Here is a preview of the first Jonathan Brooks novel by A.C. Frieden, Tranquility Denied…
PROLOGUE
Central Russia—August 19, 1991
The elevator ground noisily as it decelerated, bouncing a few times before it stopped on the third floor. The door opened and a wall of cool, damp air instantly thrust onto the short, stocky woman, an envelope clenched tightly in her hand. She crowed her neck forward and peered down the poorly illuminated corridor, a place she had never before visited.
The thunder crackled outside and tumbled down to her end of the hallway, followed by the more docile sound of rain. She took a deep breath before taking her next step. The floor appeared abandoned, and for a moment she wished her colleagues had just pulled a joke on her. But she knew better.
Doctor Vadenko, the name echoed in her head. He must be here, somewhere. She had heard strange things about the Zapretnaya Zona, the forbidden area. It had been the topic of wild rumor since she had arrived here from nursing school. It was the dominion of a handful of weird doctors and a couple of reclusive nurses, both of whom had left, so she had heard.
I'm here to deliver this and that's all, she told herself as if to feel reassured that her visit would be brief. She stepped out of the elevator. Strangely, the air didn't have the usual odor of ammonia-based disinfectants that permeated the rest of the building.
The blue tile floor was cracked and faded, exposing the aged concrete below that made a gritty sound with every step she took. She followed the single row of yard-long incandescent lights that ran the length of the hallway. Some bulbs were lit but filthy, others were extinguished.
The skin on her exposed calves and arms shivered, and the warmth in her chest was quickly dissipating. The temperature had dropped by several degrees in the thirty paces since she had left the elevator. It was even colder than the outside air the last time she had gone out for a smoke. She rounded the corner to another corridor, just as desolate as the previous one. Each room she passed was vacant, the wide open doors revealing dilapidated rooms with warped, mattressless bed frames and torn curtains. The windows were so dirty that the trees outside appeared like giant ghosts, the lightning turning the branches into dark silhouettes that looked like arms scraping the glass as if they were trying to claw their way in.
"Office nineteen," she whispered, glancing at the doors and walls in search of the room.
She rounded the next corner and stopped. The hallway ended at a wide metal door a few feet away. It looked like it weighed more than a car. She was puzzled, having never seen such a large door anywhere else in the building. Its riveted surface reminded her of an armored door she'd seen in an air raid shelter during her training. A double-wide steel chain ran from the door's large, oblong handle to a steel hook bolted to the adjacent wall. The ends of the chain were secured by an oversized padlock. That wasn't all. Two bulky latches secured the bottom edge of the door to the floor.
A brief low-pitched noise stole the nurse's attention. She looked over her shoulder and spotted another closed door a few feet behind her. She glanced at a plate on the doorframe. "Here we are," she announced with a bit of relief, noticing the number nineteen. She turned, straightened her skirt and hat, cleared her throat and knocked.
Only the faint, steady sound of rain came from the other side.
As she waited, her curiosity again drew her to the armored door. She took a few steps and examined it more carefully. Parts of the chains were rusted. She touched the top one and felt a layer of dust coat her fingers. She then tugged at a metal viewing slot at the top center of the door. With her strong hand, she slid it open, revealing a small window built into the door. She stood on her tiptoes to have a glimpse of what lay on the other side, only to find the glass frosted with dirt. She only saw that the hallway continued, and that it was brighter on the other side. Why it was sealed off from the rest of the floor didn't make any sense.
Another sound came through the door of office number nineteen, taking her away from the armored door. She approached and knocked. "Comrade Vadenko, are you there?"
Again, there was no answer. Only a strange murmur drowned by the rain crept through the door. She leaned her head against it, trying to make sense of the bizarre noise. She closed her eyes, listened intently and quickly gathered what it was: someone crying—a man.
"Is everything all right?" she asked hesitantly.
"Dammit, who is it?" The male voice was as deep as it was unfriendly.
"Katia, from radiology," the nurse answered apprehensively, now asking herself why she—and not someone else—had been so unlucky as to be given this chore.
The man didn't respond.
She waited, rubbing her arms to warm herself. It was cold enough that she saw the white vapor of her breaths exit her lips.
"Can't this wait?" the man groaned, his cavernous monotone voice sending shivers down her spine.
It sure can, she thought. I could slip this letter under your door and never have to see your face. But an odd sense of duty, coupled with her instinctive curiosity, tugged at her to persist. "I have a letter for you. I've been told it's important." She began to smell something burning. It was coming from the doctor's office.
"Nothing is important anymore...Nothing!" the man said. "But come in if you must."
Katia turned the knob and cracked open the door. The edge of a wooden desk came into view. She pushed the door further, glanced straight ahead and jumped back. "Doctor!"
The man was slouched behind his desk with a gun in his hands, the barrel pointed at the wall to his left. The window behind him was wide open, and the large raindrops battered the sill. His eyes were closed, his cheeks moist with tears.
Katia glanced at a metal garbage can with small flames and smoke rising from it. It appeared that papers and file folders were burning. She then turned her attention back to the armed doctor in front her. "What...what are you doing?" she asked, her eyes never leaving the weapon. The faint smell of liquor seeped into her lungs.
The doctor opened his eyes. They were red with dark gray bags under them. He speared her with an angry yet hollow gaze, but said nothing.
"You should put that down," she suggested, her heart now racing. "Please!"
"Why?" he barked, his face turning stone-cold. His gaze descended to the black revolver in his hands. "It's all over anyway. I can't take this wretched existence, condemned to be the guardian of what lies behind that steel door. For two years! Two years where nobody gives a damn about my career, my life, my dreams. Even my trusted allies have abandoned me. Even Comrade Karmachov, that swine, that wretched swine. I can't do this one more day, not one more hour!" His shoulders sank as he shook his head, his eyes staring more intently at his gun.
"I came only to—" Katia said before interrupting herself with a more important thought. "Maybe I should call someone to come help you."
"No one can help me, unless—" Doctor Vadenko stopped speaking as his eyes fixated on the envelope in her hand. His sulky gaze intensified. "It's from the Ministry, isn't it?" he asked, though his pitiful look told her he already knew. He turned his head away.
"What is it, Doctor?" she asked.
"So, you came to deliver the bad news," he said with a long breath behind his words.
"I don't understand?"
"It doesn't matter anymore. Haven't you heard, you stupid woman?" he asked loudly as if she ought to know.
Katia's feet were frozen to the floor. Is it loaded? she asked herself, hoping it wasn't, wishing it was all one huge joke. But it wasn't. Her heart continued to race. Of course it is loaded; of course he can use it.
The doctor slammed his gun onto the top of the desk. "Didn't you hear me? Don't you know what's going on?"
Her hands began shaking. Her legs too. "What are you saying?" she asked, almost shouting.
"It's the..." he began, but paused, appearing lost in his own imploding thoughts. "It was on the radio, minutes ago. Our country is falling apart. Everything is falling apart!"
