Impact (55 page)

“It's hard to imagine that happening, I'm afraid.”

“Why?”

“We've found that the end-user of our service doesn't react well to being reminded of the down side to our operations.”

“Really? How do they react when they learn what happens to the air inside the cabin when your seats catch fire? Or don't you bother to tell them?”

Then come the engineers, talking of tolerances and specifications, viewing the regulations as sacrosanct as the Constitution. When yet another tries to justify the strength of the seats by deferring to the FAA, Tollison can resist no longer.

“The FAA is God, you seem to be saying. Stick with the feds and you'll be all right. Is that your approach?”

“They
are
in charge of safety, after all.”

“The FAA is charged with
promoting
air travel as well as regulating it, right?”

“Yes.”

“Those are contradictory missions, are they not?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Money or safety, that's what it often comes down to, doesn't it?”

“No. That's insulting. That's—”

“No more questions.”

The doctors—three neurologists and a shrink—are just as predictable. No, Jack Donahue didn't feel pain while he was comatose—that's a contradiction in terms—and he isn't in pain now. The explanation is probably grounded in stimulation of the septum—the so-called pleasure center—resulting from the injury. Yes, with the brain anything is possible, including, in this case, moderate to full recovery, given the range of psychoactive drugs and cellular-implant treatments recently become available. Experiments being done with Parkinson's disease and with rats suffering from a condition similar to Alzheimer's indicate certain brain functions can be regenerated with transplant techniques: cells moved from other organs to the brain, or moved from one place in the brain to another. In such circumstances, the outlook for Mr. Donahue is not all bad. No indeed.

When the last one is on the stand, Tollison stands up. “Have you actually examined Mr. Donahue, Doctor?”

“Yes I have.”

“For how long?”

“Approximately thirty minutes.”

“When?”

“Approximately a month ago.”

“Where?”

“At his home.”

“Can you cite to me, Doctor, one case in the literature in which full anterograde memory capacity was regained after an injury to the limbic system such as the one suffered by Mr. Donahue?”

“Uh, no, I can't. However, such injuries are so rare that statistics are of limited utility. I wouldn't be surprised to see such a recovery appear one day soon.”

“While you're waiting, Mr. Donahue sits in his room and tries to remember what day it is. And he fails, doesn't he, Doctor? He fails every time.”

“The frontiers of medicine expand very rapidly, young man. I'm certain that one day—”

When the final doctor is excused, Chambers looks out into the courtroom. He seems uncertain, even afraid, of the step he is about to take. Finally, he speaks: “The defense calls Brenda Farnsworth.”

Her features coiled to strike, her fists clenched at her side, as she marches to the witness stand, Brenda's every aspect is a proclamation that at long last Tollison will get his due. But by the time she takes the oath, the emotion seems halfhearted, as if she realizes that retribution can often be perverse, its results opposite those desired, no matter how fervently.

Chambers takes her through the preliminaries, then asks if she knows the Donahues. “I've known the Donahues for years,” she answers, as though describing a lingering disease.

“Are you friends?”

“I wouldn't put it that way.”

“Enemies?”

She looks at the jury. “Not yet.”

“Did you also know a woman named Carol Farnsworth?”

“Yes.”

“Who was Carol Farnsworth?”

“My sister.”

“Is your sister alive today?”

“My sister is dead.”

“How did she die?”

“She died in the SurfAir crash.”

“Did your sister know Jack Donahue, Ms. Farnsworth?”

Brenda's voice seems to contain a boast. “Yes.”

“How well?”

“Well.”

“How
well?”

“She was in love with the bastard.”

Tollison speaks simultaneously. “Objection, Your Honor. No foundation.”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard the statement. Please control yourself, Ms. Farnsworth, or I'll have you removed from my courtroom. The jurors' oath does not require them to endure profanity.”

Torn between her war with Tollison and the admonition of the judge, Brenda focuses on the former. The look she gives him encompasses every grudge she has ever held.

Chambers clears his throat. “Do you have reason to believe your sister and Jack Donahue knew each other intimately, Ms. Farnsworth?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What reason is that?”

Brenda looks at the jury again, this time eagerly. “From her diaries.”

Chambers grabs a sheaf of papers and proffers them. “Are these the portions of your sister's diary to which you refer?”

Brenda shuffles through the pages. “Yes.”

“Do you recognize the writing as hers?”

“Yes.”

“Move to admit them, Your Honor.”

Tollison stands. “These are copies; they are not the best evidence of the diaries themselves.”

“I can't
find
the originals,” Brenda protests. “My son took them, because he has this thing about my sister. But these are Xerox copies. I made them myself. I—”

Reluctant to have Spitter the engine of her defeat, Tollison elaborates. “Also, Your Honor, the name Donahue never appears in those pages, which would seem to make them irrelevant. They are also hearsay.”

“The document states that Carol Farnsworth intends to go to Los Angeles with a man named Jack,” Chambers blurts. “What could be
more
relevant?”

Tollison is infuriatingly bland. “Move for a mistrial, Your Honor. Counsel has read from the exhibit before its admission into evidence.”

Judge Powell shakes his head impatiently. “The jury will disregard counsel's summary of the purported contents of the diary. No more of that, Mr. Chambers. We are coming to the end of a bumpy road. I want nothing out of either side that would force me to end the journey prematurely.”

Taking advantage of Chambers's scolding, Tollison persists. “There is no date, Your Honor. And nothing ties these papers to the plaintiff. If I may voir dire the witness, I believe I can show the document is even less probative than it appears.”

Powell nods. “Proceed.”

Tollison looks at Brenda until she squirms. “You've known me for a long time, haven't you, Ms. Farnsworth?” he begins quietly.

