[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught

by David P. Warren

  “At the hospital?” I ask, and then realize what an idiotic question that was.

  “Yes. Pull your chair close to him and sleep next to him in the afternoon or evening. That may make sleep possible, knowing you're right there with him.”

  “I will try that,” I say. “This may sound crazy, but somehow I have always felt like I should be awake and watching him in case he needs something.”

  “It doesn't sound crazy,” he says, and smiles. “How are you doing with all the press coverage?”

  I shrug. “I wouldn't mind a day without phone calls or the press on my lawn, but they have a job to do. It has become a fact of life, just like waiting for Joey to be well enough to awaken. We've also been the recipient of prayers and kind words from thousands of people,” I say. “There are a lot of good folks out there.”

  “Yes, there are.” He pauses and then asks, “You still think about Anders?”

  “Every day. I remember what you said about vengeance not bringing relief, but I might like to test that premise.”

  “How is Lisa doing?”

  “She is amazing. Brave. It seems like we spend all of our time waiting. On hold waiting for Joey to come back.”

  “Is she talking to anyone about all of this?”

  “Yeah. She has a really good support group. Her three best friends from college are an amazing support for her. She also just went to talk to a psychologist—Alexandra Sawyer.”

  “I know Alexandra. She is a good choice.”

  The room goes silent for a moment, and then Pat says, “Whatever happens, Scott, come back to see me again. This may or may not get easier, but you should keep up with the good and open work you're doing.”

  My stomach sinks as I realize that is code for “Joey might die.” I nod and then say, “Commitment is hard at this point. I think I will come back, as much as I know anything for sure about what I will do in the future.”

  * * *

  Jerry swept the floor leading into the restroom, stopping to check his watch. Only a half hour left in the shift. The deep voice of a short man who came out of the restroom saids, “You work here, right?”

  He wanted to say, “No, I just like sweeping floors in public places.” Instead, he said, “Yes, sir, how can I help you?”

  “Which way is the buffet?”

  “Walk straight ahead until you see the bar and then turn left. You can't miss it.”

  “Thanks,” the man said, but dids not divert his glance. The man looked at him a little too long.

  He returned to sweeping as the man walked away. He had let his now black hair grow long and flip slightly at the back. He had a birthmark on his face that Jerry Anders never had, and he has learned the periodic makeup touch-ups that keep it looking real. He found this maintenance job in a small off-strip casino called Maggie's, where overtime is needed frequently, and low lighting aids anonymity. He has an apartment within walking distance and a solitary life. Pictures of Jerry Anders have periodically appeared on Las Vegas television, so he kept to himself and did not allow anyone a close look in good lighting. He managed to resist the gambling addiction that previously brought him down, and when he is not working, he visited one of two small, dark beer bars where he obsessed over what brought him to this point and what he might do next.

  When the news confirmed that Michael Constantine set aside the dismissal of the Walters case, he felt betrayed. It was like he gave his all to help Constantine for nothing. He still has more than half of the money he got from Scott Winslow, which he considered his escape fund. Every day he thought about where he might go and what he might do next, but made no plans. It was hard to give up the inconspicuous life that he had found and take a chance on something new because the risk that comes with change overwhelmed him. For right now, he, Frank Adams from Boise, Idaho, would stay right here.

  * * *

  We are now less than three months from trial of the Walters case. The trial will involve at least twenty-three witnesses and consume three to four weeks of court time. The press started calling about the trial, and I tell them that we are looking forward to telling our story to the jury and that we are confident that they will do what is right. I have to be careful how much I say when I get these calls, because the more specific information that makes the news, the harder it will be to find a jury with no knowledge of the facts of the case. Because no one wants a jury that comes with inside information that might affect the outcome of the case, jurors are chosen for their ignorance of the facts of the case and their lack of knowledge of the industry itself. Someone who has worked in the industry for a number of years comes with a predisposition that neither side can forecast, so that person will never be allowed to stay on the jury. The process is actually about deselecting jurors, so that at the end of the day you have smart and caring people who have no information about the industry they came to examine; in that way, both sides can be reasonably assured that the information jurors will use to make their decision comes only from the facts of the case and the law that the court provides before deliberations begin.

  I am already working countless hours in preparation for trial, working on our trial brief, witness list, exhibit list, and jury instructions for trial. I identify testimony from every deposition that I intend to play for the jury by page and line as the court rules require. The judge will consider objections made by the other side to each side's selected testimony and will rule on all objections before any of it gets shown to a jury.

  I know Harris will work hard to try to exclude as much of Carl Miller's testimony as possible because the effects of it can be devastating to his client. I have already prepared a brief arguing the admissibility of that testimony, and why all of it must come in to evidence. We have exceptions to the hearsay rule at the ready, and the deposition testimony of Miller is admissible because he is unavailable to testify at trial. No one can find Miller or his alias, Eric Dardon. Detective Art Scully called to tell me that they have an arrest warrant for Miller, reminding me that if I talk to him, I have a legal obligation to notify the police, or I am aiding and abetting. I tell him that I understand, and I accurately tell him that I have had no contact with Miller since his deposition. Lee tells me that he has had similar calls on three occasions. It seems that Carl Miller, a.k.a. Eric Dardon, just disappeared from his Mississippi home right after his deposition. All I can say to Scully is, “Imagine that.”