"I don't—"
"You idiot. Moscow! There's a state of emergency, MVD troops are surrounding the Parliament, Yeltsin is calling it a coup and our Ministry has shut down." He heaved a yard of air before clumsily scraping the gun in an ark along the surface of the desk. "Hold that envelope up in the air."
She did as she was told, her hands trembling.
"Higher!"
"Can I just give it to you?"
"No, I know what it says," he uttered with disgust. "Those bastards. But now it is not only me who is doomed. We are all finished."
He suddenly reminded her of her husband: drunk, despairing of life and occasionally bellicose—but not nearly as dangerous as a deranged, plastered scientist holding a firearm. She wanted to listen, to understand the troubling news. Hell, she wanted to tear open the envelope to know what on earth this insane man meant. But she couldn't as long as his weapon was so close, so imminently able to terminate her existence with a simple gesture. "Please put that down and let me call for help."
Her suggestion angered him. "Shut up. What do you know? You're just a peasant girl in a uniform. You probably think working in this place is just fine. Where mediocrity reigns and where your stupidity blinds you from ambition. You can rot here if you wish. I will not."
If Katia had her way, she would have knocked his teeth out. "You should be glad to be here. Safe, away from Moscow. Away from the chaos."
"Then you will die here." He cocked his head back and wiped his tears with his sleeve. He then tightened his hold on the gun's grip, slid his index finger around the trigger and aimed the weapon up.
Katia took a step back without even thinking.
He swung the barrel over the desk, a pinging sound resonating as it tapped an empty vodka bottle that lay over his papers. The bottle rolled off the edge of the desk and shattered on the floor. Bits of glass sprayed over her feet, and pungent vapors of alcohol quickly came her way. She stared at the doctor's vacant expression and gauged his every movement by the millimeter.
Perhaps with deliberately exaggerated flair, he pointed the revolver at his temple. His eyes narrowed and then shut as he strained his face. "Save yourself, woman, while you still can—"
Katia had to do something, anything to stop this lunacy. She lunged at him, her body clumsily flying over the desk, her arms stretched forward. "Nyet!"
A loud bang ricocheted through the thunder and rain.
1
New Orleans—November 1996
Jonathan sprinted down the stairs, his mind fighting off the anxiety that had fermented through the long night, and all because of his latest case—that dreaded case—unlike any he'd ever handled before.
The radio echoed across the entire first floor. "It's twenty to eight and let's go to Scott for the traffic report and the latest on the overturned semi on the eastbound ramp of the Crescent City Bridge..."
"Linda, please change the station," Jonathan said testily as he scurried into the kitchen with folders under one arm, struggling to put on his jacket with the other. "I need not be reminded how late I am. Judge Breaux—the nasty dinosaur—will have me for breakfast."
Linda returned a peaceful gaze, her beautiful eyes wide open. "Don't be fussy. You'll win the trial, and the old fart will retire knowing how brilliant you are."
"He'll retire with my head mounted on his wall."
The traffic reporter's voice pierced the airwaves accompanied by the palpitating sounds of his helicopter. "Folks, traffic's awful, backed up all the way to Metairie."
"You hear that?" Jonathan said as he downed his lukewarm coffee. "The last time I was late for this judge, he pushed back my settlement conference three months. So, please turn that off."
"Would you rather listen to Nick banging his spoon on the Gerber jar? Today's flavor is banana."
"Bananas?" Jonathan asked. "How appropriate for a day that's starting off this bad. And why does your brother always drop him off here when I'm so busy? I'm starting to wonder if the kid still has parents."
"Now, be nice," Linda said, gently tapping Jonathan's shoulder. "And don't forget that lucky pen of yours," she added with a grin.
Jonathan checked his pocket and cocked his head back. "Yep, got it." He was unashamed of this instrument of legal mystique. The pen had inked the complaint in his first major lawsuit, one that catapulted him to the top tier of New Orleans' admiralty lawyers. And ever since, his superstition demanded that it sign all his pleadings.
Linda smiled and turned off the radio, its last sounds eclipsed by Nick's screams from his highchair.
"You should watch me in court one day," said Jonathan, reminding himself of his twenty major trial wins—an impressive record for a man just turned thirty-seven.
"No need to brag, dear," Linda said, almost rolling her eyes. "I love you, whether you sway a jury or not."
Her words comforted him, but the edginess he'd carried for nights upon nights wasn't going away. Not as long as the Victory Lines case wasn't resolved. That damn lawsuit. Unlike its name, it had nothing to do with winning. Jonathan saw only defeat from the moment he joined the plaintiff's team.
The phone rang. Jonathan darted to the wall, clumsily grabbing the handset with his already full hand.
"It's Gary." His voice crackled from a poor signal.
"I know, I know! I'm late," Jonathan said, barely able to hear himself speak over Nick's tantrum. "I don't need reminders. Besides, it doesn't matter. We're getting killed in this case. On time or not, our client is screwed either way. I'll be—" He suddenly interrupted himself as a horrible thought bolted through him. "Gary?"
"Yes, this is Gary Moore. I...I just called to ask you to bring those new charts from last week."
Jonathan's chest just about dropped to his testicles. It wasn't Gary Green, his law partner; it was the other Gary—his client. President and chief executive ogre of Victory Lines, Ltd., a company on the verge of collapse, but which represented the second largest source of revenue for Jonathan's firm that year. An uncomfortable silence lingered. He couldn't think of a thing to say. An apology would have been meaningless and an explanation even worse. "I gotta run. See you in court."
The embarrassment sunk in quickly. Jonathan was always careful. Everything about his practice was prudent. He hadn't earned a partner position in a prestigious local admiralty firm by being cavalier, and he needed his measured advocacy to do what he really wanted one day: to resurrect his profession. The city's practices had taken a beating in recent years as a result of the downturn in brown-water traffic and the increased reach of East Coast and Texas maritime law firms. A passionately proud citizen of the South's busiest port city, Jonathan was eager to reverse the trend. This is what got him up every morning. It was what drove him to accept risky cases, like the Victory Lines litigation.
Jonathan landed a peck on Nick's forehead, embraced Linda, and darted out the back door.
Huge branches draped St. Charles Avenue like vast umbrellas, shielding the traffic below from the bright morning sun. Dew lined the road, but it was slowly dissipating. A streetcar idled along the grassy median.
Everything seemed peaceful. But Jonathan's commutes rarely were. One house along the way had the effect of a roadblock, powerful enough to divert him to other streets, depending on his mood. It was the house of countless bittersweet memories: parents whose candid smiles at each other reassured Jonathan and his brother, Matt, that life was good; laughs with a brother whom he protected and cherished. A brother who was now forever gone, as were his parents.
