Silent Justice (24 page)

Colby plowed right ahead. “In fact, Mrs. Elkins, you were suspended for an entire semester after you were arrested by campus security officers on a drug-related charge, weren’t you? I have a copy of your transcript right here.”

“I was at a party,” Cecily tried to explain. “A couple of the kids had joints on them. It was really nothing.”

“The campus administrators didn’t feel it was nothing.”

Cecily shrugged. “Rogers is a small college in a small town.”

Colby looked indignant. “Mrs. Elkins, I consider drug abuse a serious matter, as do most right-thinking people I know.”

Ben thought it was time to jump in, even if he didn’t really have an objection. “Colby, does this abusive line of questioning have any relevance to the lawsuit, or are you just being cruel for the fun of it?”

Colby was unfazed. “This is of the utmost relevance, counsel. Mrs. Elkins, when was your son Billy born?”

“About a year after I got out of school.”

“Which was about a year and a half after you were picked up on drug charges. You have heard, no doubt, that illegal narcotics can have a negative effect on pregnancy, haven’t you?”

Cecily’s nostrils flared. “I never used drugs when I was pregnant. Not even aspirin.”

“You mean, after you knew you were pregnant, don’t you? But you were probably with child for at least a month or two before you realized it.”

“I did not hurt my baby!”

“I’m sure you want to believe that,” Colby said calmly. “I’m sure you would much rather blame his illness on some mysterious unseen corporate evil—than accept responsibility for your own actions.”

“I did not hurt my baby!”

Colby turned away, shuffling his papers. “That, of course, will be for the jury to decide.”

“I did not hurt my baby!”

“Let’s take a break,” Ben said, jumping up.

“This is my deposition,” Colby said calmly, “and I did not call for a break.”

“I don’t give a damn whether you did or you didn’t.”

Ben took Cecily outside the conference room. He tried to calm her, but had little success. He put her in Christina’s hands, hoping she somehow might be able to settle her nerves.

A few minutes later, Ben returned to the conference room. “Congratulations, Colby,” he said. “You’ve managed to achieve an all-time high on the depravity meter.”

Colby barely blinked. “We have angles like this on all your clients, Ben.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means this is a scruffy bunch you’ve taken under your wing. They all have secrets—except they won’t be secrets anymore, if you continue to pursue this lawsuit.”

“You’re a disgusting person, Colby. Disgusting and unethical.”

“Excuse me, O High and Mighty One, but the Rules of Professional Conduct require me to zealously represent my client to the best of my ability. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“What you’re doing is using blackmail to suppress a legitimate claim. That isn’t honorable. Profitable, maybe. But hardly anything to brag about.”

“I’m not going to waste time bantering with you. Bring your witness back into the conference room so we can continue.”

“Forget it. She’s done for the day.”

“Fine. Then bring in the next one. Mrs. Hardesty.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re going to love what I do to her.”

Loving parked his pickup and strolled toward the Blackwood Bowl-O-Rama. As far as he could tell, this was the local grown-up hot spot. The parking lot was almost full; the only other place in town that came close was the Sonic Drive-in, and that was mostly teenagers cruising in and out. The crowd he sought was inside here, amidst the clang and clatter of heavy balls and falling pins.

Loving liked Blackwood; it reminded him of the tiny town in western Oklahoma where he grew up. He had no problem relating to the folks in this burg. They were cordial, direct, simple. Not stupid, mind you. Simple. Uncomplicated. There was a difference. He’d put these folks up against some of the would-be highbrows he came across in Tulsa any day of the week.

Before he pushed through the front door, Loving drew in his breath and mentally put himself in his “tough guy” mode. Contrary to popular opinion, this was not something he particularly enjoyed. But it was necessary. In his line of work, the courteous just didn’t get results. Whether he enjoyed this routine or not, he owed the Skipper a lot, and what’s more, he thought this case was important, more so than most. So he didn’t want to disappoint.

He stopped at the front desk and rented a pair of ugly red-and-beige bowling shoes, size twelve, but did not rent a lane. He wasn’t here to play. He was here to persuade.

