of people in that part of town.”

  “Did you know any of the children who died?”

  “This is outrageous!” Colby said, slapping his hand down on the mahogany table. “Irrelevant—and abusive!”

  Ben didn’t blink. “But the witness still must answer the question, regardless of how hard you slap the table. Mr. Turnbull?”

  Turnbull cleared his throat. “I—did, yes. That boy—Billy Elkins. My Becky knew him. They both sang in the church choir together. Before he died.”

  “Why do you think Billy died?”

  “I’m warning you, Kincaid.” Colby was on his feet now. “If you continue in this abusive manner, I will take the witness and leave.”

  “The witness will answer the question,” Ben said calmly.

  Turnbull began to stutter. “I—I guess he died of leukemia.”

  “And what do you think caused the leukemia?”

  Colby objected again, but Ben ignored him. He kept his eyes trained on the witness. “Please answer.”

  “N-no one knows what causes cancer.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “That’s it, Kincaid,” Colby shouted. “This deposition is terminated.”

  Ben kept going. “I wonder how you would feel, Mr. Turnbull, if you had lived in the Well B region. If your Becky had started developing strange rashes. A cough that wouldn’t go away. Bruises that appeared for no reason.”

  “It’s over, Kincaid!” Colby shouted. He pointed
at the court reporter. “Pack up your stuff. Stop taking this down.”

  “I wonder if your testimony would change if Becky had been the one who died. Died for no good reason, simply because someone somewhere was careless or negligent and didn’t care who got hurt as a result. I wonder what you would say then.”

  Colby jerked Turnbull up by the arm. “Come along, Mr. Turnbull. We’re leaving.”

  Colby dragged Turnbull out of the conference room, but Ben never broke eye contact with him, not the entire time he remained in the room.

  And to his surprise, Turnbull never stopped looking at him, either.

  A few minutes later, Christina entered the conference room and slid into a chair beside Ben. He seemed lost in thought.

  “Well, I don’t know what you did in here, but whatever it was, you sure worked Colby up into a froth.”

  “Thanks, Christina. That makes me happy.”

  “He’s screaming about calling the magistrate, getting a restraining order to prevent you from taking more depositions.”

  “Bluster from a blowhard. He can’t do any of those things. He’s just trying to impress his client with what a hardball player he is.” He turned slightly. “Christina, call Loving. Tell him to start concentrating his efforts on a man named Archie Turnbull.”

  “You think Turnbull is lying?”

  Ben shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. But something is bothering him.”

  “Is that a surprise? No one likes being deposed.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But I had the sense … there was something else. What’s more—I got the impression that Turnbull is basically a good person. That he actually has a conscience.”

  “What—in this day and age?”

  “Yeah. And if we have any hope of success, it will be thanks to people like that. So have Loving contact him. See if he can get anywhere.”

  “Will do.”

  “And quickly. Colby will be filing his summary judgment motion soon, now that he’s decided to show how tough he is. And if we can’t prove Blaylock caused the well contamination—we’re going to be blown right out of the courtroom.”

  Turnbull was surprised when Colby asked him to remain in his fancy skyscraper office after the conclusion of the deposition, but he was even more surprised when he saw his ultimate boss, Myron Blaylock, enter the room. He jumped to his feet, as if he were being received by royalty. In all his years at the plant, Turnbull had never actually met Blaylock, only passed him a few times in the corridor or the cafeteria.