He reeled in from the past the galvanizing images of that grand old house. A double-galleried Greek Revival home, all white, with lacy, cast iron balconies, it stood in its splendor on St. Charles, just west of Napoleon Avenue. Its chaste facade, radiating from the morning rays, edged into view. Jonathan simply stared, embellishing the thoughts that his mind haphazardly gathered: young Matt playing ball in the yard; the festive tables of friends gathered at crawfish boils; his father teaching Jonathan to master a crossbow. That enchanting house.
* * *
Jonathan's lead foot made no difference this morning. Panting loudly after a mad dash from the parking garage off Lafayette Square, he raced across Camp Street and up the steps of the Federal Courthouse. He scurried through security, took the elevator to the fourth floor and sprinted to the courtroom. He quickly straightened his tie and walked in as discreetly as possible, complete with a bow of deference to the judge that was more akin to prostrating to the Pope. Under the stolid gaze of the dinosaur, Jonathan made his way to the plaintiff's table feeling not much larger than an ant.
Judge Breaux shook his head but said nothing.
Jonathan took a seat next to his colleague and lead counsel, Gary Green, and waited to be scolded. After all, Gary—who possessed all the colorful traits of a sagacious Cajun—was the firm's sixty-five-year-old managing partner and thus was entitled to say anything he damned well pleased.
"Nah hear me, Johnny boy," Gary began, his pungent coffee breath hitting Jonathan like a blunt instrument. "If for once you were early, I would hand you ma wife."
She was well-endowed, vivacious and half his age, with a self-proclaimed addiction to aphrodisiacs. The insult, Jonathan mused, was either in being called Johnny—which he detested—or the chance of catching a nasty bug from a woman who used to twirl around a brass pole in a fine establishment off Bourbon Street.
His other co-counsel at the table, Allen Cledeau, appeared unfazed by Jonathan's tardiness. But he was always less everything. Less energetic, less colorful—a bit like lunar rock. But he possessed one notable skill: an extreme attention to detail, not unlike a watchmaker's.
Gary leaned into Jonathan. "We're waiting for their witness, Captain Tucker." He then nodding in the direction of defense counsel, Bernard Peyton. "Look at him, that scoundrel. He's avoiding the judge."
Jonathan didn't know the guy, but he could tell a lot by a man's suit: fitted by a blind tailor; purchased in a discount store; and worn by a short lawyer with the physique of a baboon.
"Did I ever tell you he was once one of our own?" whispered Gary.
"What do you mean?"
"He practiced here years ago, until he was seduced by a Texas firm for twice the pay. So he dumped his wife and handicapped son and moved to Houston. And now he's got the balls to show his face around here again."
"You don't say." Jonathan gave Peyton the evil eye, then turned his gaze to the judge.
Senior United States District Judge George P. Breaux was not the kind of man one should keep waiting. His black robe, inflated by his broad shoulders and barrel chest, amplified his harsh stature. He checked his watch and adjusted his mic before letting his deep voice send a cavernous echo across the courtroom. "Well, Mr. Peyton, is your witness on Central Time?"
Peyton stood up. "I apologize, Your Honor."
The judge was unimpressed. "It may not matter to be late when you're at sea, counselor, but it is in my courtroom," the judge said and then turned his viperous eyes at Jonathan. "Isn't that right, Mr. Brooks?"
"Of course, Your Honor," Jonathan replied in his native N'awlins accent, a melody that could swoon anyone with nostalgia for the Old South. Anyone but the judge.
"I apologize," Peyton said again. "Our witness must be stuck in traffic—something you don't have at sea."
Peyton's jest might as well have been in another language. Judge Breaux kept a stern gaze, his lips as straight as a hyphen.
"If you were pretty little ladies, I wouldn't mind waiting. But you're not." He pulled his chair back and got up. "I'll be in my chambers," the court heard him say as he stormed out through a side door.
His impatience was understandable. Though the trial was in its eighth day, the first had been almost five weeks ago. The proceedings were interrupted so often, it was a miracle the jury still remembered where to sit. First, key witnesses were not available. This was followed by a death in the judge's family, and then the bailiff's epileptic seizure during opening arguments, a juror's drunk-driving arrest on her way to court and a power blackout hitting all of Orleans Parish.
"Another full house," Jonathan said lightheartedly to Gary as he glanced at the back of the courtroom, finding an audience of only five people, aside from their clients.
Gary chuckled. "Insomniacs looking for a cure."
The slow pace frustrated Gary, but he'd been uncharacteristically patient through it all. Perhaps because the trial was his baby from the start, since he was the most senior admiralty lawyer in town. There was nothing new to him about a shipping company suing its insurer for refusing to pay under the policy. He knew the law, the shipping business, the judges, courtroom politics, and he knew how to take insurance companies to the mat.
Gary had asked Jonathan to join the case three months earlier, mostly to depose the defendant's witnesses. Jonathan had a knack for bringing out the truth, or, if that didn't work, sniffing out the bullshit that often spewed from the mouths of witnesses. He had left an indelible impression on Gary in an earlier trial, having grilled a Port of New Orleans inspector with such zealousness that the man confessed on the stand to receiving a kickback. Gary was eager to use him again. And now that Jonathan's caseload had lightened a bit, Gary felt it was the right time to bring in his prizefighter.
"All right, now," Gary said, resting his hand on Jonathan's shoulder, "don't dilly-dally on trivial points with that fella. He didn't become a naval officer by being stupid. You heard him in direct; he'll be just as tough in cross. If you get stuck, I'll jump in."Jonathan nodded, but he sensed Gary's warning served another purpose. Gary wasn't about to cede control of this litigation to a younger gun, and his words were a roundabout way to delineate the turf.
Gary leaned into Jonathan again. "You've carefully reviewed the transcripts, right?"
"Yes, till three in the morning."
"Good, there's no sense in getting sleep when we're about to lose our largest case," Gary whispered within earshot of his client's CEO—the other Gary—seated immediately behind him with his eyes opened wide.
No, Jonathan thought, not again. He had often warned Gary, who wore a hearing aid of questionable quality, that trying to whisper was not a good idea. But then again, Jonathan's call earlier that morning had been an equally humiliating faux-pas.
The door to the courtroom opened and a stocky, brown-haired man dressed in a white naval uniform, his hat tucked under his left arm, walked down the center aisle. He sat down on the bench behind Peyton, who then quickly signaled the clerk to summon the judge.
The fossil threw a hostile gaze at the officer when he reentered the courtroom. He looked ready to spit out one of his notoriously spiteful rebukes—preciously rationed for such moments—when Peyton preempted him.
"Your Honor," Peyton said, "I appreciate your courteous patience. Our witness is ready to take the stand."
"Yep," returned Judge Breaux from the side of his mouth. "Let's get the jury in here and get this trial goin'."
The naval officer stood up and headed to the witness stand as the jurors sluggishly proceeded to their chairs.
Jonathan, now at the podium, reviewed his notes, which were filled with important salvos for the battle that lay ahead. He looked up at the officer's bright uniform, decorated with rows of colorful patches and wide black epaulets, each embroidered with four yellow bands. Jonathan knew he faced a hardened opponent, and juries tended to look highly on military men. He had to purge his mind of all wishful premonitions that this man would in any way capitulate under cross-examination.