He spotted his quarry on lane ten. There were six of them, all wearing matching green jerseys. This was an H. P. Blaylock bowling-league team. The league had many teams, but this one was made up of men who worked in the waste-disposal department—including Archie Turnbull. The logo on the back of their matching shirts read
TONY’s TIGERS.
Loving had learned that this was a tribute to Tony Montague, a Blaylock employee who had died six years before in a horrible bus accident.

“Excuse me.” Loving walked up behind where five of them were sitting, while the sixth took his shot. “Could I speak to you gentlemen for a moment?”

Heads turned. “Who are you?” one of them asked. The smell of beer was thick on his breath.

“My name’s Loving. I’m a private investigator. I’m workin" for Ben Kincaid.”

Mostly frowns. “Kincaid? Don’t know him.”

Except from Archie Turnbull. “I do. He’s the lawyer representing the parents. The ones suing Blaylock.”

The bowlers could not have moved away from Loving more quickly had Turnbull told them he had an advanced case of leprosy. “Get outta here!” one of them shouted.

“We don’t want nothin" to do with you!” said another.

“I’ve just got a few simple questions,” Loving said. “It won’t take long.”

Beer Breath was the first who decided to get tough. “Maybe you didn’t hear,” he said, leaning into Loving’s face. “We told you to get out!”

“Look, I don’t want any trouble—”

“Well, you’re gonna get it! If you don’t clear out!”

Loving drew himself up to his full height, which was somewhere between six foot two and the sky. He didn’t have to make threats; his body made the threats for him. Beer Breath retreated to the safety of the ball carousel.

“All I want to do is ask a few questions about how you boys disposed of waste at the plant.”

“I’ve already told your boss everything I know,” Turnbull said.

“Have you?” Loving replied, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Turnbull turned away.

“Don’t talk to him,” Beer Breath said, tugging on Turnbull’s shoulder. “They’re just ambulance chasers.”

“The only thing I’m chasin" is the truth,” Loving said. “We haven’t got that yet. But I’m bettin" one of you boys could remedy that.”

“We’re not tellin" you nothin’,” Beer Breath barked. He hoisted his bowling ball up with one hand. “And if you don’t clear out, I’m calling security.”

“That go for you, too, Archie?”

Turnbull didn’t answer.

“You know, Mrs. Elkins’s boy Billy—he loved to bowl, too. He was kind of a little guy; it was prob’ly his best sport. I wonder if maybe your Becky didn’t come bowlin" with him on occasion.”

Turnbull’s head jerked up, riveted by the sound of his daughter’s name.

“Billy’s mother loved to bring him out here. They did it two, three times a week. "Course, that all came to an end. She won’t be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of takin" her son bowling anymore. Never again.”

Three of the green-jerseyed men walked on either side of Loving, surrounding him. “We want you out of here,” Beer Breath growled. “Now.”

Loving made a show of being unimpressed. “Let me give you my card. If one of you wants to get in touch, just call me. Or call Ben Kincaid’s office.”

Beer Breath took the card, tore it up, and let the pieces flutter to the ground. “Last chance, asshole. Leave.”

Loving nodded. “Be seein" you, Archie.” Loving burned a path to the man’s eyes and didn’t blink until Turnbull finally turned away.

As Loving casually walked away, in no great hurry, he realized that he’d learned one thing: the Skipper’s instincts were better than he’d expected. Turnbull did know something—Loving was certain of it. Unfortunately, he had every reason in the world not to tell what he knew. But there had to be some way to get past that, to get the man talking.

If only Loving could figure out what it was.

Presumably, Colby thought the element of surprise was gone by the time he got to Mrs. Hardesty, another of the parents in the class action against Blaylock. He made no attempt to charm or seduce her. There could be no accusation of subterfuge in a deposition that began with: “Your husband beats you, doesn’t he, Mrs. Hardesty?”

Martha Hardesty’s jaw dropped an inch. Nothing Ben or Christina had told her prepared her for this.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Colby said, “but you have to answer verbally. So the court reporter can take it down.”

“But … my … Jack—”

“He beats you, right? You are under oath, ma’am.”

Martha was in her mid-forties, average weight, flaxen hair. She had once been quite thin, but three pregnancies had a way of changing that. “He … doesn’t. Not really.”

“Not really? Please.” He shuffled the papers before him. “I have a hospital report. You came in with two black eyes. You told the attendant your husband did it.”

