Silent Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Archie,” Blaylock said, extending his hand. Turnbull was stunned that Blaylock even knew his name.

  “Mr. Blaylock,” Turnbull said. He grabbed the elderly man’s hand and pumped it like a madman.

  “Call me Myron.”

  Turnbull was speechless.

  Colby took a seat casually behind his desk and propped his shoes up on the edge. “Archie, I asked Myron to step in so I could tell him what a fine job you did during your deposition today.”

  Turnbull blinked. “I did?”

  “Yes.” He adjusted his gaze toward Blaylock. “He held the line, Myron. And let me tell you—some of the questions that bastard Kincaid asked were downright dirty pool. That man will stop at nothing. But Archie didn’t let it get to him. He did H. P. Blaylock proud.”

  “Indeed. I’m glad to hear it.” He faced Turnbull. “You know I need someone like you in the executive suite, someone I can trust.”

  Turnbull’s tongue felt like cotton. “The executive suite?”

  “And why not? Who have I got now? A bunch of college graduates, more interested in their stock portfolios than in serving my company. I need men like you—men who know what hard work is.” He leaned closer. “Who know the meaning of loyalty.”

  “That’s what I like to see,” Colby said. “A man rewarded for his loyalty.”

  “I thought I’d create a new position for you. Vice president of floor management. We’ve needed someone who has hands-on knowledge about the way the plant works. I think you will be an invaluable asset.”

  “I-I’d like that,” Turnbull managed.

  “Of course you’ll have the usual perks. Company car—I see you as a BMW man. Am I right?”

  “T-That would be fine.”

  “Increased vacation time. Increased medical. Could be quite a help with a brood like yours, Archie. And of course, increased salary.” He scribbled a number on a scrap of paper. “How would that be, just for starters?”

  Turnbull couldn’t believe this was happening. “That would be … twice what I make now.”

  “And long overdue.” Blaylock slapped him on the back. “I don’t want to see a man like you slip away.”

  “There is one thing,” Colby said. His voice had the laconic tone of one who has suddenly recalled a trifling detail after his third mint julep. “I know you think that since your deposition is completed this is all over for you … but it isn’t necessarily so.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “It’s entirely possible the plaintiffs—or their representatives—will attempt to contact you. Try to get you to change your testimony. Say things that aren’t true. Persuade you to spill confidential secrets. It’s important that you not be suckered into any of that.”

  “Loyalty,” Blaylock said. “That’s what’s important to me.”

  Colby nodded. “You wouldn’t let the plaintiffs lure you into anything like that, would you, Archie?”

  “I—I certainly wouldn’t lie to them.”

  “Archie … I don’t want you to talk to them at all.”

  “Loyalty,” Blaylock repeated to no one in particular. “Careers are made or lost on that factor alone.”

  “It is important,” Colby continued, “that we maintain a strong defense. A firm resolve.” He peered across the desk. “We can count on you, can’t we, Archie?”

  Turnbull swallowed. “Of course you can.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He rose and shook Turnbull’s hand. “Thanks for staying late.”

  “I’ll have my assistant meet you at the front gate tomorrow morning,” Blaylock explained. “To show you to your new office.”

  Turnbull glanced again at the scrap of paper with the unbelievable six-digit figure on it. It was too good to be believed. It almost made him forget—

  “Will that be acceptable?” Blaylock asked.

  “Of course,” Turnbull said quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  After Turnbull was gone, Blaylock rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth across Colby’s office.

  “I hope that satisfied you. Personally, it made me sick to my stomach.”

  “Stay calm, Myron.” Colby smiled. “It was necessary.”

  “I don’t see why. We didn’t do it for any of the others.”

  “This man is different.” Colby’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I sense … a stirring inside him. The potential for trouble.”

  “Damned high price to pay to avoid trouble.”

  “The cost will be far higher if you don’t.” He slid his feet off the desk and sat up. “And it’s only temporary. Kincaid hasn’t discovered anything. I’m filing my summary judgment motion immediately. Once this case is dismissed, you can do anything with Turnbull you want.”

  “That will be a happy day,” Blaylock spat out, as he grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door. “For more reasons than one!”

  Chapter 18

  “READY TO GO?” BEN asked.

  Cecily glanced at Christina, then nodded. Not an enthusiastic nod, but the best she could muster under the circumstances. “If I must.”

  “Christina gave you the lowdown on what’s going to happen?”

  “About a hundred times,” Cecily said sourly.

  “That’s my Christina,” he replied. “Nothing if not efficient.”

  He took Cecily’s elbow and led her to the corner conference room where the deposition would take place. As was traditional, when Ben wanted to depose Blaylock’s witnesses, he had to go to Colby’s skyscraper office, but when Colby wanted a shot at his witnesses, he had to come onto Ben’s turf. Ben tried to whisper comforting words as they approached the conference room, but he suspected his words accomplished little.

  Colby was full of easy gentility when they arrived. “Mrs. Elkins,” he said, taking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Cecily wasn’t sure what to do—shake hands with the Big Bad Wolf or run out of the room screaming. She took his hand.

  “And before we begin, let me express my deepest sympathy for your loss. I have children of my own; I can’t imagine what you must’ve gone through.”