  I am already working on my opening statement to the jury, and, with Donna's help, I am also working on a PowerPoint that I will use to provide visual aids in connection with that opening statement. I am also preparing the timeline that I will use in connection with my closing statement and all of the testimony and documents that tell the story of serious safety violations in the mine and what happened to Kevin Walters when he sought to point out those violations and have them corrected.

  Donna and I are talking about the PowerPoint when a call comes in from Harris.

  “Yes, Mr. Harris, I'll see if he's available.”

  I push the button and say, “Good afternoon, Bob.”

  “Scott, how are you?”

  Harris is the worst at small talk because it is pretty clear that he really doesn't give a shit how I am. “I'm well, Bob, and you?”

  “Good. Listen, I just wanted to see if we can pick a date next week to meet to start going over proposed jury instructions.”

  “Great. How about Wednesday afternoon?”

  “Let me just check the calendar,” he says. “Sorry, can't do that one. How about Thursday or Friday morning?”

  I check my own calendar. “Thursday morning will work. Why don't you come here for that meeting, and I'll come to your office for the next one.”

  “Fine, shall we say 9:00 a.m.?”

  “Sounds good. I'll see you at our pretrial conference with Judge Carswell on Monday morning.”

  “Yeah, see you then. Oh, one more thing; my client has authorized me to go to $700,000 to settle the case. Naturally, with full release and confid
entiality provisions.”

  “I will talk to my client and get back to you.”

  There is no response, just a click as Harris disconnects.

  I relay the offer to Kevin. Later in the day, I call Harris.

  “Bob Harris.”

  “Hi, Bob. Scott Winslow. I spoke with my client regarding the offer you relayed this morning.”

  “And?”

  “And we will counter at 3.5 million.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No, I'm really not.”

  “Well, then, it doesn't look like this case can settle.”

  “Well, please relay our counter to your client, and I will see you Monday morning.” Then I hear the expected click.

  * * *

  On Monday morning, we arrive in court before 9:00 a.m. as scheduled. The clerk directs us into chambers to meet with Judge Carswell just before 11:00 a.m.

  “All right, what have we got here?”

  I remind him of the nature of the case.

  “Have you talked about settlement?”

  “We have, Your Honor; we've also been to mediation but have not been able to reach agreement,” I say.

  “We've been working at it, Your Honor; it's just that plaintiff wants more than the case is worth,” Harris adds, attempting to throw us under the bus because the case has not resolved.

  “Mr. Winslow?” Judge Carswell says, raising his eyebrows in my direction. Apparently he needs me to confirm or deny that I am the cause of the congestion on his calendar.

  “No, Your Honor, but that illustrates a problem of perspective. When a defendant doesn't want to pay what a case is reasonably worth, they often try to characterize the problem as Mr. Harris just did.” I look at Harris, who is scowling before I continue, “We will have expert testimony that establishes the economic losses alone exceed the demand that has been made, so to suggest that we are not operating in good faith here …

  “Okay,” Carswell says, “but I want you to keep talking. This is not the end of settlement discussions. And if either of you think it is worthwhile, I'm going to order you back to mediation. Who did you mediate with the first time?”

  “Jake Billings, Your Honor.”

  “Hmm. He gets good results. I think you should go see him again.”

  “Your Honor,” I say, “we have had numerous settlement conversations since the mediation, and we are just not on the same page with respect to the reasonable value of the case, so I don't think another day of mediation would be helpful.”

  “What do you think, Mr. Harris?”

  “Well, I would talk to my client about that; they might agree to another day of mediation.”

  Carswell looks at both of us. “I'm not ordering it, but I am strongly urging you to mediate again. If I think you are not doing all possible to get this case settled, then I will have you here every day between the day you answer ready for trial and the day I actually get the case started, and with my calendar, that could easily be two to three weeks. Get my message, counsel?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” comes from both camps.

  “Don't forget to get everything timely filed per local rules, and I will see you on the date of trial to go over pretrial motions and evidentiary issues before I get a jury panel sent up. Have a nice day, gentlemen,” and he looks to the documents on his desk, making clear that he is done talking to us.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” we say as we leave chambers. Time spent with Judge Carswell is always so much fun.

  * * *

  Lee Henry was on his latest assignment, following a middle manager suspected of embezzlement at a safe distance. Just watching someone for days to see if they go anywhere suspicious, like to a stash of money, seems like a long shot, but one never knows. Besides, that's what the client wants. He drove slowly along Pacific Coast Highway, maintaining a quarter mile distance between himself and the target, just in case the guy is paying attention. And embezzlers do have a tendency to be on the lookout. Lee's phone rings, as he followed his target's right turn into Pepperdine University.

  When he saw the number, he knew that he wanted to take this call. He punched a button. “What have you got?”

