“Okay,” Parker replied as he checked the list again. “Maybe we should start with Dr. Cavendish.”
“Why Cavendish? What made him stand out?”
Parker wrinkled his brow. “He has a degree from Stanford, which is a pretty good school.”
“So are Ohio State, Georgia Tech, and Northwestern, where some of the other experts studied. Tell me more.”
“I think Dr. Cavendish might be the kind of witness who can make complicated things simple enough for a jury to understand. I mean, you’d have to interview him to make sure—”
“Very accurate,” Blocker broke in. “He testified in a case for me eighteen months ago, and that’s exactly what he did. He has an engineering degree, and he’s worked with several governmental agencies on auto safety and highway design. Even though he lectures all over the world to professional associations, he doesn’t talk down to the jury. He grew up in Alabama and has an accent that instantly sets a southern jury at ease.”
“So you’ve already made up your mind?”
“No. Let’s set up another conference call. How about next Wednesday afternoon at three thirty?”
Parker checked his calendar. He had nothing to do that day except grind out work for Greg.
“That works,” he said. “Besides the alcohol expert and the other accident reconstruction candidates, is there anyone else you want me to research?”
“Surprise me,” Blocker replied. “But I have to warn you, I’m not often caught off guard.”
The phone call ended with Parker more convinced than ever that Thomas Blocker was a genius.
Frank came inside from trimming the bushes in front of his house, grabbed a bottle of water from his refrigerator, and sat down to check the soccer scores for the Bundesliga. He then switched over to his e-mail account. Included in the usual batch of spam ads for free vacations and miracle diet plans was an unnamed message from a no-reply address in Germany. Frank clicked it open. It included a single line of text:
Greetings, Hauptmann.
CHAPTER 26
Parker sat across the table from Creston as they shared an onion ring basket and waited for the waitress to bring each of them a pair of gourmet hot dogs.
“Are you sure there is such a thing as a gourmet hot dog?” Creston asked.
Parker pointed to the menu on the wall. “What else would you call a hot dog topped with borracho beans, fire-grilled salsa, red onion, cilantro, and goat cheese? And I’m glad you were able to get away from school for lunch. I bet you get sick of cafeteria food.”
“It’s better than when we were there,” Creston said and shrugged. “The faculty line has a decent salad bar. And this semester I have one less class on Wednesday because I’m coaching the cross-country team. However, the fifty minutes they give me is gobbled up by the two and a half hours I spend with the team three afternoons a week.”
“You’d be running even if they didn’t pay you,” Parker replied, picking up a slender onion ring and dipping it into a mixture of ketchup and horseradish sauce. “Are you still running with Belinda?”
“It’s Melinda, which I expect you to remember when I introduce her to you. And we’re running down the same path. How about the blond photographer? Have you convinced her to go to the playground and swing like a monkey?”
“Not yet.”
Parker gave his friend a brief summary of the boat trip to Oriental.
“You know what I like about that?” Creston asked thoughtfully when Parker finished.
“What?”
“That you’ve brought your grandfather in as chaperone and wingman. He’s always looked at me as if he was seeing right through me. If he doesn’t like a woman, you should probably run as fast as you can in the other direction.”
“I didn’t know you felt that way about my grandfather.”
Creston nodded. “Oh yeah. He never said a lot, which always made me think he knew a lot more than he let on.”
Parker took a sip of his drink and stared at Creston.
“What is it?” Creston asked after a few moments passed.
“I’m trying to look through you,” Parker replied.
“You’re weird.”
Parker took a bite of his hot dog that was topped with grilled onions and peppers. “I know what you need to do,” he said.
“What?”
“Invite Melissa to go kayaking with you,” he said. “Maybe take her to the marshy area upriver where we used to camp when we were in high school. Build a fire on an island and roast marshmallows. The bugs are dying off with the cooler weather. She’ll love it.”
“Melinda has never mentioned anything about liking kayaks, campfires, or marshmallows.”
“Which will make it that much more impressive when you suggest it.”
SWITZERLAND, 1944
After crossing the Rhine, Franz spent the rest of the night walking the streets of Basel as a deserter in a new country. The following morning he slipped out of town and headed west.
One night he slept in an orchard; the next he hid in a hayloft. During the day, he walked about half a kilometer away from the road. Shortly after sunset on the fifth day, he went down to the river for a drink of water and to fill an empty wine bottle in case he got thirsty during the night. He was lying on his stomach in a brushy spot when he heard a man’s voice in Swiss German.
“Otto, drag the boat out of the water and onto the bank. My leg is hurting too much to help.”
Franz lay still as he heard the sound of grunts and cracks of small branches from nearby bushes.
“Careful!” the man called out. “It’s about to tip on its side!”
The next sound Franz heard was a loud splash in the water. Still lying down, he scooted away from the river.
“Help!” he heard a muffled voice cry.