Jonathan waited purposefully for the air of authority to dissipate and for the jury to gather the real role this uniformed buck was to play: that of a mere civil servant at the mercy of cross-examination in a case that had nothing to do with supporting the troops but rather a multi-million dollar melee between a shipping company and a powerful maritime insurance carrier.
"Good morning, Captain," Jonathan greeted. "Please state your full name and profession for the record."
"Captain Donald Tucker, sir, commander of the USS Meecham, a U.S. Navy recovery vessel based in Norfolk, Virginia."
"How long have you been in the service, Captain?"
"About eighteen years, sir."
"Explain your role as captain."
"I'm responsible for the crew's safety and the vessel's ability to fulfill its missions."
"What is the pennant number of your vessel?"
"RS-56."
Allen walked behind Jonathan and placed a poster-sized photograph on an easel.
"Please take a look at this, Captain," Jonathan said, "and tell the court if this is a photo of your ship."
"Yes, it appears to be."
"And it shows the pennant number RS-56 in white letters on the starboard bow of the ship, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"And when did you take command of the ship?"
"In December, 1988."
Jonathan glanced at the jurors. One woman in the first row fought to keep her eyes open. The man next to her stared at the floor, perhaps hoping he could lay on it and not wake up until deliberations. Then again, most of the jurors looked like patients awaiting euthanasia.
"Captain, are you aware that two experienced sailors have testified that your ship collided with their vessel, the Cajun Star?"
"Yes."
"Are you aware that they testified that after the collision your vessel took off, ignoring their call for help?"
"I'm aware of their mistaken claims."
"So you deny that your ship was anywhere near the Cajun Star that Sunday night of March 19, 1989?"
"Correct."
"Can your ship be in two places at the same time?"
"Of course not."
Allen again walked around Jonathan, carrying another large display. He placed it on the same easel.
"Do you recognize this map?" asked Jonathan.
"It's a map of northern Europe—the North Sea and the Baltic, Scandinavia, as well as the Netherlands, northern Germany, Denmark and the east coast of England."
"And the place you claim to have been that night is here?" Jonathan asked, pointing to a large dot in the North Sea, between Scotland and the Norwegian coast. The spot had been marked in prior testimony.
"Yes, around there."
"How are you so sure?"
"My own recollection and my ship's log."
Jonathan drew a circle around the dot with his marker so the jury could see it well. To the jurors sitting ten feet away, the location the captain claimed to have been and the alleged collision site seemed fairly close—an advantage for Jonathan—but they were about a hundred miles apart. They also represented differently trafficked routes in the North Sea. The alleged collision site was in an area used by ships headed to or from the Baltic Sea through the Skagerrak and Kattegat straits, while the captain claimed to be farther west, in an area dense in north-south traffic, much associated with oil platforms.
"Why were you there, Captain?"
"A training mission."
"Why would you pick such a busy area for training?"
"It's as good as any other place in the North Sea."
"Uh huh."
Jonathan did his best to be confident, but he had an impossible task. Somehow he had to show that the Meecham was closer to the alleged collision site than the captain claimed, and to best do that, he had to find some connection to Baltic-related traffic, but he had seen no evidence of it in anything he had read or heard.
"Have you ever taken the Meecham into the Baltic?"
"Objection, Your Honor," Peyton said, springing from his chair as if his seat were suddenly on fire. "As stated in your ruling this spring, Judge, that issue is irrelevant and delves into matters of national security."
The judge reclined in his chair, the squeaking of stressed leather echoing loudly. "Overruled. The witness can answer, but tread lightly, Mr. Brooks."
The captain looked at the judge as if he had called him a dirty name. "Yes, I've been there."
"Did the USS Meecham sail into the Baltic in 1989?"
"Objection."
"Overruled, Mr. Peyton," the judge said loudly. "I think you're being trigger-happy with your objections."
Jonathan tried hard to contain himself. Raw energy was buzzing inside him like a power line. He had Peyton on edge.
"We sailed into the Baltic later that year."
"And when you did, did you pass by where the Cajun Star was located on the night of March 19, 1989?"
"You'd have to."
"And why did you head to the Baltic?"
"Objection!" Peyton blurted out. "Your Honor, this is irrelevant and restricted subject matter under—"
"Sidebar!" the judge said, interrupting Peyton. "I need to straighten you boys out, I guess."
Jonathan knew it was time for punishment, though he hoped to leave ground zero less bruised than his opponent. And anything was possible with this feisty judge.
The two lawyers stood shoulder to shoulder below Judge Breaux's warm breaths. The judge pushed aside his mike and leaned forward, his pointy nose taking on the attributes of a bazooka. "You two are gonna stop these shenanigans. Mr. Brooks, your questions regarding Navy operations must only relate to the alleged collision. Neither the captain nor the Navy are defendants in this case, remember?" The judge then turned his gruff stare at the defense counsel. "And you, show me you can do more than yell 'objection' like a nutty parrot. And your demeanor is awful these days. During our lunch recess I suggest you go find a pleasant personality and return to my courtroom wearing it. Now, get going."
Jonathan always made it a point to leave sidebars with a smile, no matter what. It would dispel any notion that he may have been admonished. Peyton, however, looked as if he'd been sodomized by a linebacker.
The caution had shaken Jonathan. It was his nature to play fair, no matter how tempting it was to stray across boundaries when faced with opportunity. One thing was clear: he was not to delve into facts that could reveal naval intelligence sources and methods. But this wasn't the first time the bench had articulated this point.
The issue had raised its ugly head long before that morning. A litany of briefs and memoranda had passed under the judge's eyes in the preceding months. Even as far back as 1990, when the first trial began in a German court, the plaintiff's prior lawyers had requested in discovery every imaginable document relating to the Meecham. The same demands were made after the case was moved to New Orleans. If the Meecham had indeed collided with the Cajun Star, there was little evidence to show it. Without it, the jury would certainly believe the defendant's claim that there was no collision and that the damages were caused by the reckless conduct of the Cajun Star's captain, in which case the insurer could count on the policy exclusions to avoid indemnifying a single penny.
Peyton wasn't alone to restrict discovery of Navy records. He had been helped by a Judge Advocate General attorney named Joe Tillerman. Together, they did everything possible to curtail Gary's access to the Meecham's sailors, its deployment records and electronic data, like radar tracks and electronic messages. As a result, Judge Breaux allowed access to only a handful of government documents, many of them with large portions redacted. And to make matters worse for Jonathan's side, the Judge allowed only one sailor—Captain Tucker—to be subpoenaed.
"Your Honor," Jonathan said, "I would like to rephrase my prior question, as you suggested."
"That wasn't what I said," the judge retorted.
