Texas was hotter than D.C., hotter than Mark expected any place to be in October. From the Brownsville airport, a chartered bus took them to Mayfield. Mark studied the landscape as it rolled past outside the window: flat, empty, with clusters of scrub pine hugging each other against the blankness of the plains. “That’s a sweet gum,” said Harold, twisting and peering over his seat back to address Mark. “Or maybe cat’s-claw.” Mark said nothing, looking for tumbleweed. “Texas has more than five hundred different kinds of grass,” Harold commented. “Buffalo grass, bluestem, grama.” He flashed a guidebook. “I’d advise you to get your sightseeing done now.”
Two hours into the trip, black thunderheads massed and the sky darkened over them. They drove through sheets of rain and emerged on the other side of the storm as into a new day. The Redbird Hotel in Mayfield was not what they had selected but rather all that the town had left to offer. The plaintiffs’ lawyers, as Harold had explained, were already there in force, and Mayfield was not used to welcoming so many.
“I think this is more properly described as a motel,” said Katja, stepping from the bus. The parking lot was mostly empty, despite the promises of a buzzing sign: CABLE, AIR, POOL. The last of these was visible, drained and leaf-ridden, the deflated corpse of a beach ball its only attendant.
Ryan Grady paced increasing circles, eying his cell phone with disbelief. He held it high in the air and frowned. “I’m outside the network,” he said. “I’m going to have to use analog roam the whole time we’re here. That’s going to cost a fortune.” He turned to Mark. “Do you have a signal?”
“I don’t have a phone,” Mark answered.
Ryan looked at him pityingly. “You don’t have one? What’s wrong with you? Girls love cell phones. Especially the little ones. Little phones, I mean.”
Mark smiled knowingly. “Keeps you on a short leash, though, doesn’t it? I like to be able to get away.” Inspiration struck. “Cell isn’t just short for cellular.”
Ryan looked at him with new respect. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess that’s cool too. But I have Web access and instant messaging.”
“Get unpacked,” Harold told them. “Clock’s running. We’ve got a meeting scheduled in half an hour.” He surveyed the small crowd, his index finger floating like a sniper’s rifle. “You,” he said to Katja. “You, and you,” to Ryan and Mark.
Ryan and Mark were sharing a room, again not by choice but because the influx from Morgan Siler had overwhelmed the Redbird. There were no hangers in the closet, and Mark’s shirts remained as they’d traveled, tripled in a garment bag beneath the jacket of his other suit. Ryan dumped the contents of a duffel bag on the floor. “What a shithole,” he commented amicably.
Mark stared nonplussed at the room. There was a television, a dented table with two chairs, and a bed whose comforter featured the same floral pattern as the curtains, amplified by a faint lattice of indeterminate stains. “That’s a double bed,” he said at last.
Ryan shrugged. “Don’t be a pussy,” he said. “I don’t find you attractive.” A crafty smile spread across his face. “Unless you turn out to be a pussy. Come on, let’s go.” He cuffed Mark on the shoulder.
“Ouch,” said Mark.
Ryan shook his head. “Pussy.”
The plaintiffs’ lawyers had set up camp closer to the factory, in Mayfield’s larger hotel, and the only one with a conference room. The invisible hand of Morgan Siler had procured several cars, and Harold drove the four lawyers over. Guidebook splayed on his lap, he disdained directions, and several times barricades and yellow tape forced them to turn around.
“Why are all these roads blocked off?” Mark asked.
Harold reversed the car into a three-point turn, injuring bushes on the shoulder. “That’s my boy,” he said. “Totally unnecessary, I’m sure.”
He put the car into drive. “Completely safe,” he said. “Nothing to worry about. Roll up your window, by the way.”
“Oh,” said Mark. He peered past the tape, glimpsing a black expanse where white-suited figures moved.
“My God,” said Katja softly from the front seat. “They did that?”
“We did,” Harold corrected absently, accelerating down the road. “The client is us. Their interests are our interests. Shit, I’m lost again.”
“Seriously,” said Mark. “That looks pretty bad.”
“Of course it’s bad,” Harold answered. “They wouldn’t need us otherwise. They’re in big trouble. The lawsuit is a train bearing down on them. The litigation express.”
“So we cut them loose from the tracks?” Ryan asked. “Or are we tied to the tracks too, seeing as how the client is us?”