Franz jumped up and forced his way through the bushes. After a few meters he burst into a narrow clearing at a spot where the bank sloped gradually down to the river. Standing in the mud at the water’s edge was a young boy who looked about ten years old. A small wooden boat was a few feet away from him and beginning to fill with water. Nets and fishing paraphernalia had spilled out and were drifting away in the slow current.
“Where is he?” Franz asked.
“Opa!” the boy wailed as he pointed to a spot not far from the front of the boat.
Franz quickly took off his shoes and stripped down to his underwear. In the fading light it was impossible to tell the depth of the water. He stepped off the bank and immediately went all the way under. He came up with his arms flailing and steadied himself by treading water. There was no sign of the man who had called out for help. Franz kicked away from the bank and reached the boat. When he touched it, his foot hit something solid beneath him that moved. Turning loose of the boat, Franz dived down into the water. His fingers felt hair, and he grabbed it. He tried to pull the man to the surface, but he barely moved. Franz’s lungs were about to explode, and he had to let go of the hair.
Popping to the surface, he took a couple of deep breaths. The boy on the bank was sobbing loudly. Franz dived again. This time he managed to grab a piece of cloth and, with all the strength he could muster, kicked to the surface. He knew that if this didn’t work, he wouldn’t have the strength to try again. His hand felt the side of the sinking boat that was still above the surface enough that Franz could pull himself toward shore. With the man still submerged and in his grip, Franz moved along the side of the boat toward the bank.
“There! There!” the boy screamed and pointed to Franz’s right.
Franz maneuvered in the direction where the boy pointed and suddenly felt the bottom of the riverbed beneath his feet. There was a shelf. Letting go of the boat, he stood up. The water was waist-deep. Taking hold of the man’s shirt with both hands, he pulled him to the surface and pushed him toward the bank and the hysterically crying boy. With great effort, Franz was able to roll the heavyset man onto the bank and climb out after him.
The man was lying
on his back with the boy at his feet. The older man wasn’t breathing. Turning the man’s head to the side, Franz pushed on his chest and water poured out of the man’s mouth and down his stubbly gray beard. Then, to Franz’s amazement, the man made a choking sound. Franz pushed again and forced out a much smaller amount of water. The man coughed again but weaker. The young boy was now almost on top of Franz trying to touch the old man’s face.
“Get back!” Franz pushed him away roughly.
Franz leaned over and put his ear in front of the man’s mouth. Hearing nothing, he pressed again on the man’s chest. No water spilled out, but the man choked and coughed two times and then stopped. He waited and watched anxiously for another sign of life. The sobbing boy came close, reached out his hand, and gently touched the old man’s face.
“Opa!” he cried out again.
The man’s eyes fluttered and tried to open but failed. He choked once and gasped for breath. Franz didn’t know whether he should raise the man’s head so he left him alone. The boy called out again, only not quite so loud. The old man sucked in a deep breath and coughed several times. His eyes opened and tried to focus on Franz’s face. Seeing his grandfather alive, the young boy pressed his head to the old man’s chest and wrapped his arms around him.
“Opa, Opa,” he repeated over and over. “Please don’t die!”
Franz sat up. He could see the gentle rising and falling of the old man’s chest. The boy’s voice and touch were more powerful than anything Franz could do. The man coughed several times again and raised his hand to his mouth. He turned his head toward Franz and tried to sit up.
Franz reached out to him. “Easy, easy.”
“Boat,” the man managed to say before another coughing fit hit him.
Even in the fading light, Franz could see the old man’s face turning red. It was a beautiful sight.
The boat was barely above water but only a few feet from the bank. Franz eased over to the spot where the muddy shelf lay beneath the water and stepped into the river. He eased along the shelf, reached out, and grabbed the bow of the boat. Inside was a rope. Taking hold of the rope, he returned to the bank and hauled the boat close enough that he could tip it on its side and empty it. Then it was easy for Franz to drag it out of the water. Once the boat was on dry ground, the old man closed his eyes for a few seconds.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Parker read over the short list of potential neuropsychiatrists in the Ferguson case. He’d never heard of a neuropsychiatrist until he started practicing law, and now he had the responsibility of evaluating them. The candidate with the best academic credentials had the least experience in the courtroom. However, being fresh could be a good thing because it would be hard for a defense lawyer to find examples of inconsistent testimony in other cases. Another option was a female medical school professor who took time off in the summer to ply the expert witness circuit. She conducted evaluations only in June, July, and August and made herself available for depositions on Saturday or Sunday. However, the professor assured prospective clients that when it came to testifying in person at trial, she could make arrangements due to her tenured teaching schedule. A third contender was an elderly man who had by far the most practical and trial experience. He was a retired physician who’d worked for a major medical center in Nashville, and Parker suspected the man’s expert witness career enabled him to take an extra cruise or two on the Mediterranean.
Vicki brought in the morning mail and laid it on his desk. On top was a letter from the North Carolina Bar Association. She waited while Parker picked it up.
“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.
“Probably,” Vicki replied. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed that you don’t have to go to Raleigh for an in-person interview.”
“In-person interview?”
