Critical Reaction (34 page)

Ryan looked at Kieran sitting across the table with Emily at his side. The Atomic Café was growing busy as the dinner hour neared. Ryan paid no notice as he fixed Kieran in his stare.

“You lied to us,” Ryan said angrily.

Kieran leaned back, his eyes guarded. “That’s not true. I just . . . I didn’t know this Patrick Martin was involved at LB5. He was just a guy who helped me out at the softball game.”

“You lied about what really happened at the softball game, too. You said it was an accident. You lied about how your car got damaged. You didn’t tell me about the crows in your yard.”

“Dad, he didn’t lie to
me
,” Emily jumped in tiredly. “I knew about all of it. Martin didn’t say anything about being at LB5 that night, so Kieran couldn’t know. But Kieran told me the truth about the game and the rest of it.”

Ryan turned his anger on Emily. “Then why didn’t
you
say anything.”

“Because you weren’t in the case back then.”

“I was writing the checks and doing half the work.”

Emily shrugged dispiritedly—in keeping with the foul mood she’d displayed most of the day. “It was still my case then,” she said. “I was going to try it. Besides, I thought you’d overreact. Like you’re doing now.”

She turned to Kieran. “Is there anything else you’re holding back?” The question was sharp edged, harsher than Ryan expected after she’d just defended the boy.

“No,” Kieran answered carefully.

Ryan shook his head. There should be a special torture for clients who held back information from their lawyers. Maybe for guilty daughters, too.

He’d let it go, Ryan thought, forcing himself to cool down. But now that they knew about the smoke and the sirens, they should certainly call this Martin as a witness and see if there was any reason he and his fellow guard weren’t identified in the investigation report.

“And you’re sure it’s your fellow workers who’re doing this—the crows and the beating?” Ryan asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, my nose was broken at a union softball game, so it must have been the Hanford crew. The crows and the white van . . . I only saw those guys for a minute, and they had masks. But who else could it be?”

Ryan thought about the next day. Around midday tomorrow, Taylor Christensen was testifying. They should slip Patrick Martin in after Christensen.

Ryan pulled out his cell phone and called directory assistance.
“Patrick Martin,” he said when the operator came on. “And could you confirm his address?”

The operator came back and Ryan scribbled the address on his napkin. “All right. Thanks.”

He handed it to Emily, then checked his watch.

“It’s six o’clock. Let’s get back to the Annex and drum up a subpoena for this Martin to testify tomorrow. Since he wasn’t on our witness list, King may complain to the judge—but given that their investigation report didn’t mention the sirens and lights going out, we can probably parlay those omissions into permission to slip him onto the stand.”

From his living room chair before the front window, Poppy watched the van pull up and stop at the curve in the darkness. With the nearest street light half a block away, Poppy couldn’t make out the make or model. But it sure wasn’t white.

Thank God Suzy was still at her sister’s place, until he was sure it was safe to return. Whenever that would be.

Poppy turned out the floor lamp at his shoulder, settling the room into darkness. Placing his book on the floor, he picked up the shotgun lying there, easing it across his lap.

A man emerged from the driver’s side of the van. He stood for a moment on the lawn. Then he slowly trod up the slope toward the front door until he went out of Poppy’s view. Before he did, Poppy saw that his right hand was holding an object.

The doorbell clanged. Poppy got up, holding the shotgun in his right hand, barrel down. With his shoulder and the weapon against the wall, he undid the door latch and opened it with his free hand.

Through the narrow slot, Poppy looked out at a young man—who stared uncertainly back.

“What do you want,” Poppy demanded.

“Are you Patrick Martin?”

Poppy nodded.

The man’s right hand appeared suddenly from behind his back, thrusting toward the door gap. Poppy took a startled step back, as he heard the sound of papers sliding to the floor at his feet.

“Mr. Martin, you’ve been served.”

CHAPTER 37

Adam Worth’s phone was ringing. It looked like the attorney again. He rolled over to squint at the alarm clock. Seven a.m. Three hours sleep this night.

“Yes,” he slurred into the cell.

“Adam, I know you don’t like me calling on your cell,” Eric King began defensively, “but I tried calling you at the office yesterday afternoon and you didn’t get back. I wanted to let you know that we had a little surprise yesterday. Two HVAC workers testified. They both mentioned the smoke coming off the roof of the building that night.”

Adam’s mind, foggy with sleep a moment ago, started to rouse.

“You still there?” King asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I thought I ought to call because you remember that the smoke business never came out in depositions, and wasn’t in the investigation report. But Hart’s getting desperate and is calling everybody at LB5 that night. And one of the HVAC guys also gave the name of the security guard on the roof of LB5 that night, the one you told me not to bother interviewing. Plus he said there was a second guard on the roof that evening. Now Hart’s subpoenaed the first guard to testify later this morning.”

Adam stiffened. “Isn’t it too late to add new witnesses?”

“Yes. But the judge will probably cut them some slack since the man’s name wasn’t given in the investigation report.”

“Fight it,” Adam spat.

“Fight it?”

“Fight to keep Martin off the stand.”

Adam heard a rustling of papers through the phone. “Uh, how did you know that witness’s name?”

“Just keep
the man from testifying,”
Adam’s voice stabbed over the line.

The lawyer’s response was subdued. “I can try. But I’ve got to have a reason.”

“What if the man’s incompetent to testify?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean sick. Mentally.”