“Your quick wit will make you quite a lawyer,” said Harold. “Except that someone’s going to kill you first. Where the fuck is the fucking hotel?” He passed the guidebook to Katja.
“Next left,” she said promptly.
“Nice work,” said Harold. “You’ll be a good lawyer too. No,” he continued, “we’re not tied to the tracks. And we’re not going to cut them loose either. Once in a while you can do that, but not often. And not this time. We’re not the hero here.” With a sigh of satisfaction he turned in to the hotel driveway. “What we are is another train, bigger, meaner, faster, and headed the opposite way. We’re here to apply pressure. Show them that if they don’t settle cheap there’s going to be a hell of mess. Show them the client will go bankrupt paying our legal fees before the plaintiffs see a cent. That’s why I brought three of you to this meeting. Macey will sit there with us and see the money available for settlement trickling away at a thousand bucks an hour, and he’ll know that Hubble’s willing to go down fighting. And then we can buy him off and the client’s happy.” Harold paused. “Either that or he tries to play hardball and we really will drain off all the assets in legal fees.” He looked at Katja. “Winwin situation. By the time he gets to the client, there won’t be anything left. Because he’s not the real litigation express. We are.”
“Now this is a hotel,” said Katja, getting out of the car.
Tanned and jocular, Robert Macey did not look like any lawyer Mark had ever seen. Not for him the armor of worsted wool. His suit hung silky
from his shoulders; a bracelet glinted on one wrist. A pallid, serious associate restored an air of normality.
“We meet again,” said Harold, extending his hand.
Macey shook it. “I’m like a bad penny,” he answered with a smile.
Harold’s eyes flicked to the corner of the conference room, where a video camera stood on a tripod. “Nice toy. You can’t tape this.”
“I like to have a record for the judge in case there are any disputes,” Macey said, still smiling.
“Local Rule 27(a) permits videotaping,” the associate put in.
“Only for depositions,” Harold answered smoothly. “And not without notice. The judge will never see it. But go ahead if it makes you happy.”
Macey shrugged. “I assume you got our document requests,” he said.
“And you, ours,” Harold answered. “We did indeed. That’s why we’re here. We’ve got a team assembled, and we’re going to go through every file. But you understand, there’s a whole warehouse of them. Several warehouses, in fact. We’ll make a preliminary assessment of relevance and privilege here, then we’ll photocopy everything that might be a candidate for disclosure and take it back to D.C. Then we’ll go over all of those again. Morgan Siler at your service. It might take a few months. How about your experts’ reports?”
“They take time too. But we’ve got one here for you now. Professor of biochemistry from Texas A&M.” He looked at the four of them, then slid a folder across to Ryan, who opened it curiously. “You’ll find a description of the properties of various chemical agents being stored at the site and an analysis of the burn residue.” He looked again at Ryan, who was bending closer to examine the contents of a plastic bag. “And a sample.”
Ryan jumped back from the table. “You maniac,” he shrieked. “What are you trying to do, kill us?” Mark flinched. He looked at Harold, who sat calmly, then at Ryan, who had removed his jacket and was wrapping it around his face.
Harold shook his head. “Each time I see you, I think you’ll have grown up,” he said. “But I’m getting used to the disappointment.” He picked up the bag and inspected the crumbs. “What is this, your lunch?”
Macey shrugged. “I had a brownie. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. You never know what’s going to come in handy.” He turned to his associate. “You can stop the taping now. So, where were we?”
“Depositions,” said Harold. He twisted in his chair and regarded
Ryan. “Sit down, you moron.” He slid a paper across the table to Macey. “This is a notice for the deposition of Felix Guzman.”
“What for?”
“He’s your class representative,” said Harold. “We need to know if he’ll adequately represent the interests of absent members. We need to know if he’s subject to any unique defenses that might distract him from their cause. And we need to know how he found you. Or the reverse. There are rules about that, you know. No, of course you don’t. They’re ethical rules.”
Macey’s eyes flashed annoyance, though his face remained impassive. “Knock yourself out. If he’s not a good representative, there’s lots of others.”
“Oh, cut the crap, Robert. He’s your representative, and if he goes, you’re not lead counsel anymore. I’m sure justice will still be done if you’re sitting on the sidelines, but it won’t be going into your pockets. And you’re not going to be able to get the class certified anyway. This is a mass tort, and it presents all sorts of individualized questions. Can’t be tried.” Harold paused and steepled his hands. “Now, if we were talking a settlement class, that would be different. That might get approved.”