“Oh, I know how it works,” Vicki said confidently. “Greg isn’t the only attorney I’ve worked for who got hit with a grievance. I know the drill.”
“You must be bad luck,” Parker replied grumpily.
“Statistically, a lawyer has one bar complaint and one act of malpractice per decade of practice. You have one of the two out of the way quickly.”
“And I’m not planning on committing malpractice anytime during the next nine years. I’d rather skew the statistics higher.”
Parker waited. Vicki didn’t move.
“Aren’t you going to read the letter?” she asked.
“Eventually, and you want to watch my reaction.”
Parker ripped open the envelope and read it without changing expression. “Okay,” he said to Vicki. “I’ve read the letter.”
“And?”
Parker grinned. “They’re going to close the file. Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it. They’ll let Donna McAlpine know I did nothing unethical. She gets out of jail at the end of the week. Maybe that will help her forget about me and concentrate on staying off the road when she’s been drinking, especially with her little girl in the car.”
Vicki left, and Parker double-checked the system he used on his computer to make sure he didn’t miss a deadline and commit malpractice. Then, as he returned to the list of potential experts, an item on one of their résumés suddenly caught his attention.
Frank pushed his chair away from the dinner table at Lenny and Mattie’s house.
“Mattie, your German potato pancakes are fantastic, better than any I ate growing up. They’re crispy on the outside and creamy on the inside with enough spice to make them interesting.”
Mattie laughed. “And you know how to give a compliment better than most men born in America.”
“I compliment your cooking all the time,” Lenny protested, patting his stomach. “And I carry the proof around with me wherever I go.”
“Yes,” Mattie said as she picked up a couple of plates to take into the kitchen. “But Frank doesn’t make me feel guilty. I hate being responsible for the size of your stomach.”
Mattie left and Lenny turned to Frank. “What kind of friend comes over and makes me look bad when I try to praise my wife’s cooking?”
“The kind who brought the fresh fish we grilled.”
“Yeah,” Lenny said and nodded. “That was tasty fish. Low on the calories too.”
“Which we made up for with everything else we piled on our plates.” Frank glanced past Lenny toward the kitchen. “I’ll let you score a few points by helping Mattie clean the table while I go outside and make sure the grill is closed up tight.”
A side door led to the rear of the house. The fish cooked so quickly that it would be a waste to let the charcoal briquettes turn to ash. Frank closed the dampers.
The lighthearted conversation around the dinner table hadn’t totally banished the tightness in his gut that had plagued Frank since receiving the e-mail from Germany. The dinner was Mattie’s way of rewarding him for the matchmaker role he’d played in suggesting that Chris get to know Sally Henderson. The two young people had been inseparable for weeks, and the more Mattie got to know Sally, the better she liked her.
Frank went back inside the house. Lenny and Mattie were still in the kitchen, so he sat down in the living room and closed his eyes for a moment while he waited for them to finish. When he did, he instantly found himself in an unfamiliar place. At first he thought it was a well-decorated living room in a nice home, but then the floor moved beneath his feet, and he wondered if he was in the middle of an earthquake.
Then a voice without a face said, “Herr Haus? I’d like to talk to you about Siena.”
Frank’s blood ran cold. He was aware of the presence of other people in the room, and he strained to bring the face into focus. The floor shifted again.
“Frank, would you like to play a few hands of UNO?” Lenny’s voice caused the image to suddenly compress and vanish like a photo being deleted from a digital camera. Frank opened his eyes and looked irritably at Lenny.
“Couldn’t you tell I had my eyes closed?” he asked.
/> “Yeah, and if this was after Sunday lunch, we’d all be looking for a place to nap. But you mentioned getting together to play UNO the other day, and I told Mattie about it out in the kitchen. She’s brewing a pot of the black tea you like so much, and we thought we might play a game while you drink your tea. You know how much she likes card games. But if you want to head on home, it’s not—”
Frank passed his hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about something and didn’t have a chance to finish my thoughts.”
Lenny gave Frank a puzzled look. Frank closed his eyes again for a moment. The memory of the shifting room was vivid, but he doubted he could force it to come back to life.
“Where should we sit for the game?” he asked, opening his eyes again.
“The dining room table,” Lenny replied. “Mattie has a bunch of craft stuff spread out on the kitchen table and doesn’t want to disturb it. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“As good as a man my age deserves to be,” Frank replied, trying to sound more relaxed than he felt. “And this time I’m not going to forget to say UNO when I’m down to my last card. Do you know how to say UNO in German?”
“No,” Lenny answered.
“Correct. You can’t,” Frank replied. “It’s Spanish.”
Lenny balled up his fist and shook it at Frank with a grin.
“Don’t start the game without me!” Mattie called out from the kitchen. “The tea is still brewing.”
Frank stood up. When he did, he felt slightly dizzy and gripped the top of the chair with his right hand. Lenny reached out to steady him. Frank leaned into his friend for a moment and then straightened up.
“I’m okay,” Frank said. “Sometimes I feel light-headed when I get up too fast. It happens to everyone.”
The Witnesses Page 21