Peyton stood up and pointed his finger at Jonathan. "Your Honor, he's aiming for irrelevant information again," he protested.
Jonathan and Peyton quickly began talking loudly over one another.
"Mr. Peyton, please be quiet!" Judge Breaux yelled as he hammered the gavel several times. "Mr. Brooks, is it your wish to wait for the captain to retire before you ask your next question?"
"You should retire," Jonathan mumbled to himself, but he instantly realized that the microphone had picked up his words, shattering all forms of deference. "I'm joking, Your Honor."
The courtroom fell dead silent. The judge stared at Jonathan, no doubt weighing the responses available in his ferine arsenal.
"Counselor, I'm sanctioning you five hundred dollars for that remark. Give a check to the bailiff today."
"But my comment was—"
"Please resume your questions!"
Jonathan returned to his map, taking in a deep breath.
An entire minute passed in silence.
"Captain, how far do you think your vessel was from the Cajun Star at around 19:00 local time that night?"
The Judge allowed the witness to get a closer look at the chart, which the captain did.
"About a hundred nautical miles."
"And what's the Meecham's normal cruising speed?"
"About eighteen knots," he said, returning to his seat.
"So it should take your ship approximately five or six hours to cover that distance, right?"
"Yes, about that," the captain murmured.
Before moving to the next question, Jonathan glanced at his client, Gary Moore, CEO of Victory Lines, the owner of the Cajun Star. Moore sat with his arms crossed, staring blankly at the jury. He was a pedantic loser who showed off the attributes of an undeserving tycoon while also leading the once vibrant shipping line onto a path of financial destruction. How he was still head of the company left Jonathan dumbfounded and pondering the question lawyers often ask themselves at some point in any trial: does this client deserve my effort?
Perhaps most lawyers would have answered no. Moore was not only a reckless executive, he was a jerk. Not worthy of Jonathan's time or intellect. But Jonathan's ardent advocacy wasn't aimed at saving Moore's ass. What mattered was saving the hundreds of local jobs that hung on the line as a result of the litigation. And one man in particular—Captain Mitch Glengeyer—had struck Jonathan as the poster child of this noble effort.
Glengeyer was the Cajun Star's seasoned skipper, a calm, humble man who happened to have sailed every ocean. But now, he was without his ship and his judgment was under close scrutiny. It had been his call to obey the order from headquarters to sail from Hanover, Germany, despite news of an incoming storm. But the cable from Victory Lines was hardly the sort of message he could have blown off. The shipment was on a tight schedule to reach Helsinki, Finland, and Glengeyer was expected to click his heels and sail.
Now, a courtroom seven thousand miles away and seven years after that fateful night was the venue chosen to dissect Glengeyer's decisions and observations, which stood in sharp contrast to Captain Tucker's. One of them was a liar. And Jonathan was convinced it wasn't Glengeyer.
"Your Honor, I'd like to go over Plaintiff's Exhibit Fifteen, the redacted log of the USS Meecham on the evening in question." It described only the general location of the vessel—logged every two to four hours—and named the watchman on duty at each interval.
Peyton briefly examined the three-page document before nodding approvingly.
"Captain, is this a copy of your ship's log?"
"It's a redacted version, summarizing the information about our location, heading and other events."
"Is there an original document?"
"Yes."
"Which one is more trustworthy?"
Peyton instantly objected, but was nervous doing so.
As anticipated, the judge sustained it. Jonathan was pushing to discredit the redaction by showing that there was a more accurate, original document, even though Judge Breaux had prohibited its use because of a perceived risk to national security. The judge had told jurors to treat the redaction as equivalent to the original.
In a futile gesture meant only to preserve the issue for appeal, Gary Green stood up and restated his objection to the exclusion of the original log, but the judge overruled him before he could finish his sentence.
Jonathan handed the document to the captain. "Isn't it true that according to the entries at seven and eleven-thirty, your vessel could have been anywhere in a six hundred square mile area?"
"Only if you completely disregard other evidence."
"It's a yes or no answer, Captain. Based on this redacted information, your vessel could have been much closer to the Cajun Star that night, correct?"
"Uh—"
"Isn't it possible based on this sanitized log?"
"It's not sanitized; it's redacted."
Jonathan asked the judge to make the officer answer.
"Let's not quibble, Captain," said Judge Breaux. "You can't invent a third choice to a yes or no answer."
"Fine, yes," the captain said with a scowl.
Jonathan grabbed his red marker and drew a large circle on the map, representing the area delineated by the redacted log. It put the site of the alleged collision potentially far closer. He then gleamed proudly at Gary and Allen. He'd made the naval officer buckle, at least a bit. No one had expected anything more than a stalemate. But Jonathan's balloon of optimism was short-lived. It wasn't enough to show that the Meecham was closer to the Cajun Star, but rather that it collided with it. That meant convincing the jury that the radar and navigation data on the multimillion-dollar military vessel was wrong. Worse yet, photographs of the Meecham taken in Norway six days after the alleged collision showed no damage at all—not a scratch. The Cajun Star had a twenty-foot gash in its hull.
"In the days following March 19, 1989, where did your vessel sail?
"We continued our training and then made port in Bergen, Norway."
As Captain Tucker answered, the heavy-set bailiff stepped away from the wall and wandered to the center of the proceedings, staring vacantly at the ceiling for a few seconds.
Jonathan gazed at him.
The man then collapsed, his head jolting violently. He began foaming at the mouth.
Someone near the jury shouted, "Call a medic!"
"Not again," Judge Breaux groaned into his mike.
This was the second time the bailiff had interrupted the proceedings with an epileptic seizure.
Jonathan immediately went to his assistance. He loosened the man's collar and turned his head to the side to make sure he wouldn't choke.
"Counselor, take that gun away," the judge added.
Jonathan, now on his knees, removed the firearm from the bailiff's holster and handed it to the clerk. As Jonathan stabilized the man's head, a wave of vomit exited the man's mouth and splattered across Jonathan's lap.
I'm having a real bad day, Jonathan thought.
The judge ordered an early lunch recess.
2
Federal courtrooms are austere places that rarely provide entertainment. But the Victory Lines case had not ceased to do so, in the form of the most bizarre delays Jonathan had ever seen.
He walked out of the courthouse shaking his head in disbelief. His pants were soaked from a hasty rinse in the restroom, but the stench wasn't entirely gone. Jonathan set his briefcase down and gazed up, taking in the humid air. The sky was a bright shade of blue, something it hadn't been in weeks. He glanced back at Gary, who was in the lobby on his cell phone bickering with the firm's accountant.
Jonathan leaned on a wall at the edge of the steps, closed his eyes and faced the sun, his cheeks warming gently. With little sleep to think straight, his mind wandered off a bit until it settled on something familiar: the first day of the trial.
It had been Gary's moment to shine, and Jonathan was merely a studious third-chair. Gary had meticulously presented his opening argument before asking the Cajun Star's skipper, Glengeyer, to take the stand.
