The Witnesses

by Robert Whitlow

  “Did you confirm the date and time with the court reporter?” Parker asked Vicki.

  “Yes, and I did the same thing last week when you asked me about it then.”

  “Okay, it’s just that Greg gave me a logistic responsibility.”

  “Do you want me to order donuts and bagels?”

  “No. What time are Mr. and Mrs. Mixon supposed to be here?”

  “In fifteen minutes. Do you want me to call and make sure they’ve left home?”

  Parker hesitated.

  “Everything is going to be fine unless Greg messes up what you gave him,” Vicki continued. “You’ve worked a ton on this case. Preparation wins.”

  Forty-five minutes later Parker was sitting in the front seat of Greg’s car as they chauffeured Mr. and Mrs. Mixon to the federal courthouse on Middle Street. Mr. Mixon sat in the backseat reviewing revised questions hot off the printer connected to Dolly’s computer. The previous afternoon they’d had a marathon session focused on the direct examination Parker prepared about their communication with Robert Lipscomb and the failed investment in Chesterfield Consolidated.

  “Are you sure I have to testify too?” Mrs. Mixon asked anxiously. “Mike handles all the finances.”

  “Which is the main point I want to make with you,” Greg replied from the driver’s seat. “We need to avoid a red herring defense built on innuendo that you were more investment-savvy than your husband.”

  Parker kept his mouth shut. He’d strongly recommended that Mrs. Mixon remain on the sidelines and avoid the risk of a deft cross-examination that might nudge her off the edge of a cliff. A reluctant witness was more likely to agree with a hostile lawyer in a vain attempt to ease the pain caused by more questions.

  They arrived at the courthouse, an imposing Georgian Revival–style brick building built in the 1930s. The arbitration was going to be held in a conference room on the second floor. They lined up to go through the security checkpoint staffed by US marshals.

  “There he is,” Greg said to the clients when they reassembled beyond the security area. “Thomas Blocker is in the gray suit.”

  At the other end of the long, open space that had once been the lobby for the local US post office, Parker saw the trial lawyer. Beside him was a shorter, balding man in his forties wearing a tweed sport coat. Parker turned to Mr. Mixon.

  “Is that Robert Lipscomb in the sport coat?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Mixon growled. “It’s going to be hard for me to sit in the same room with that scoundrel.”

  Mrs. Mixon touched her husband’s arm. “Please, honey.”

  They made their way to the stairway and climbed to the second floor.

  “We’re in room 212,” Greg said when they assembled at the top. “It’s down the hall and around the corner.”

  Parker could see the anticipation of the coming fight in his boss’s eyes. It was a look that probably had intimidated his opponents across a high school wrestling mat, but Parker doubted it would faze Thomas Blocker. They reached the conference room and went inside.

  Thomas Blocker had placed his briefcase on a long wooden table. Up close, Blocker had piercing blue eyes that instantly pulled everyone who made contact with them into his orbit. Parker could see physical traits inherited by Layla, particularly Blocker’s well-shaped jaw and high forehead. Everyone shook hands except Mr. and Mrs. Mixon and Robert Lipscomb.

  They set up on opposite sides of the table. The arbitrator would sit at one end with a witness chair offset to his right.

  “Where’s the court reporter?” Greg whispered to Parker. “Did you confirm her appearance?”

  “Yes.”

  He’d not been able to bring his BlackBerry into the federal courthouse, so there was no way Parker could contact the court reporting firm. He squirmed in his chair. A side door opened, and a bearded man in his midthirties stuck his head into the room.

  “Is this the hearing in the arbitration case?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Greg and Blocker replied at the same time.

  “I’m the court reporter,” the man replied. “I wanted to make sure before I brought in my equipment.”

  Parker exhaled in relief. “Are you fine with a male court reporter?” he asked Greg. “I didn’t specifically request a woman.”

  “Don’t get smart with me,” Greg grunted. “I can’t chew you out here for making me sweat, but that won’t stop me when we get back to the office.”