“W-well … but—”

“So which is it, Mrs. Hardesty? Were you lying then, or are you lying now?

“Objection!” Ben shouted. “Colby, if you don’t shape up, I’ll terminate this depo just like the last one!”

“Which will only continue it to another day. Frankly, Ben, I don’t care if you stretch this case out for a year. I’m in no hurry.” He turned back toward the witness. “Mrs. Hardesty, there’s no point in hiding. We all already know the answer. Your husband beats you, doesn’t he?”

Martha’s eyes turned downward. “He … has before.”

“How often?”

“N-not often.…”

“Two times a week?”

“No!”

“You went to the emergency room three times last year alone.”

“But—it wasn’t because of Jack.”

“Yes, that’s what you said before. I’m afraid we can’t trust anything you say now.”

Ben clenched his teeth. “Colby!”

Colby proceeded. “On one of these occasions, your arm was broken. Surely you realize that violence of that magnitude could potentially damage an unborn baby.”

“But—Tommy was born long before that—”

“True. But while you were pregnant, the hospital records show you”—he cleared his throat—“ "tripped and fell down the stairs." Right?”

“That had nothing to do with Jack! I just got dizzy—”

“Mrs. Hardesty, you’re aware that an injury like that could potentially damage an unborn fetus, aren’t you?”

“The doctors said there was no damage.”

“None that they detected at the time. But it’s always possible. For that matter, almost anything is possible in a home with a man as violent as your husband.”

“Jack did not cause Tommy’s illness!”

“How can you be sure? Are you a doctor?”

“No, but—”

“Do you know what causes leukemia?”

“I’m not a doctor, but—”

“But when your son died prematurely, you didn’t blame your violent husband, who had shown a repeated tendency for violence—which, I might add, you could have curtailed by pressing charges, something you never bothered to do. Instead, you trumped up some preposterous unprovable claim against a corporation.”

“That’s not true!”

“We’ll let the jury decide, ma’am. We’ll let them decide what they think is more probable—death due to some fantastic pseudoscientific water problem, or death due to habitual unchecked physical abuse.”

“That’s not what happened!”

“This deposition is concluded,” Colby said, folding up his notes. “If you wish to dismiss your suit now, Mr. Kincaid, this would be a good time. Otherwise—bring on the next one.”

Loving was leaving the bowling alley when he heard a whisper from the alleyway separating the Bowl-O-Rama from a closed pawn shop.

“Psst! Mister!”

Loving had to grin. Was this really happening? It was like something out of a spy movie.

“Over here!”

Well, he never passed up a lead. Loving ambled into the alley and found . .. not James Bond … not Humphrey Bogart … but two kids on bicycles. They couldn’t be more than ten, if that.

“You talkin" to me?” Loving asked.

“Are you the one asking all the questions about the plant?” the towheaded boy asked.

Loving saw his reputation had preceded him. Well, spend a day asking questions in a small Oklahoma town, that sort of thing was bound to happen. “Yup. I’m the one. Why?” He crouched down to the kids" level. “You know somethin’?”

The two boys looked at each other. “Yeah,” the blond said finally. “We were there when they found the body.”

Loving’s chin rose. This was turning out to be more interesting than he had imagined. “You were at the plant?”

“No. Just outside. Hiding in the ravine.”

“Hiding?”

The other boy jabbed his friend in the stomach. “He was hiding from the Outsider.”

“The Outsider?”

The blond boy looked mortified. “It’s just a game we were playing. It isn’t real. But what happened at the plant sure was.”

“You were there when the workers found the drum behind the plant with the corpse?”

“Yeah. Except it wasn’t behind the plant. It was buried.”

“Buried?”

“Yeah. Under the ground. Lots of them were.”

Loving’s eyes bulged. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. Waste storage drums were buried in the ground?”

“Yeah. They had a big Brush Hog diggin" "em up. "Cept it dropped one of them and it burst open. And a body tumbled out.”

Loving couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was not the official Blaylock account of how the body was discovered—not by a long shot. “Are you sure you boys aren’t maybe … confusing what really happened with your game? Imaginin" stuff that didn’t strictly speaking occur?”

The blond boy seemed offended. “What d’ya think I am, some kind of jerk?”