Macey shook his head. He tilted his chair back and put his feet up on the table, revealing a pair of soft and glossy shoes, an absence of socks. “I don’t think you have the authority to offer anything we’d be interested in. We’re not just suing Hubble, you know. Parkwell’s a defendant here.”
“Piercing the corporate veil,” said Harold. “Last refuge of the plaintiff’s lawyer. Sorry, pal; it’s not going to happen. We’ve got a Supreme Court clerk writing a motion to dismiss Parkwell right now.”
“Good for you. I’ve got three hundred potentially exposed people here, and a judge who can still smell the smoke.”
Harold shrugged. “We’ll see. Anyway, that’s not going to help with your class certification.”
“I don’t even really care about that,” said Macey. “I can bring these cases one at a time if I have to. We’ll photocopy the complaints and fill the names in on the way to the courthouse. You can get it over cleanly, or you can die from a thousand cuts.”
“Again,” said Harold, “they won’t all be your clients. I hear Addison and Bain has been rounding up quite a handful. Anyway, I think we’ll take the thousand cuts.” He smiled. “You’re not the only bloodsucker in the room, you know.”
Robert Macey took a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “We’ve got some depositions scheduled. Here’s a list. Some executives, security personnel, anyone who was on duty that night. You know they locked the workers in.”
“For their own safety,” said Harold equably. “It’s a rough town. Wild West and all that.”
Macey nodded. “You’ve still got it, Harold. You look good. Have you lost weight? Or is it just your soul?”
Harold shrugged. “I can sleep with myself.”
“You can sleep with yourself?” Macey asked. “Sure. If you ask me, you can fuck yourself.”
“I think that about does it for this meeting,” said Harold. “We’ll see you in court.” He stood and gave Macey a valedictory nod. “I never get tired of saying that.”
“Yeah,” said Macey. “Well, one of you’s got to be back here tomorrow morning for the first deposition.”
“Son of a bitch,” Harold exploded. Mark stood apprehensively in Harold’s hotel room. It had twin beds, he noted, but now seemed an inopportune time to mention that. Mark had never seen Harold angry before, and he was frightened. “Motherfucker,” Harold continued. “Motherfucker. Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker.”
“What is it?”
Harold thrust a sheet of paper before his face. “Look at this.” He pulled it away, leaving Mark to goggle at empty air. “I can’t believe this crap.”
“What?”
“These depositions. They’ve got the supervisor who fielded the first distress call. They’ve got some fencewalker who made it, probably because he was taking five in the cactus cantina. They’ve got the guy who designed the storage facility. The guy who oversaw the placement of the barrels of ammonium nitrate. The guy who checked on them. They’ve got everyone.”
“Is that improper?”
“No, it’s not improper. It’s perfectly appropriate. It’s exactly what they should do. And it should never happen. These people should be in Sierra Leone. Or Paraguay. Or Uzbekistan. Hubble’s got worldwide operations, and if it doesn’t, Parkwell does. These people should be drawing
nice fat paychecks, learning foreign languages, and forgetting English. Never to be heard from again.” Harold took a deep breath and exhaled. “I thought old Robert was looking a little smug. Not easy to tell with him, of course.”
“He’s got a real poker face,” said Mark.
Harold snorted. “Oh, it’s been poked. You noticed he didn’t show much expression?”
“Yeah.”
“Botox. Very popular with the trial lawyers now. Some witness drops a bombshell on you in court and the jury won’t see any reaction. It stops sweat at the hairline, too. It’s a little creepy going up against those guys. Like the fucking Terminator or something. The only plus is that if they try to look happy or sensitive it comes across as fake.” He shook his head. “Anyway. Someone dropped the ball on this, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s probably not going to make a difference. We’re going to defend all the depositions; we’re going to make a lot of objections; we’re going to bill a lot of hours. It’s just that this is a pretty big fuckup, and you want to do everything right. Dot all your i’s, cross all your t’s, make sure all the witnesses are unavailable.”
“Can you do that?”
“Well,” said Harold, “not on purpose. But sometimes it happens. This is scorched-earth litigation we’re doing here. God, I’ve got to stop saying things like that.” He took a folder from the table, seemingly at random, and consulted the label. “You got Martin Jessup,” he said, handing it to Mark.
“Great,” said Mark, striving for a positive tone. “What do I do?”