Gary and Jonathan had prepped Glengeyer over the prior weeks. But it had been a delicate process because juries distrust witnesses who appear excessively coached. Besides, Glengeyer's greatest asset was his aura of sincerity—something neither lawyer wanted to jeopardize.
Gary had the instincts of a gambler and the subtleties of a surgeon. His direct examination of Glengeyer had painted a picture of a veteran sailor who had made the right decisions in the face of insurmountable odds.
Gary paused frequently. Long pauses. To Jonathan, this passive style was a sign of shrewdness rather than age. But not everyone admired his style. A native of Shreveport, Gary's Southern accent and mellow ways could be a curse on any juror prone to daydream. A reporter once called him "Plato," and not as a compliment.
Captain Glengeyer, under oath and in a suit and tie for the first time in his life, had responded calmly and methodically. He was a great witness overall, but his eyes betrayed a fear, perhaps of becoming the fall guy for his employer. Everyone in the industry knew Victory Lines' reputation for mistreating its employees: no sick time, low wages and shipments on schedules so tight the crew hardly ever had shore leave. It was the worst shipping company Jonathan had ever encountered, and even worse than the military, he'd been told. So it would not have surprised him if Glengeyer were sacrificed the moment Victory Lines saw an advantage in doing so. And neither Jonathan nor Gary had any duty to fight for Glengeyer's best interests if that happened.
"The storm had been raging for hours," Glengeyer had recounted under oath, the deep lines on his forehead accentuating his somber demeanor. "The massive swells rocked my ship as if it were a toy."
It was true. The Cajun Star had entered a storm about two hours after leaving the port of Hanover, Germany. By early evening Glengeyer was in his cabin, but he was well aware of the storm's strength. "Everything that wasn't nailed down had moved or fallen over," he had said.
Glengeyer's recollection of the night was crucial to the plaintiff's case. At around 9:20 P.M., Glengeyer recalled for the jury, one of the Cajun Star's lookouts caught a glimpse of a red light off starboard. The sailor couldn't tell the distance, but he reported the sighting to the bridge, which then alerted Glengeyer via intercom. Less than a minute later, the bridge once more notified Glengeyer that another lookout had spotted lights some distance away.
"I raced up the stairwell to the bridge. The watch team was pretty tense," Glengeyer had said. "Understandably so. An hour earlier, the powerful winds had knocked an antenna mast onto the main radar, damaging it beyond repair. We were sailing blindly into the stormy night."
Gary masterfully continued to pave the way for the jury to understand what had happened that night, to which Glengeyer responded perfectly.
"I told my first officer to look hard for the other vessel, and I grabbed a pair of binoculars myself. I told him to send two crewmen, Martinez and Solano, to help look for the other vessel. I also turned on all auxiliary upper deck lights and the aft searchlight—every bulb on the ship—so as to be seen." Glengeyer's eyes were wide open as he described the tragedy that unfolded. "I then threw on my coat and stepped onto the bridge's starboard outer deck. The raindrops hit my face like bullets. The wind was so strong I had to grab onto the handrail to stay on my feet. I couldn't see a thing. The first officer pointed his searchlight in various directions, but all that was visible was a wall of rain and some of the whitecaps of the giant swells nearby."
Jonathan had glanced at the jury repeatedly. Everything looked good. They were fully tuned in to the skipper.
"I was worried that we were on a collision course with another vessel, so I ordered the helmsman to pull back to eight knots and signal six short blasts on the ship's whistle—as required under international maritime rules—but it just didn't seem loud enough in the midst of the raging storm. I then ordered left full rudder, all the time hoping to steer clear of the danger. I knew that if we had a collision in that weather, we'd be dead in no time. For starters, no helicopter would be able to rescue us, and we didn't have the most modern lifeboats, if we could even get to them in time." Glengeyer had momentarily gone off-script, but he glanced at the plaintiff's table as if to acknowledge that he'd pointed out one of the ship's flaws. Fortunately for Gary and Jonathan, that was his only mistake during direct examination. He didn't mention the unreliable thirty year old diesel engines that powered the Cajun Star, nor the lackluster training given to his crew, nor the old navigation instruments and radios.
"I waited with the others on the bridge," Glengeyer had said. "Patiently waited. Five minutes, I think. Or perhaps six or seven. And then I felt things were fine. We hadn't seen anything, so I told the helmsman to resume our original course." Glengeyer then sat back in his chair and shook his head. "But then, suddenly, one of our lookouts—perhaps Martinez—shouted into the intercom. 'Vessel incoming, ten degrees starboard, two hundred meters,' I remember hearing." Glengeyer paused to wipe his brow with his handkerchief. "I heard the first officer yell to turn left full rudder again. The searchlight moved to point at about two o'clock from the bridge. And that's when I saw the scariest thing a sailor could ever see: the bow of another ship appear out of nowhere and head straight for us. The vessel sliced through a massive swell at great speed, and with no lights."
The room had become so quiet, all that was audible was the gentle typing sound from the court reporter's station.
"At that moment," Glengeyer testified, his voice tiring, "I was fixated on the top deck, where some of the heavy cargo was situated. A cable had just snapped, and then another and again another. They whipped about like crazed snakes. The three, twenty-ton turbines they held in place began to shift as our ship listed to the port side. And a dozen thirty-foot metal tubes next to them also moved abruptly. I spotted my crewman, Martinez, and clenched the handrail. He was running back toward me, but he was midship some eighty feet from the bridge. He ran faster, his handheld flashlight bobbing up and down from his efforts, his body bumping a few times into the railing as he tried to make it to safety. 'Run, run!' I told him, but it was too late. I could only watch in horror."
Glengeyer paused again, and Jonathan sensed it was unrehearsed. Gary had told the old skipper to be himself, even if that meant being upset in front of the jury. Glengeyer had earlier told the lawyers how he cared for his men. Martinez was one of forty-three crewmen on the Cajun Star. "He was a normal, quiet guy, a native of El Paso, with a daughter and a pregnant wife at home. He'd celebrated his fifth anniversary with Victory Lines the week prior to that night."
Glengeyer appeared to be choked up for a moment before resuming his testimony.
"The vessel swayed in the other direction," he went on, "and the turbines collapsed from their support and screeched across the deck. Martinez disappeared under the first one. The cargo plunged into the sea. I turned to starboard and saw the other disaster in the making. The other vessel was closing in rapidly, though it began to turn as a last-ditch maneuver. I grabbed the handrail again, ducked behind the metal railing and braced for the impact. Suddenly two powerful searchlights on the other vessel beamed in our direction, blinding everyone on the bridge. That's when a loud thud resonated, followed by a high-pitched screech—like nails on a chalkboard, but a thousand times louder. The hit knocked me down, but I quickly got up and looked at the gray-hulled ship pass just feet away from me. I squinted, my eyes burning from the strength of the lights pointed at us. I couldn't understand why they were doing this. First, they'd approached without a single light on and then they were blinding us. I simply gazed at the vessel as it disappeared into the wall of rain, its searchlights finally fading in the darkness. The ship was gone as if nothing had happened."