  Parker began laying out the exhibits he’d organized and labeled. The door opened again and the arbitrator, Charlie Tompkins, entered. Parker immediately stood up. Greg and Blocker stayed seated. Tompkins, an older man with wispy white hair, looked at Parker and smiled. Red-faced, Parker plopped down in his chair.

  “Thank you, but I’m not a judge,” Tompkins said. “And at this point in my career I have no interest in punching a ticket on that train.”

  Tompkins sat at the end of the table and opened a laptop.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Blocker,” he said before turning to Greg. “And you must be Mr. Branham. Once I’m up and running, we’ll get started.”

  A minute later the arbitrator looked up from his computer.

  “Gentlemen, I’ll make a few introductory remarks to your clients about our process and then turn it over to you.”

  Tompkins provided an overview of arbitration for the Mixons and Lipscomb. He emphasized the informal nature of the process and reassured the parties they would be able to present everything they wanted him to consider. He had a folksy way of communicating that seemed to make the Mixons relax.

  “I’ve heard over a hundred of these types of cases, and I believe that will help me serve you better,” Tompkins said in conclusion. He looked at the lawyers. “Are there any preliminary questions or matters for me to consider?”

  “No,” Greg replied.

  “I’d like to reserve the right to cross-examine Mr. and Mrs. Mixon a second time after Mr. Lipscomb testifies,” Blocker said.

  “Objection,” Greg replied sharply. “He only gets one bite at the apple. It’s oppressive and redundant to subject my clients to multiple cross-examinations.”

  “Overruled,” Tompkins replied. “But I’ll restrict any additional questions to matters specifically raised in Mr. Lipscomb’s testimony.”

  It was a unique trial strategy that Parker had never considered. It wasn’t unusual for a lawyer to recall his or her own witness to the stand a second time to fill in gaps, but flipping it to an adverse party was a new idea. He could tell it caught Greg off guard, and Mr. and Mrs. Mixon exchanged an anxious look.

  “Proceed, Mr. Branham,” Tompkins said.

  Mr. Mixon was the first witness, and Parker thought Greg did a good job settling the client down emotionally and drawing out the sequence of events about the stockbroker’s recommendation and the disastrous results. During the testimony, Parker checked his notes to make sure Greg didn’t skip an important point. As he did so, he paused over the names of the board of directors of the company. One, a man named Burt Woodlawn, caught his eye. He jotted it down and slipped a note to Greg telling him to ask Mr. Mixon if he knew him. The witness was in the middle of a long explanation of why he strongly emphasized to Lipscomb that preservation of his portfolio was vital to his retirement plans. Greg looked down at the question, glanced at Parker, and raised his eyebrows.

  “Just ask him,” Parker whispered.

  Greg shook his head and continued down the planned path. During another long answer, Parker wrote down two more questions and tapped the paper again. Greg shook his head. Thirty minutes passed, and Parker gave up. He was already reviewing his notes about Mrs. Mixon’s testimony when Greg asked a question that caused Parker to look up.

  “Tell me what you know about Burt Woodlawn,” Greg said. “He’s on the board of directors for the company you invested in.”

  Mixon paused, a puzzled expression on his face, and looked at Lipscomb. Parker glanced at the stockbroker, who seemed to sit up a bit straighter in
his chair.

  “I’m not one hundred percent sure,” the witness replied, “but Mr. Lipscomb may have mentioned his name.”

  “Objection as speculative,” Blocker said.

  “I’ll give it the weight it deserves,” the arbitrator said. “Go on.”

  “Did Mr. Lipscomb tell you about any conversations he had with Mr. Woodlawn prior to recommending you purchase stock in the company?”

  “More speculation,” Blocker interjected.

  “Where are you going with this line of testimony?” the arbitrator asked Greg.

  Greg glanced irritably at Parker, who rose to his feet. “To bring out evidence that Mr. Lipscomb’s recommendation to our clients was influenced by self-interest and therefore a clear breach of Mr. Lipscomb’s fiduciary duty.”

  It was an entirely new basis for the claim, and Greg stared openmouthed at him. Blocker leaned over and spoke to Lipscomb.