“You know,” said Harold. “Defend the deposition. Isn’t that what all the young associates want to do?”
“I guess,” said Mark. What he really wanted to do, he realized, was get on the next flight home and fall asleep watching television. Practicing law had made his aspirations simpler, if no more attainable. “So what does that entail?” And when, he wondered, did I start saying “entail”?
“Didn’t they give you a litigation manual when you started?
“No.” Mark hesitated. There had been a lot of literature handed out those first weeks. A directory of health care providers, 401 (k) plan selections, instructions on claiming reimbursements, phone directories. For months he’d received intermittent calls and e-mails admonishing him for failing to return various essential forms. “Maybe.”
Harold twisted one side of his face, presumably to convey indifference. “You’re a learn-by-doing kind of guy anyway.” Mark opened his mouth; Harold raised a hand. “Of course you are. Just get some sleep. I’ll give you a couple of pointers at breakfast.”
Mark spent a sleepless night in Room 208. The mattress was lumpy; the air conditioner, like the pool, existed but did not function. Ryan mumbled and moved in ways that made Mark first doubt, then hope, that he was asleep. “You won’t believe the dream I had,” Ryan said in the morning.
“I need a shower,” Mark said.
Harold had beaten him to the breakfast buffet and presided over a plate of eggs. Other lawyers hunched at other tables, their dark suits suggesting an assembly of crows. “Dining out on the firm,” Harold said. “Help yourself. It’s all good. Or all of the same quality, anyway.”
Mark selected a dispirited wedge of cantaloupe, a blob of yogurt, the sausage that least plainly advertised its animal antecedent. “You’re a lucky boy,” Harold said. “Most of your friends are stuck with document review. So you’ve never done one of these?”
Mark shook his head.
“Well, don’t worry about it. The Hubble lawyers are going to prepare the deponents. They’ll be saying what they were told to say. You can object if the other side asks something privileged, but I don’t think Martin knows any trade secrets. There’s going to be some damaging testimony, probably, but we can figure out a way to keep it out of the trial if things get that far. Just make a couple of objections to keep them on their toes.”
“Okay,” Mark said. A troubling thought entered his mind: this isn’t yogurt.
“I mean it,” said Harold. “Don’t worry. It’ll probably seem pretty bad, because, let’s face it, this isn’t a pretty situation. But nothing that happens in your deposition is going to make a difference. The Parkwell people who are directing the litigation are talking tough for now, saying they want to go to trial, but they’ll settle in the end. With the facts they’ve got here, they’d be crazy not to. Hubble got into some dispute with its disposal subcontractor; they were just letting this stuff pile up. Anyone could have told you it was going to blow eventually. So the worst that could happen is something comes out that helps the plaintiffs’ bargaining
position. But Martin doesn’t have any smoking gun either. He’s just the guy who happened to be on duty that night.”
Mark chewed a small resilient piece of sausage, trying to decide what to do with it. Harold belched; encouraged, Mark spat carefully into his hand and placed a knobby white lump of gristle on his plate. “So this is going to be settled?”
“Always is,” said Harold, wiping his mouth. “It’s an interesting calculation, though. The plaintiffs could insist on going to trial. That’s their right. Given the way things look, they’d have a good chance of winning. I wouldn’t want to go to a jury on these facts. And if they won, they could probably wipe out Hubble, get all of its assets. But from that you’d have to subtract the litigation costs, ours and theirs, which of course are going to be substantial because we’re the litigators. And because the lawyers are on a contingency fee, they don’t want to spend any more time on this than they have to. Unlike us. The wild cards are their idea that they can pierce the corporate veil and go after Parkwell too, and the possibility that we can defeat class certification. So those are going to be decided in court, and then we’ll know what kind of settlement we’re looking at. That’s the real legal action. What we’re doing here is just going through the motions. Expensively. It’s like a striptease.”
“So you don’t have any specific advice?”
Harold considered. “You know those travel mugs they have for coffee, with the little lids on top?”
“Yeah,” said Mark. He realized unhappily that his attention had wandered from the plate; his fork had again picked up the gristle and returned it to his mouth.
“Never buy one of those. People are going to give you like fifteen over the next couple of years. The firm, the litigation department. You’ll get one for doing pro bono. Clients like to hand them out too. I wish someone had told me that when I was your age.”
Mark swallowed uncomfortably and grasped the wisdom of his prior decision.