  “We got a hit on your Mr. Valentine.”

  “What?” His eyes grew wide.

  “Yeah. We just got a match on facial recognition.”

  “How? FBI database?”

  “No. Near as we can tell, this guy has no criminal record.”

  “So how did you get to him?”

  “We got access to a data bank for lobbyists and affiliated entities. Our man pops out as associated with the PPC.”

  “No shit. What's his name?”

  “Edward Jamison.”

  “Where is he assigned?”

  “He is on staff with the PPC Washington, DC, office, but that doesn't mean anything because all of their US-assigned people are out of the Washington office.”

  “Got an address for me?”

  “Somehow we knew you would ask. He is living in Las Vegas. I just texted his file picture and his address to you.”

  “You are amazing. Great work.”

  “Yep. We know. Just keep the checks coming. They are very motivating.”

  “You got it.” As Lee hung up the phone, he digested what he had just learned. “Wow,” he said to the empty car, “unfucking believable.” He checked his watch. It was 12:30 p.m. If he could get done with this assignment in the next couple of hours, he could be in Vegas tonight. He was already looking forward to meeting Mr. Jamison.

  * * *

  When I geot my next call from Bob Harris, I debate whether to take it. I was in the midst of juggling about a dozen projects. More to the point, after spending the morning in court with Harris, I had enough of him for one day. But I am curious, so after consideration, I say to Donna, “Okay, I'll take it.”

  “Hi, Bob.”

  “Hello, Scott. How's it going?”

  This is getting predictable. Small talk, point of conversation, then click. “I'm good. What's up?”

  “I spoke with my client, and they are willing to go back to mediation as Judge Carswell suggested.”

  “Is there a good reason to do that? I just don't want to kill another day if there isn't any reason to expect things to go differently.”

  “Up to you, Scott. Carswell asked that we do it, so we're ready. When we go back, we can just tell him you weren't interested.”

  “Cute, Bob. But I really am asking if there is a reason to expect a different position from your clients.”

  “Here's what I can tell you,” Harris says in his most condescending voice, so I could be assured that there was real wisdom coming my way, “my client is ready to engage in good faith negotiations to see if we can make further progress.”

  “Hmmm. Pretty nonspecific.”

  “One more thing I can tell you is that Mike Constantine is serious about your guy coming back to work. As a matter of fact, he wants him to return.”

  “I'll pass that on. I'll also get back to you concerning whether we want to go back to mediation at this point. It may be hard to get another date with Jake's office within the next three weeks.”

  “I've got one. Two weeks from Thursday. Another attorney in my office had the date for a case and needs to postpone, so we can pick it up, but we need to say so by morning.”

  I check my calendar and see that if I shift a couple of appointments I can make the date work. “All right, I'll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  “Great.” Click.

  I put down the phone wondering whether it was worthwhile to go through another day of mediation. I would kick it around with Kevin and see what he thought. As I turned my attention back to trial preparation, the intercom came to life. “I have Lee Henry on one.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  I hit the button. “Lee?”

  “None other. I have some pretty amazing news.”

  “You sound excited. What is it?”

  “We identified Mr. Valentin
e.”

  “No shit?” I say, at my most eloquent.

  “No shit. He works for PPC out of DC and lives in Vegas. I'm at the airport on my way to pay him a visit and have a heart to heart.”

  “What in the world is PPC?”

  “It stands for Protective Partners Corporation. It is a behind the scenes facilitator that works for lobbyist groups. Things that they need done but don't want to get directly involved in doing. The kind of things that the public never hears about.”

  “I've never heard of these guys. Is this a small outfit?”

  “That's the point; they don't want to be known. And no, they aren't small. They have a presence everywhere. Think of the way that Blackwater assists the military, except more opaque.”

  “Are you kidding? So what are you walking into here? Is it safe?”

  “Not sure, but I'll be careful.”

  “Call me as soon as you have something. You have my cell, and I don't care what time of day or night.”

  “I'll do it.”

  “And, Lee, if it gets dangerous, walk away.”

  “I will. Talk to you soon.”

  “Bye, Lee.” I put the phone down thinking that I'm not sure Lee will walk away from danger. I stare at nothing in particular while the wheels turn.

  The intercom buzzes. “What is it?” Donna asks.

  “Lee has an ID on the guy who called himself Mr. Valentine. He's headed to Vegas to visit the guy.”

  “That's amazing! You have to call me tonight if you learn more, okay?”

  “Okay, you got it.”

  * * *

  Lee stared at the picture that had been texted to him and realized why the facial recognition software worked. The last Valentine that Miller saw, the one with the double chin, was Edward Jamison. On that third visit, he had appeared without a disguise. Something Lee was sure Jamison would soon regret.

  As Lee climbed behind the wheel of the rental car at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas, he punched the address for Edward Jamison into the Waze app on his phone and started out of the airport. The program told him that the trip would take twenty-five minutes. It took twenty-three. Lee drove by the house, a new single-story modern on a half-acre. He circled the block and then made his way to the closest commercial area. He found a Starbucks and parked outside. He dialed Jamison.