  “Go ahead and answer,” the arbitrator said to the witness.

  Mr. Mixon nodded his head. “I remember now. Mr. Lipscomb had a photograph of some men on a fishing trip in his office. I asked him about it, and he mentioned that Woodlawn caught the huge fish in the picture.”

  “Would it have affected your decision to buy the stock if you’d known Mr. Lipscomb had a conflict of interest due to close personal connections with a member of the board of directors?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have authorized the purchase and would have reported Mr. Lipscomb to his superiors in the company.”

  There wasn’t another question on the sheet of paper. Parker held his breath as he waited to see what Greg would do next.

  “That’s all from this witness,” Greg said.

  The arbitrator checked his watch. “We’ll take a ten-minute recess.”

  Blocker and Lipscomb stepped out of the conference room. The Mixons also left for a restroom break. As soon as they were alone, Greg spun around and faced Parker.

  “Where did that come from?” he demanded. “Who is this Woodlawn guy and what does he have to do with anything?”

  “He’s on the board of directors, and I studied the company structure as part of my preparation.”

  “Which tells me nothing. Are we talking about insider information? That doesn’t make sense because the stock tanked. What’s the basis for a conflict of interest? And if you suspected something like that occurred, why didn’t you include it in your memo?”

  “I didn’t know for sure,” Parker said, backpedaling. “But it looks like you struck a nerve we need to keep pressing.”

  “Without any evidence to back it up?” Greg raised his voice. “This isn’t a TV show! Do you think Lipscomb is going to confess to something illegal when it’s his turn to testify?”

  “He doesn’t know what we have.”

  “And neither do we. If you expect me to run a bluff and see how far it goes, you’re nuts! Tompkins isn’t going to be swayed by innuendos without proof. I’ve planted a seed of doubt about Lipscomb’s honesty, but if I don’t deliver the goods, it will make everything else we’re arguing look ten times weaker.”

  Greg was right. Desperate, Parker tried to come up with a theory.

  “The fishing photo shows they’re friends, or at least know each other well enough to go on a junket together. You can ask Lipscomb who paid for the fishing trip. That would link them tighter.”

  Greg eyed Parker with intense suspicion that eroded the last thread of confidence Parker was holding on to.

  “I’m heading to the restroom,” Greg said. “And when I come back you’d better have something that has more than a snowball’s chance in July.”

  Alone in the conference room, Parker took a deep breath. Lipscomb’s reaction to the brief line of questioning made him think there might be truth to the allegation of impropriety. But without the benefit of pretrial discovery or taking Woodlawn’s deposition, they were shooting in the dark at a target they couldn’t see.

  Then Parker had an idea.

  CHAPTER 16

  Frank got out of his car at Lenny’s house. He’d called earlier to see if his friend wanted to go fishing and found out Lenny was spending the day renovating the bathroom in their guest bedroom. Frank knocked on the door, and Mattie answered.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, standing aside so he could step into the small foyer.

  Frank pointed at his work jeans that were speckled with various colors of paint. “I don’t want Lenny to mess up your guest bath. I’m much better at laying tile than he is. And everything has to be perfect when your future daughter-in-law comes for a visit.”

  “When is that going to be?” Mattie asked with a smile.

  Suddenly there was a barely familiar stirring in Frank’s chest that shot an unexpected thought into his mind.

  “How long has it been since Jessie got married?” he asked, referring to Lenny and Mattie’s oldest child, a daughter.

  “Eight years and three grandchildren.”

  “Within the next twelve months you’ll have another wedding,” Frank said.

  “You think so?” Mattie replied, her eyes wide. “Chris is dating a girl who works in human resources at the fire department, but I’m not sure she’s the one for him.”

  “Is that Sally?” Frank asked.

  “No, her name is Regina.”

  “Does he know a girl named Sally?”

  Mattie thought for a moment. “The Hendersons have a daughter named Sally who lives in Wilmington. She’s a year or two younger than Chris.”

  “That won’t matter. Chris is immature for his age, just like Lenny.”

  Mattie laughed.