Harold sighed expansively and set his half-empty plate on an adjacent table. “I think I need a do-over. That’s the beauty of the buffet. You can go home again. A new plate, a fresh start. Learn from your mistakes; change whatever you want. This time, I’m not going to get anything runny. That’s more advice.”
Mark felt an unpleasant swelling in his stomach. The sausage was reminding him that the past cannot be erased.
“But the reason we’re really fucked here,” Harold said as he returned to the table, “isn’t the dead people. The workers, you know, that’s fairly straightforward. They’re settled in their lives; they’ve got an earning stream we can calculate and pay off. Discounted to present value, of course, minus expenses. The problem is that Macey’s got these environmental scientists talking about harm to children in the area. Children, all bets are off. Juries love to sock it to you if you’ve injured children. Say one of them’s brain-damaged. They’ll hit you with medical costs, lost wages, anything the plaintiff’s lawyer can dream up. Will they deduct the costs of education, complicated toys, all the things the doting parents will never have to pay for? No. Even bring it up and they’ll think you’re a monster, slap on a couple of extra million. Why do you suppose that is?”
“Well, I guess it seems heartless.”
“That’s true,” said Harold, chewing. “But heartless is okay in most contexts. Heartless is the standard in litigation. Educate the jury enough and you can get them to be about as heartless as you want. But not with children. Because that’s what you have faith in. You invest yourself emotionally in your parents. They die. Same with your friends, your spouses. They die, and you know they’ll die, and you know that you’ll see them die, if you’re lucky. But children. They’ll outlive us; they’ll carry on into the future whatever values we place in them. That’s what people think.” Harold paused for a bite of toast and continued, chewing again. “Also, they believe in us. When we were children, there was another world above us, the grown-up world. It was hard to understand; sometimes it was unfair, but it was there and it took care of things. And we thought that when we became older, we’d be grown-ups too, and we’d know how to take care of things. But that wasn’t what happened. What happened was that we got older and suddenly there weren’t any more grown-ups. There were only us and people like us, trying to muddle our way through. And then there were children again, and they gave us our authority. That’s why juries fixate on them. Try to get them to be rational about children and they act like you’re crucifying their god.”
“Do you have children?” Mark asked.
“Me?” said Harold. He sounded surprised. “Not that I know of. Hate the little buggers. They’re a crutch, I told you. A false idol. Besides, I’d probably have to be married. And women, well, you know women.”
“Sure,” said Mark doubtfully. “I think I can probably find my way back to Macey’s hotel.”
Martin Jessup looked surprisingly young, younger than Mark. He wore khaki pants and a blue-and-white-checked flannel shirt. Mark wore his second suit, distinguishable from the first in that it had acquired fewer wrinkles during the trip. He was relieved to see that Robert Macey’s associate matched him, gray for gray. “Tom Peters,” the associate said, extending a hand. Mark shook it.
“Mark Clayton.”
“Well, let’s get this show on the road.” Peters turned to the court reporter. “Nice to see you again, Caroline.”
Caroline, young and attractive but apparently intimidated, blushed and mumbled a response. Mark’s anxiety ratcheted up a notch. Peters had evidently done this before, perhaps many times. Maybe the best thing to do would be to object to the first question, just to throw him off his game. “Do you swear to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” Caroline asked Martin, as though reading from the back of a cereal box. I’m not counting that one, Mark told himself.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” said Tom Peters. Mark tensed. “Please state your name for the record.” Maybe not the first one, Mark thought. For almost an hour, Peters asked Martin about his educational background and work experience. When they broke for lunch, Mark was relaxed to the point of boredom. This is easy, he thought, heading to the hotel in hopes of scrounging a sandwich.
“Am I doing okay?” asked Martin, who had trailed behind him unseen.
“Oh, yeah,” said Mark. “Nothing to worry about.”
“They told me just to answer all the questions the best I could.”
It struck Mark as an unconventional strategy. “Right,” he said. “Well, that sounds reasonable.” The hotel restaurant was deserted, and he looked vainly about for a greeter. Martin approached a girl busing tables; they spoke and she went to the kitchen.
“Jeannie went to high school with me,” he explained, as she returned with sandwiches.
“You grow up here?” Mark asked.
“Yeah. Started working at the plant right out of high school. Lots of us did. I figured I’d spend the rest of my life there. But now … well, everyone’s getting laid off. I didn’t even want to stay. They kept me around.” He gave half a laugh. “Spend the rest of my life there. I guess I should be glad I didn’t. Lot of people did.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one. Like I told the lawyer back there.”