Pause. “That could work.”

“All right. I’ll get back to you.”

Adam cut off the call, then searched his contacts for the psychologist’s number.

“Dr. Janniston?”

“Yes,” the psychologist’s sleepy voice came over the phone. “What time is it? I was asleep.”

“Yes,” Adam said. “I’m sorry to wake you. I have to know: have you finished your evaluation of Patrick Martin?”

“You mean my report? Why no. I was going to finish it today.”

“I need it immediately. You have to finish your report and get it over to our lawyer, Eric King, before eight thirty.”

“That’s impossible. I couldn’t possibly have it done by then. Perhaps by eleven if I rushed.”

Adam cursed—then realized he’d done it aloud. He didn’t bother to apologize.

“Then get your report done as quickly as possible and over to the courthouse.
You
have to do this now.
And I want every one of those conclusions we discussed. Do you understand? No equivocating.”

“I understand,” the psychologist said huffily.

Adam hung up and immediately called back the lawyer. “Eric. I’m sending you an expert report with a complete psychological profile on Martin. It will declare that the man is unable to discern truth from fantasy. But you won’t have it for a few hours. The psychologist is bringing it to the courthouse.”

“That’s . . . good,” the puzzled lawyer fumbled. “Uh, okay. I can try to keep Martin off the stand before then, but until I have this report you’re telling me about for the first time, it won’t be easy.”

Adam ignored the tone of the final comment. “It’s on its way,” he said, then punched off the call.

For an instant, Adam again considered heading to the courthouse himself. He instantly realized once more how ridiculous that notion was. He’d made up that stupid name, Larry Mann, at the park. Plus the guard would recognize him. The last thing he needed was to become associated with the case. He might even get called as a witness then.

The next few hours were going to be painful. But he’d just have to wait for a call back from King.

“Thank you, Mr. Stiles. No further questions.”

Ryan returned to counsel table as King called out, “No questions for this witness.” Ryan sat, looking over at Emily, who would be handling the next witness this morning: Taylor Christensen.

The courtroom door opened and a large man walked through. Kieran, who’d met his supervisor downstairs when he arrived, was a step behind. Taylor was dressed in relaxed clothes. A thick moustache flowed over his upper lip.

Taylor walked to the far side of the courtroom and sat in the gallery there. The judge nodded to Emily, who called out, “Plaintiff calls Taylor Christensen.”

Taylor stood and walked through the swinging doors in the bar toward the witness box as Kieran returned to counsel table. As the supervisor sat down, Ryan noticed that he wasn’t returning Kieran’s gaze.

Ryan’s warning barometer began to rise. As the court reporter swore Christensen in, Ryan hastily scribbled a note and slid it to Emily.
Ems—Be careful.

She looked at him quizzically, then nodded and walked up to the podium.

“Mr. Christensen,” Emily asked, “what is your job at Hanford?”

“Stabilizing engineer.”

“What do you do?”

“Measurements and samples. We sample in our assigned buildings to track for the presence of radiation or harmful chemicals, while the buildings are waiting to be finally decommissioned and torn down.”

Ryan detected the slightest tremor in the big man’s voice. And his gaze still dodged Kieran’s.

“Have you always been a stabilizing engineer at Hanford?”

“Yes.”

The answers were clipped.

Emily worked through Taylor’s background, arriving at last to the night of the explosion.

“And you and Mr. Mullaney were on temporary duty at LB5 that night.”

“That’s right. Two weeks.”

“You went into the ‘dark side’ through the door next to the supply manager’s station?”

“Yes.”

“Was there any discussion between the plaintiff, Mr. Mullaney, and the supply manager that night?”

Pause. “Yes.”

Ryan felt his heart rate rising.

“Is it fair to say that it was just a discussion?”

Christensen paused, then his voice betrayed the tremor again as he answered, “It was more than that.”

They’d just gone through the ice. Emily had to get out of this water fast. Ryan fought the urge to come to her side and take over the cross.

“Uh . . . what do you mean?”

No, Emily
. Taylor Christensen had just made himself hostile to Kieran’s case. Back away.

“I mean,” Taylor launched in slowly, “Kieran was ticked off and he let Red Whalen know it. First he lit into him about his boots. Then he started in about his HEPA mask.”

Get out the deposition, Emily. Use the deposition.

As though reading his thoughts, Emily pulled the deposition transcript from beneath her notes. “Mr. Christensen, when asked at your deposition about any talk between Mr. Mullaney and Mr. Whalen that night, isn’t it true that you said, and I quote: ‘Kieran complained
a little
.’”

“Yes.”

Good, Emily. Now drop it.

“But now you’re saying Kieran Mullaney argued with the tech.”

The big man on the stand shook his head. “Well, I’ve thought about it more. And I talked about it with Whalen, too.”

“Steve Whalen?”

“Yeah. I met with him night before last. We had a beer together.”

Covington got to Taylor through Whalen. Why else would the man be having a beer with the supply tech just days before Taylor testified?

Ryan couldn’t see Emily’s eyes, but he could sense, in her stiffening demeanor, that her concern matched his own. Mercifully, she finally abandoned this topic and turned to the even more important ground they had to cover with Christensen.

Ryan leaned forward in his seat as she pulled the room 365 vat document from a file folder—the “mixing-room matrix” Taylor had given Emily weeks ago. Ryan held his breath as Emily approached and presented it to the witness.