  “Next time you have a big barbecue, maybe you should invite the Hendersons and see if Sally can come along,” Frank continued. “It wouldn’t hurt to let them meet.”

  “You know, I could see that myself. Sally is a real outdoors person. But I can’t remember the last girl Chris asked out for a second date. I’ve told him nobody is perfect, and some of the best marriages are between opposites.”

  “Like you and Lenny,” Frank replied. “You’re sweet; he’s sour.”

  “You shouldn’t say that,” Mattie scolded. “Even if it’s true.”

  “And Chris needs to rip up the list he wrote down about his requirements in a wife and trust more in his heart than his head.”

  “Did Lenny tell you about that list?” Mattie asked. “I thought it was a terrible idea, but I kept my mouth shut because if I say something negative, he never listens.”

  “Just keep praying for him,” Frank said.

  “Praying?” Mattie replied with surprise.

  “Isn’t that what you and Lenny do?”

  “Yeah, of course, but—”

  “It sounds strange coming from me,” Frank said to complete the thought. “I know. Let me sneak up on Lenny.”

  Frank left a puzzled Mattie in the foyer and made his way to the rear of the house. The bathroom was in the hallway next to the guest bedroom door. Lenny, his back to Frank, was on his hands and knees loosening the bolts that held down the toilet. A new toilet was in a box in the hallway.

  “I should have waited until later,” Frank said. “You’re still in the demolition phase.”

  Lenny looked under his shoulder. “And I’m not going to finish in time to go fishing today. This may stretch into a three-day job.”

  “It will go faster if I help.”

  Lenny put down his wrench and sat up. “That’s nice of you to offer, Frank, but you don’t need to be crawling around on the floor.”

  “At my age?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Frank stepped into the bathroom that had a modest single-sink vanity, toilet, and tub-shower combination.

  “Are you pulling out the tub?” he asked.

  “No, thank goodness Mattie likes the old-fashioned look, so all I have to do is clean it up.” Lenny pointed to a pack of nonabrasive scouring pads. “I’m going to use those along with a bleach-based cleanser to remove the built-up gu
nk.”

  “No.” Frank shook his head.

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Yes, I’m going to do it. Do you have a mask? I don’t enjoy the smell of chlorine.”

  “Are you sure?” Lenny asked.

  “Yes, I’ve really been into cleaning the past few days.”

  “What? Your place always looks spick and span to me.”

  “In here.” Frank touched his heart.

  “Your heart?” Lenny asked with concern. “Is there a problem with your arteries?”

  “No, it’s better than it’s been in years.”

  Lenny shook his head and refocused on the toilet. They worked steadily for the next three hours. Frank had a patient eye for detail and restored the tub to a surprising level of sheen. Using a razor blade, he carefully removed bits of old caulking and laid down a fresh, uniform bead. He installed the new faucet handles and multifunction showerhead. Lenny carried out the toilet and vanity. He then pulled up the old tile and created a smooth surface for the new tile. The two men stood up to stretch. Lenny checked his watch.

  “Are you hungry?” Lenny asked. “Mattie promised me a special lunch.”

  “She didn’t know I was coming.”

  “I think she’s probably added water to the soup to stretch it out.” Lenny smiled.

  They went into the kitchen to wash up. There was a large cast-iron Dutch oven on the stovetop.

  Frank lifted the lid. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

  Mattie came into the kitchen in time to hear his question. “Yep, it’s fish stew.”

  “What kind of fish?” Frank asked.

  “Snapper caught yesterday. Lenny and I went down to the market yesterday afternoon and bought some from Jimbo Perkins.”

  Frank took a whiff of the simmering collaboration of chicken broth, celery, onions, garlic, peppers, tomatoes, spices, and several unidentified ingredients.

  “The key is getting the roux right and then not overcooking the fish,” Mattie said. “As much as I want you to keep working, I know you boys are hungry.”

  They sat at a small round table in the kitchen. In front of each of them was a steaming bowl of stew. In the center of the table was a loaf of homemade bread that was still hot enough to melt butter.