“Right,” said Mark. “Of course.”
Tom Peters had a different air when they returned. “I’m going to play a tape for you now, Mr. Jessup,” he said. “I’d like you to tell me if you recognize it.”
“I object,” said Mark.
“What grounds?”
“No one said anything about playing a tape.”
“I just did. Let’s mark this plaintiff’s exhibit one. The record will show that it was obtained from Hubble Chemical’s director of security. Now, Mr. Jessup, if you’d listen, please.” Martin looked at Mark, who nodded. Tom Peters placed a tape recorder on the table and pressed play. Mark heard a young man’s voice.
“Jessup here. There’s a problem at the plant.”
Peters paused the tape. “Can you identify the speaker?”
Martin looked paler. “That’s me,” he said.
Peters started the tape again.
An older voice answered. “What kind of problem? Worth waking me up for?”
“And that speaker?”
“It’s Roger Allen.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s my supervisor.”
“Is he the person you were supposed to notify in the event of an emergency?”
“Yes.” I should have objected to that, Mark thought.
“And is he the person Hubble has chosen to handle its on-site emergencies?”
“Objection.”
“What grounds?”
Mark thought. “Mr. Jessup has no personal knowledge of what Hubble has chosen Mr. Allen for.”
Tom Peters nodded thoughtfully. “Do you know what Mr. Allen’s title is?”
Martin hesitated; Mark shrugged, then caught himself and nodded reassuringly. “He’s the emergency containment coordinator,” Martin said.
“Thank you.”
“It sounds that way, sir. There’s a fire, and some sort of toxic smoke.”
“And that voice,” said Tom Peters calmly.
“It’s me again.”
“I see.”
“And that one.”
“Roger Allen.”
“What should I do? Should I call Disaster Response? The state people?”
“Who is speaking here?”
Martin gave Mark a harried look. “Why does he keep asking me that? There’s just the two of us. Me and Roger.”
“It’s okay,” said Mark. “We’re prepared to stipulate to the identities of the speakers.”
Tom Peters raised one eyebrow. “That’s very generous of you.”
“No, no. Call Morgan Siler. And the local counsel. Weiland Hart. They’re our guys on the ground. And the in-house people.”
“Who? I’m sorry, but aren’t those—”
“Yes. They’re our lawyers. And that’s who you call. Get on it now. That’s the first thing you do. You call all the lawyers.”
“Now, Mr. Jessup,” said Tom Peters. “How did you learn about the fire?”
“I got a radio call from Janette Guzman.”
“Who was Ms. Guzman?”
“She was a security guard.”
“Did you know her before the events of that night?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know her?”
“Well, we worked together. We saw each other sometimes.”
Tom Peters frowned thoughtfully. “Did you know her before you started working for Hubble Chemical?” he asked.
Mark’s sense of control over the proceedings, tenuous since the lunch break, was starting to slip away altogether. “Objection,” he said.
“Grounds?”
“Why does it matter if he knew her before?” Tom Peters tilted his head to the side but said nothing. “Relevance,” said Mark.
“You can only object to the form of the question,” Peters said gently. “Relevance is an issue of admissibility, which will be resolved at trial.” He turned to Martin. “You can answer.”
“Yes.”
“How did you know her?”
“We were in high school together.”
“And what did she say on the radio call?”
“She said—” Martin stopped. He seemed to have difficulty forming words, as though the memories of the night had gathered in his throat. “She said—” He stopped again.
“Let the record show that the witness’s answer is delayed.”
Mark was suddenly furious. Martin was his witness, and he wasn’t about to sit by while Peters bullied him. “Let the record show the witness is crying.”
“Objection,” said Tom Peters. He pursed his lips. “No, I think I’ll let that stay. Let’s move on. Mr. Jessup, what did you do after your conversation with Roger Allen?”
Martin swallowed. “I did what he said. I called the lawyers.”
“Did any of your supervisors later criticize or question your actions?”
“No. ‘You did everything right, Marty.’ That’s what they kept telling me.” He stopped and swallowed again. “But, you know … ?”
“Yes?” Peters inquired.
“If I did everything right, how come they’re all dead?”
Tom Peters smiled a cold smile. “Objection,” said Mark, which even he knew was futile. Perhaps Harold would be too busy to get around to reading the transcript.