  “Well … thank you.”

  “I’ll try to make this as easy as possible for you. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”

  Cecily’s eyes widened slightly. Could that be true? Done before lunch? Ben could see her hopes elevating—a potentially dangerous development, since the higher they rose, the further they had to fall.

  Colby began with the softball stuff—name and address, former occupations, college education. He spoke slowly and was more than accommodating. None of which put Ben’s mind at ease. It only reminded him of something his friend Mike Morelli once said. When the devil is stalking you, beware. But when the devil is making nice—run.

  “You went to college at Rogers University, is that right?”

  “Yes.” Ben could tell Cecily was amazed this was still so painless. Ben, on the other hand, was more concerned about how well-informed Colby seemed to be.

  “You studied biology, I believe?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Took you five years to get your undergraduate degree?”

  “Well, you know how it is. I changed my major about eighteen times.”

  Colby chuckled. “Yes, I know what you mean.” His smile gradually faded. “But that wasn’t the only problem, was it?”

  “Uh—excuse me?”

  “That wasn’t the only reason it took you longer than usual to get your degree, was it?”

  “I’m … not sure what you’re getting at.”

  “You had a problem with drugs, didn’t you, Cecily?”

  The other shoe had dropped. The room was filled by a silence that seemed deafening.

  It took a good while for Cecily to frame her response. “I … did a normal amount of experimenting. When I was young.”

  “I feel I must remind you,” Colby said, “that you are under oath, and that you are subject to the penalties of perju
ry if you answer falsely.”

  “That’s unnecessary,” Ben cut in.

  Colby plowed right ahead. “In fact, Mrs. Elkins, you were suspended for an entire semester after you were arrested by campus security officers on a drug-related charge, weren’t you? I have a copy of your transcript right here.”

  “I was at a party,” Cecily tried to explain. “A couple of the kids had joints on them. It was really nothing.”

  “The campus administrators didn’t feel it was nothing.”

  Cecily shrugged. “Rogers is a small college in a small town.”

  Colby looked indignant. “Mrs. Elkins, I consider drug abuse a serious matter, as do most right-thinking people I know.”

  Ben thought it was time to jump in, even if he didn’t really have an objection. “Colby, does this abusive line of questioning have any relevance to the lawsuit, or are you just being cruel for the fun of it?”

  Colby was unfazed. “This is of the utmost relevance, counsel. Mrs. Elkins, when was your son Billy born?”

  “About a year after I got out of school.”

  “Which was about a year and a half after you were picked up on drug charges. You have heard, no doubt, that illegal narcotics can have a negative effect on pregnancy, haven’t you?”

  Cecily’s nostrils flared. “I never used drugs when I was pregnant. Not even aspirin.”

  “You mean, after you knew you were pregnant, don’t you? But you were probably with child for at least a month or two before you realized it.”

  “I did not hurt my baby!”

  “I’m sure you want to believe that,” Colby said calmly. “I’m sure you would much rather blame his illness on some mysterious unseen corporate evil—than accept responsibility for your own actions.”

  “I did not hurt my baby!”

  Colby turned away, shuffling his papers. “That, of course, will be for the jury to decide.”

  “I did not hurt my baby!”

  “Let’s take a break,” Ben said, jumping up.

  “This is my deposition,” Colby said calmly, “and I did not call for a break.”

  “I don’t give a damn whether you did or you didn’t.”

  Ben took Cecily outside the conference room. He tried to calm her, but had little success. He put her in Christina’s hands, hoping she somehow might be able to settle her nerves.

  A few minutes later, Ben returned to the conference room. “Congratulations, Colby,” he said. “You’ve managed to achieve an all-time high on the depravity meter.”

  Colby barely blinked. “We have angles like this on all your clients, Ben.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means this is a scruffy bunch you’ve taken under your wing. They all have secrets—except they won’t be secrets anymore, if you continue to pursue this lawsuit.”

  “You’re a disgusting person, Colby. Disgusting and unethical.”

  “Excuse me, O High and Mighty One, but the Rules of Professional Conduct require me to zealously represent my client to the best of my ability. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “What you’re doing is using blackmail to suppress a legitimate claim. That isn’t honorable. Profitable, maybe. But hardly anything to brag about.”

  “I’m not going to waste time bantering with you. Bring your witness back into the conference room so we can continue.”

  “Forget it. She’s done for the day.”

  “Fine. Then bring in the next one. Mrs. Hardesty.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re going to love what I do to her.”

  Loving parked his pickup and strolled toward the Blackwood Bowl-O-Rama. As far as he could tell, this was the local grown-up hot spot. The parking lot was almost full; the only other place in town that came close was the Sonic Drive-in, and that was mostly teenagers cruising in and out. The crowd he sought was inside here, amidst the clang and clatter of heavy balls and falling pins.

  Loving liked Blackwood; it reminded him of the tiny town in western Oklahoma where he grew up. He had no problem relating to the folks in this burg. They were cordial, direct, simple. Not stupid, mind you. Simple. Uncomplicated. There was a difference. He’d put these folks up against some of the would-be highbrows he came across in Tulsa any day of the week.