Her lip curls.
“Too
long,” she says, then elaborates. “Forty years, give or take.”

“And you've known Jack Donahue, the plaintiff, at least that long as well.”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

Tollison hesitates, then turns from Brenda toward the bench. He is as matter-of-fact as if he is ordering his lunch. “Your Honor, may Ms. Farnsworth be instructed to withhold her asides and to answer only the questions that are put to her?”

“You are so instructed, young lady,” Judge Powell orders curtly. “I have no appetite for nonsense at this stage of the proceedings.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Tollison turns back to Brenda, who seethes in the heat of her rebuke. “You've also known Mr. Donahue's wife, Laura, since she came to Altoona with her husband almost twenty years ago.”

“I've known who she is, if that's what you mean. We're not bosom buddies.”

Tollison smiles. “Because we've known each other for so long, and because Altoona is such a small town, I'm in a good position to know whether or not you are answering my questions truthfully, wouldn't you say, Ms. Farnsworth?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Why
wouldn't
I answer truthfully?”

“We'll get to that in a minute. I just want to be sure you understand that if I detect an untruth, I will call whatever witness and produce whatever evidence that is necessary to show a falsehood has been uttered, including aspects of your life or your sister's life that I might find it necessary to reveal in order to correct a misimpression. Is that clear, Ms. Farnsworth?”

Brenda nods sullenly.

“In other words, we are not playing games.”

“I guess not.”

Tollison nods briskly. He believes he has dented her armor. “Please answer this question yes or no. Isn't it true that you believe that
each
of us—Jack, Laura, and myself—have done you a disservice? That you feel cheated by each of the people I named? Including me?”

“I … no. That is, I—”

“Please answer the question, Ms. Farnsworth. You have a grudge against the Donahues and me for wrongs you believe we have committed against you. Is that not correct?”

She hesitates, then yields. “I suppose it is.”

“And you believe the only way open to you to avenge those wrongs is to deny Jack Donahue a recovery in this proceeding. To see to it he gets nothing from this jury.”

Brenda shakes her head. “All I want is for them to know the
truth
, so they can—”

“You are inclined to
bend
the truth a little, are you not? To see that we get our due?”

“That's not true. I wouldn't do that.”

Tollison allows the jury to see his skepticism. “I'm going to ask you some questions about the so-called diary now. And what I want from you is the truth. Not what you
think
you know, or what you
believe
to be true, or what you
wish
were so. Just the truth. No more, no less. Do you understand?”

His words have cowed her. “Yes.”

Tollison's aspect softens. “Jack Donahue has a right to be judged on facts, not fiction. Isn't that right?”

“I suppose.”

“Any grudge you have against me, or against his wife, or against him, is not properly a part of this proceeding. Do you agree or not?”

The words are small and timid. “I agree.”

Tollison nods and smiles. “Thank you.” He waits until she looks at him again, then tries to indicate that the worst is over. “Your sister never mentioned to you that she was having an affair with Jack Donahue, did she?”

The answer is long in coming. When it does, it is after she has considered a lie. “No.”

“You didn't find these papers in your sister's effects, did you?”

“No.”

“You received them in the mail. From an anonymous source?”

“So what?”

“The pages aren't consecutive, are they?”

Brenda shakes her head.

“You don't know what was on those missing pages, do you?”

“No.”

“This is the only portion of the diary you've ever seen?”

“Yes.”

“The only proper name on those pages is a man named Jack?”

“Yes.”

Tollison regards the jury. “Your sister took trips with men on occasion, didn't she, Ms. Farnsworth?”

The implication rekindles her ire. “What are you trying to say?”

“I'm asking if it was unprecedented for your sister to go away with a man for the weekend.”

Her eyes are as bright as patent leather. But after a moment of resistance, she wilts. “She wasn't a nun; she wasn't even married. What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing. One of the men she went away with was a man named Curly Lunceford, was it not?”

“They went to Tahoe a few times, I guess.”

“Do you know Curly's real name?”

“Curly. That's all I know.”

“His given name is Jacklin, isn't it?”

“I … so what? She isn't talking about
Curly
in there.” She waved the papers at his face.
“You
know Curly; Carol wouldn't put
him
in her diary, for Christ's sake.”

Tollison turns to the bench. “I renew my objection, Your Honor. The purported diaries are not relevant, and are clearly hearsay.”

“Sustained. The diary is not admitted.”

“But—” Hawley Chambers sputters.

“Continue, Mr. Chambers.”

Chambers seems about to pursue one of the several lines of inquiry that Tollison's questioning has opened up. But as he is about to stand, he glances at the table where the document Tollison has previously displayed to him still rests. Its potential causes him to remain in his chair. “That's all I have, Your Honor.”

Judge Powell shrugs. “Your witness, Mr. Tollison.”

Tollison's smile is brief and cheerless. “Thank you, Ms. Farnsworth. I have no more questions.”

Brenda Farnsworth twirls toward the judge. “You mean it's
over?
That's all I get to
say?”

“I'm afraid so.”

Public insult has been added to private injury—she is not even wanted here. Her finger is an indictment of her persecutor. “You mean nobody's going to tell these people what he's been
doing
with that bitch? You mean—”

“Objection
, Your Honor,” Tollison roars. “She is about to cause a mistrial.”

“Silence
, young lady,” Judge Powell explodes. “Another word, and you will be taken to jail for contempt of this court.”

“But I—”

“No! No more!”

The command is violent and compelling, and comes not from the bench but from the rear of the room. Brenda swivels toward the voice, prepared to resist its message, but when she sees who has issued the order, she gasps.

Tollison turns as well. Spitter stands at the back of the courtroom, head shaved, arms crossed, militaristic garb in place. His face is still contorted from his cry; his mother is as pained as if he has shot her.