Impact (27 page)

“Since filing for appointment as lead counsel, I have been informed by my doctors that I should not assume such a stressful undertaking at this time. Therefore, I respectfully withdraw my application.”

Amid the murmurs of his colleagues, the chief judge peers over his tortoiseshell glasses. “Does that mean you do not wish to serve on the committee at all, Mr. Hawthorne?”

“It does, Your Honor.”

“Well. This changes things. Quite frankly, we had been prepared to appoint you committee chairman, Mr. Hawthorne. Perhaps my colleagues and I can confer for a moment.”

The judges engage in whispered colloquy. The other eyes in the room turn back toward Hawthorne. Ed Haroldson frowns in puzzlement; Vic Scallini beams victoriously. The others could normally be expected to look on with glee, but in this case the villain is the heart, and not one man in the room has failed to fear that his will one day bring him down.

The chief judge bangs his gavel. “We have reevaluated the matter in light of Mr. Hawthorne's unexpected withdrawal. Lead counsel for the plaintiffs' committee will be Victor A. Scallini. The committee itself will be composed of Edward Haroldson, Esquire, Stanford Rosen, Esquire, and David Lively, Esquire.”

Several hands thrust skyward, several voices demand attention, but the chief judge hurries on, speaking above a rising tide of protest. “Since the docket today is long and difficult, these proceedings are adjourned.”

The gavel bangs a final time and the judges file from the courtroom as though they fear a stoning. Sullenly, the lawyers gather their papers, stuff them in briefcases, and file toward the door. A few pat Hawthorne on the shoulder as they pass, whether out of gratitude or sympathy he isn't sure.

When he reaches Hawthorne's side, Scallini stops with the grace of an eighteen-wheeler. “Smart move, Alec,” he proclaims, making sure everyone in the room can hear him. “Don't take chances with the ticker. If you want out of it entirely, I'll give you an equal split on the referrals.”

Hawthorne smiles. The sun still shines; Vic remains Vic. “I think I'll stick around and see how it goes.”

“It'll go like gangbusters; I'll have this baby wrapped up in nine months.”

“What's your liability theory?”

Scallini's eyes shift left and right. “I can't get into details, but it's no exaggeration to say that this case could blow the lid off the airframe industry. We have reason to believe certain design decisions on the H-11 were … well, let's just say this could be as big as the Electra scandal. When I get the feds to move their ass into a settlement structure, we're on the way to the bank.” Vic abruptly consults his diamond-dialed Rolex. “I got to go. Hell of a thing about your heart. Better try some preventive medicine.”

“Like what?”

“Fish oil and fucking women half your age.”

Hawthorne laughs despite himself. A moment later, Ed Haroldson replaces Scallini at Hawthorne's side. “I thought you said you were up to speed, son.”

Hawthorne smiles. “As Einstein observed, that's a relative term.”

Haroldson inclines his head and squints. “What the hell are you up to, boy?”

“What makes you ask?”

“You're enough like me to be my son. And there's never been a time I didn't know when Little Ed had a shenanigan up his sleeve.”

Keith Tollison crossed his arms and tried to suppress a smile. “I couldn't agree with you more, Mr. Tiggle. November first
is
too early. The problem is, I don't know of a law that governs the proper time to put up Christmas decorations.”

“How about the laws against blasphemy? How about the laws against avarice? How about the laws against offending public decency?”

“I don't think we have laws against those things anymore.”

“Well, if we don't, we damn well should.”

“Maybe so. And maybe if we did, someone would say it's blasphemy not to keep the decorations up all year.”

“Nonsense. Clyde Winnett's the one behind it, Tollison. Using city property to herd people into his luggage shop before Thanksgiving, is what it amounts to. If I have
my
way, Clyde's served his last term on the council.”

“That's the spirit, Henry. Vote the bastards out. It's the American way.”

“The problem with
that
is, the American way don't seem to be working so good anymore.”

Keith Tollison was pondering Henry Tiggle's own brand of blasphemy when Sandy appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Donahue on two. She sounds … excited.”

Tollison stood up. “I've got to go, Henry. I'm afraid you'll have to grin and bear it with the decorations unless you can get Clyde Winnett impeached.”

“Maybe I'll just tear the damn things down. A little guerilla warfare may be called for in this situation.”

“Now, Henry.”

“What are they going to do, shoot me? I'm half dead already. Lucky for that young lady who just peeked in here, the dead half is below the waist.”

The old man cackled his way out of the office and Keith Tollison accepted the first phone call he'd received from Laura Donahue in a week. “Hi. How's it going?”

“The hospital called. There's been some change in Jack.”

“Good or bad?” As if her fervor hadn't told him.

“Good, but I don't know what that means yet. They want me down there right away, so I can't make our meeting. Maybe next week, but if Jack is conscious, I don't know if I'll be able to—”

Tollison glanced at his calendar. “Why don't I go with you?”