At that point Glengeyer had reached the pinnacle of the plaintiff's case: the identification of the mystery vessel. Gary had been salivating for it to come out just right. If the jury believed him, they would rule that Martinez's death, the lost cargo, and the damage to the ship was caused by another vessel, and not by Glengeyer's negligence, and thus the defendant insurance carrier would be forced to pay. It was as simple as that.
"What did you see?" Gary asked at that moment.
"A military ship for sure. And its pennant number—five-six—which I later found out was the Meecham."
"And then?" Gary pressed on.
"Immediately after the collision, I ran down to the starboard deck with two crewmen to search for our man overboard, although I knew it was an impossible task. But God, we tried. I sent another crewman down to check for flooding, and I leaned over the side of our ship to inspect the damage. I could barely see through the rain, but what was there wasn't pretty: a huge gash in the bow, just above the waterline."
Gary's questioning had left everyone in the courtroom on the edge of their seats—a first for a jury that since voir dire had shown little interest in the subject matter of the litigation. And that's when he guided Glengeyer to explain the traffic rules at sea. Under the International Regulations for Prevention of Collisions at Sea—the so-called colregs—a vessel's duty to give way depends on how the vessels approach one another. Since the USS Meecham had sailed in an angle sufficient to be deemed a "crossing" situation, the rules required that the Navy ship yield to the Cajun Star. In other words, according to Glengeyer's testimony, the Navy was squarely to blame for the collision.
Glengeyer's testimony that first day of trial was a chilling account, and it was etched in Jonathan's mind as if it had happened an hour ago. But it hadn't, and Jonathan worried that the jury would not have a solid recollection now that weeks had gone by.
The sun continued to warm Jonathan's face. It was a peaceful feeling, accompanied by the sounds of traffic and a light breeze that carried the odor of diesel fuel.
Gary finally came out to the courthouse steps. He put on his large gold-rimmed sunglasses. "Why didn't you go home to change clothes?"
"It's okay. I got most of it off," said Jonathan, glancing at his left pant leg, still soaked from the knee down to the cuffed bottom. "It's only vomit; let's grab lunch."
"If I can ignore the smell."
* * *
The two lawyers sat in a corner booth at the Palace Café on Canal Street. They aired their frustrations at the morning's proceedings. And a pair of Ketel One and tonics soon appeared in their hands to help them along.
"It's really too bad," Gary said.
"What?"
"Our best moment was Glengeyer's testimony, now weeks ago—an eternity for a jury. But then again, Peyton cross-examined him quite effectively."
Gary was right. Peyton had carved up the old skipper's testimony into small, digestible pieces, and poked enough holes in the plaintiff's case to drive a semi through it, particularly the most glaring weakness: if there had been a collision, why did the Meecham show no signs of damage? Worse yet, Glengeyer was the only person on the Cajun Star who claimed to have seen the Meecham's pennant number.
"Here's to your first sanction," Gary said, raising his glass over the table. "Just don't get too many; I need you in this firm."
"Cheers," Jonathan said timidly, his mind wrestling with something else. Something even more troubling. A fact that Gary had dismissed long ago, in one of their first conversations about the case. And it was itching to come out again, even though he knew Gary wouldn't want to revisit the issue. "I still don't understand," Jonathan said. "Why is the Navy so feverishly denying the incident ever happened? It just doesn't make sense. The statute of limitations has long passed. We can't sue them now."
"You're right," Gary said after a long pause. "In other collision cases, the Navy never categorically denied being involved, and they've never been so tight-fisted with their records, even when they've been defendants."
Jonathan knew this well. He had researched ample collision lawsuits brought by commercial and private vessel owners against the United States. In almost every case, evidence of the ship's course, radar readings and related records were made available with little or no resistance, and the Navy rarely made a fuss about its crewmen testifying.
Gary took a long sip of his drink and then looked into Jonathan's eyes. "There's no point rehashing this. Breaux made up his mind and that's that."
"I'm still troubled."
Gary's gaze didn't budge. "Maybe they're full of shit."
"Who?"
"Our client!" said Gary as if Jonathan should have known. "Moore, Glengeyer, the whole lot."
"What are you saying?"
"What if Glengeyer made up the whole incident to cover his bad judgment? Maybe that's why the insurance company and the Navy are fighting so hard. Have you thought about that, Jonathan? What if the Cajun Star crewmen are nothin' but liars?"
"I hardly think Glengeyer is that sort of man."
Gary frowned. "Don't be too sure."
His words left his junior partner speechless for a moment. Jonathan had never considered this possibility. Not once. When it came to the old skipper, Jonathan had long ago set aside his natural lawyerly skepticism. He believed Glengeyer with a passion.
"I know you better than that," Jonathan said. "You would never have accepted this case if you didn't believe Glengeyer's account to be true, or at least highly probable."
Gary shook his head and cracked a smile. "Victory Lines is an old client of ours, Jonathan. I couldn't turn them down, even if..."
Jonathan studied Gary's expression. The thought of being complicit to a contrived incident of such magnitude was abhorrent.
"But even if our clients are lying," Gary suggested after a long sip of his drink, "there are still several things pointing to a collision, like the seismic readings."
"True," Jonathan said, downing the last of his alcohol until the ice cubes tumbled to the tip of his nose. "But did you see the way most of the jurors reacted to Mikkelsen? They were bored to tears! I was tempted to lob my chair at them to wake'em up."
Dr. Høgaard Mikkelsen was a seismologist from the Technical University of Denmark. Gary had flown him in to testify as an expert witness to show that some sort of seismic activity indicative of a collision had occurred on the night of March 19, 1989. In his testimony, the professor explained various seismic recordings taken from Denmark's National Survey and Cadastre seismograph stations, which, although designed more for registering large earthquakes around the world and tremors from nuclear tests, were perfectly suited to monitor smaller man-made tremors. Dr. Mikkelsen had stressed that although the alleged impact of the two ships was an impulsive event—where only a fraction of the resonance manifests itself below sea level—the seismograms he used definitely showed an event consistent with a vessel collision.
It all sounded quite logical, but the jury had a hard time, given Mikkelsen's thick accent and quirky body language, not to mention a topic so tedious it would drive clergy to drink. The jurors became notably restless when Mikkelsen buried them in technical jargon. Fortunately, when it came time for Peyton to have a shot at the professor, he couldn't debunk Mikkelsen's claim of a collision. And his own expert had neither the credentials nor the wherewithal to do it.
Jonathan sat back in his seat and sipped his espresso.
"I'm just an old fart," Gary said as the waitress arrived with the check. "I'm not sure we've made the right decisions in this case."
Jonathan didn't respond.