  Before he pushed through the front door, Loving drew in his breath and mentally put himself in his “tough guy” mode. Contrary to popular opinion, this was not something he particularly enjoyed. But it was necessary. In his line of work, the courteous just didn’t get results. Whether he enjoyed this routine or not, he owed the Skipper a lot, and what’s more, he thought this case was important, more so than most. So he didn’t want to disappoint.

  He stopped at the front desk and rented a pair of ugly red-and-beige bowling shoes, size twelve, but did not rent a lane. He wasn’t here to play. He was here to persuade.

  He spotted his quarry on lane ten. There were six of them, all wearing matching green jerseys. This was an H. P. Blaylock bowling-league team. The league had many teams, but this one was made up of men who worked in the waste-disposal department—including Archie Turnbull. The logo on the back of their matching shirts read TONY’s TIGERS. Loving had learned that this was a tribute to Tony Montague, a Blaylock employee who had died six years before in a horrible bus accident.

  “Excuse me.” Loving walked up behind where five of them were sitting, while the sixth took his shot. “Could I speak to you gentlemen for a moment?”

  Heads turned. “Who are you?” one of them asked. The smell of beer was thick on his breath.

  “My name’s Loving. I’m a private investigator. I’m workin" for Ben Kincaid.”

  Mostly frowns. “Kincaid? Don’t know him.”

  Except from Archie Turnbull. “I do. He’s the lawyer representing the parents. The ones suing Blaylock.”

  The bowlers could not have moved away from Loving more quickly had Turnbull told them he had an advanced case of leprosy. “Get outta here!” one of them shouted.

  “We don’t want nothin" to do with you!” said another.

  “I’ve just got a few simple questions,” Loving said. “It won’t take long.”

  Beer Breath was the first who decided to get tough. “Maybe you didn’t hear,” he said, leaning into Loving’s face. “We told you to get out!”

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble—”

  “Well, you’re gonna get it! If you don’t clear out!”

  Loving drew himself up to his full height, which was somewhere between six foot two and the sky. He didn’t have to make threats; his body made the threats for him. Beer Breath retreated to the safety of the ball carousel.

  “All I want to do is ask a few questions about how you boys disposed of waste at the plant.”

  “I’ve already told your boss everything I know,” Turnbull said.

  “Have you?” Loving replied, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Yes.” Turnbull turned away.

  “Don’t talk to him,” Beer Breath said, tugging on Turnbull’s shoulder. “They’re just ambulance chasers.”

  “The only thing I’m chasin" is the truth,” Loving said. “We haven’t got that yet. But I’m bettin" one of you boys could remedy that.”

  “We’re not tellin" you nothin’,” Beer Breath barked. He hoisted his bowling ball up with one hand. “And if you don’t clear out, I’m calling security.”

  “That go for you, too, Archie?”

  Turnbull didn’t answer.

  “You know, Mrs. Elkins’s boy Billy—he loved to bowl, too. He was kind of a little guy; it was prob’ly his best sport. I wonder if maybe your Becky didn’t come bowlin" with him on occasion.”

  Turnbull’s head jerked up, riveted by the sound of his daughter’s name.

  “Billy’s mother loved to bring him out here. They did it two, three times a week. "Course, that all came to an end. She won’t be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of takin" her son bowling anymore. Never again.”

  Three of the green-jerseyed men walke
d on either side of Loving, surrounding him. “We want you out of here,” Beer Breath growled. “Now.”

  Loving made a show of being unimpressed. “Let me give you my card. If one of you wants to get in touch, just call me. Or call Ben Kincaid’s office.”

  Beer Breath took the card, tore it up, and let the pieces flutter to the ground. “Last chance, asshole. Leave.”

  Loving nodded. “Be seein" you, Archie.” Loving burned a path to the man’s eyes and didn’t blink until Turnbull finally turned away.

  As Loving casually walked away, in no great hurry, he realized that he’d learned one thing: the Skipper’s instincts were better than he’d expected. Turnbull did know something—Loving was certain of it. Unfortunately, he had every reason in the world not to tell what he knew. But there had to be some way to get past that, to get the man talking.

  If only Loving could figure out what it was.

  Presumably, Colby thought the element of surprise was gone by the time he got to Mrs. Hardesty, another of the parents in the class action against Blaylock. He made no attempt to charm or seduce her. There could be no accusation of subterfuge in a deposition that began with: “Your husband beats you, doesn’t he, Mrs. Hardesty?”

  Martha Hardesty’s jaw dropped an inch. Nothing Ben or Christina had told her prepared her for this.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Colby said, “but you have to answer verbally. So the court reporter can take it down.”

  “But … my … Jack—”

  “He beats you, right? You are under oath, ma’am.”

  Martha was in her mid-forties, average weight, flaxen hair. She had once been quite thin, but three pregnancies had a way of changing that. “He … doesn’t. Not really.”

  “Not really? Please.” He shuffled the papers before him. “I have a hospital report. You came in with two black eyes. You told the attendant your husband did it.”

  “W-well … but—”

  “So which is it, Mrs. Hardesty? Were you lying then, or are you lying now?