It didn't take long for the lunch crowd to vanish. The busboys toiled like drones to restore the restaurant to its orderly environment. Jonathan stared at his empty cup, his thoughts filled with the dreaded reality of having to return to the courtroom.
As the two waited for the waitress to bring back change, Jonathan noticed a beefy man taking a seat at the bar. He wore a tan-colored tweed jacket, which had earlier caught his eye in the courtroom—the back row. But it wasn't the first time he'd seen the stranger. As Jonathan thought harder about it, he recalled seeing the guy on at least two other occasions. The man was in his late thirties or early forties, with short blond hair.
"Do you know that fella?" Jonathan asked his partner, who then turned with a raised brow.
"He was in court this morning," Gary answered. "But I don't know him."
"A reporter, maybe?" Jonathan suggested.
"Hardly. This trial has a tough time attracting lawyers, let alone the press."
Jonathan was uncomfortable with the man's presence, although he couldn't quite put a finger on it, but he wasn't about to annoy Gary with his vague suspicions.
The two walked back to the courthouse just in time for the resumption of proceedings. But to their surprise, the afternoon session didn't last long. Judge Breaux allowed Peyton to redirect Captain Tucker for about forty-five minutes before ordering a recess till the following day on account of an urgent motion in another case. It was yet another unexpected interruption in the trial. But this time Jonathan welcomed it. He'd done his best with the scant evidence at his disposal, but he hadn't really damaged the naval officer's credibility. He had tonight to scour documents for anything else he could use to reduce his chances of defeat.
"See you in the mornin'," Gary said as he left the plaintiff's table. "We need to come up with a break in this case. Captain Tucker is leaving town tomorrow."
Gary was asking for magic.
* * *
The passenger side of Jonathan's car was filled with trial papers, some stashed in two vinyl satchels and a leather briefcase, while the rest covered the floor and filled the door bins and other nooks in the front compartment. Gazing at the pile of materials, he added the hours needed to re-read them and quickly realized he was in for another long night. But his endurance was better than most lawyers. Linda had trained him well. He'd gotten used to late nights. As lead anchorwoman on Channel 6's ten o'clock news, Linda rarely got home before one in the morning on weeknights. And she had done this for four years.
Jonathan drove out of the parking garage onto St. Charles. As he passed the first block from the garage, he spotted the blond man in the tweed jacket slip into a green Toyota sedan parked in a metered space. The streetcar ahead slowed, and the traffic backed up, giving Jonathan more time to observe the man through his rearview mirror. The Toyota pulled out and was about ten car lengths behind.
Jonathan was headed home, but first to a flower shop in New Orleans' west suburb of Metairie. It was a habit he'd picked up after his brother died, to give Linda a bouquet each month. Lilies, stargazers, or irises, but never roses—too pedestrian.
He turned at the next light and noticed that the Toyota made the same turn. After crossing the next intersection Jonathan was convinced something wasn't right. The man seemed to be on his tail, way back. By the time Jonathan reached Tulane Avenue, there was no more doubt. His nervous glances toggled between the side and rearview mirrors, studying the Toyota's every move.
Why the hell would someone be following me?
Jonathan's palms began to sweat. His anger fermented. He clenched the steering wheel and shook his head.
Gary Moore, maybe? Checking on his lawyers? He'd be capable, that ungrateful bastard.
Jonathan became angrier. For a split second, he considered stopping, getting out of his car and confronting the stranger. But he quickly tempered his instinct with a good dose of caution.
The Carrollton Avenue light ahead turned yellow. Jonathan, seeing an opportunity to lose his tail, floored the accelerator. He hoped the man trailing him would be forced to stop at the red light. Jonathan cleared the intersection and gazed into the mirror. But the Toyota also sped up.
"Stubborn bastard," Jonathan said, his eyes glued to the mirror.
A truck suddenly appeared out of nowhere and slammed into the Toyota. Jonathan heard the thud, followed by the sound of screeching tires and then a loud bang.
"Christ!" Jonathan said, instantly letting off the pedal. He threw his head over his shoulder, but there was no sign of either vehicle, except some debris scattered over the road.
He quickly drove around the block and parked at the far end of the shopping center facing the intersection. He walked a few feet before catching sight of the scene. The mangled car rested partly over the sidewalk, its left quarter panel twisted around a concrete bench. The truck was some fifty feet away, its grill smashed and spewing steam. The smell of gasoline seeped into his lungs.
He cautiously approached the Toyota. All the windows were shattered. When he walked around to the driver's side, the serious condition of the vehicle was even more apparent. The driver's door was smashed nearly all the way to the center console, and the man behind it was a bloodied mess.
Jonathan leaned in. "Can you hear me?" he asked, not expecting the driver to answer. He stared at the man's left eyeball which was halfway out of its socket.
Jonathan pressed his hand over the driver's nose and chest. The man wasn't breathing. Nor did he have a pulse.
At that moment, a bystander claiming to be a nurse opened the door on the other side and jumped into the front seat. She quickly straightened the victim's upper body.
"Help me loosen his clothes," she said to Jonathan. She hurriedly unbuttoned his blood-soaked collar as Jonathan unbuckled the man's seatbelt. She too checked for a pulse.
The crushed car was not an ideal place to give CPR, but she tried anyway, repeatedly pushing on the man's chest. She then shoved her pudgy fingers into his mouth to clear his airway.
"I'll tilt his head," Jonathan said, leaning farther into the car.
The woman continued her efforts, but she could barely move her arms. Her chubby body was wedged between the victim and the wrecked dashboard.
She threw a gaze at Jonathan. "This won't work! Let's get him to the ground." She then yelled over her shoulder for someone to call an ambulance.
Jonathan couldn't help but find a sliver of humor. Only hours earlier he'd given first aid to another man, the courtroom bailiff. I'm acting out an episode of M.A.S.H., he thought just as reality quickly set in again. He removed the man's jacket and loosened his legs from under the dash as the woman pulled the man's body toward her. That's when two other people helped her extricate the victim from her side of the car.
Jonathan stepped back and observed the nurse. She bobbed up and down, as did her melon-sized breasts. She was determined to resuscitate the victim. She persisted for several minutes. But it was a pointless exercise. He was unresponsive. His blood gushed uncontrollably from his temple and neck and oozed over the pavement.
Jonathan glanced at the tweed jacket he had removed from the victim. The crimson-stained garment rested over the shattered remnants of the driver's door. This was an opportunity he wouldn't pass up. He dug into the inside pocket and pulled out a wallet. His driver's license was from Maryland, and his name was Anthony Gordon.
Jonathan shook his head. "Come all this way to see a boring trial and then die. What bad luck."
Just as he returned the wallet, a shiny, odd-shaped object on the front passenger floor mat caught his eye. He craned forward for a closer look, suspecting it was a camera. It wasn't.
"I'll be damned," Jonathan said as he stared intently at a chrome-plated handgun nestled in a black leather holster. He then gazed at the man's body lying on the pavement. "You've just made me very curious."