“There's no need for that.”

“Not for you, obviously. But I happen to have quite a
large
need for that.”

“I can't deal with anything but Jack right now, Keith.”

“Come on,” he urged. “You can use the company and I can use a change of scene.”

“Promise not to grill me?”

“About the case?”

“About us.” She hesitated. “Don't you see? If you and I kept on the way we were, we'd be ganging up on him. It wouldn't be fair, and I have this overwhelming need to be
fair
to him. It's the only way I can get through this, I think.”

He could only beg a crumb. “Will you tell me you love me?”

Her voice thickened. “Of course I love you. I'm just not sure what to
do
about it anymore.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I guess.”

She failed to submit to irony. “I'll be at your office in five minutes.”

Tollison replaced the phone. According to the Sunday morning tenets of his youth, Laura's distance was precisely what he deserved, the Calvinist consequence of breaking the seventh commandment. But whatever its truth, the assessment produced only a consuming ache.

Tollison was about to tell Sandy he was leaving when she buzzed him. “Mr. Winton on two.”

“Finally.” Tollison pushed a button. “Harold. What's the verdict?”

“Hi, Keith. You sound frazzled.”

“That's an understatement.”

“You should take more time out for your friends. Martin Knoller tells me you haven't made Rotary in months.”

“You know how it is, Harold.”

“Actually, I don't, Keith. I've
always
made time for civic matters.”

Damned from all directions, Tollison could only beg reprieve. “I'll try to do better, Harold.”

“That's the spirit. Altoona has been good to you, Keith, considering what your father … that is, I didn't mean to sound like I blame
you
for what he—”

“I know what you meant, Harold.”

“Good. Well, back to business. We'll approve the refinancing, Keith. Nine and a quarter, thirty-year fixed.”

“How about the principal?”

He heard the rattle of papers. “Let's see. Your current balance is at eighty. I'm afraid we can only go to a hundred.”

“You told me at least one twenty-five.”

“I know I did, but with the new tax law, everyone in town is coming in to reduce their equity, so we're having to proceed very carefully. Yours is an old place, Keith, and not that well maintained, if you don't mind my saying so. Not a big market for that type of home around here; most folks come up to Altoona to build a place of their own, you know that. The appraisal was only one-thirty, after all.”

“You're kidding.”

“You need a new roof, a furnace, and you've got some dry rot in the bathroom and beetle damage in the back. If it were up to me personally, of course, I'd approve you in a minute, but the board …”

“I understand, Harold.”

“Of course you're free to try elsewhere.”

“Go ahead with the hundred. When can I get the surplus?”

“Should be about three weeks.”

“Fine. Thanks, Harold.”

“Anytime, Keith. And can we count on you to man a table at Founders' Day this fall?”

“I'll get back to you.”

Tollison hung up and hurried out to the street. Laura pulled up a minute later, driving the Mercedes with the
FOR SALE
sign still languishing in the window. She looked frantic yet jubilant, in a mix with a dozen equally ecstatic emotions.

Tollison waited for her to buzz down the window. “Why don't you let me drive? You're too hyped to keep your mind on anything but Jack.”

She nodded, then slid to the opposite side of the car. He got in beside her, adjusted the seat, wrapped himself in the belt, and pulled away from the curb.

As they crept toward Highway 101 between a UPS truck and a minibus still bedizened in psychedelic hues, Tollison glanced at his companion. Her face was flushed, her hair awry, her hands a blur of pointless motion. Though he tried for a while to share it, her excitement made him feel a trifle mean.

“What did you think of Hawthorne?” he asked.

“I think he's very slick.” Her lips wrinkled, then compressed. “Slick and smart.”

“By which you mean corrupt, I suppose.”

“Not corrupt. Just lawyerish.”

In defense of himself as much as his friend, Tollison lashed back. “You're going to need all the lawyering you can get before this is over, Laura.”

She looked toward the orchard that stretched beyond the window. “I didn't mean to insult you, Keith.”

He was unable to respond before she changed the subject. “Mr. Chambers called again last night.”

“And?”

“He says I should accept his offer. He claims there's no evidence the plane was defective or the pilot was negligent or the controllers fouled up or that anything else went wrong. He says that even if there
was
such evidence, we're not entitled to damages since Jack was bankrupt before the crash and they can prove it. He says they're only offering to settle to avoid the expense of a trial, and if they have to go to court, they won't offer anything at all. He says juries are getting tired of people like me begging for outrageous sums. He says—”

“That's
bullshit
, Laura,” Tollison said, breaking the chain of rhetoric. “Your case is worth a million dollars.”

He sensed a weary smile. “Your friend Alec told me five. If Jack is permanently disabled.” The qualification prompted a morbid laugh. “See how he has me talking? I'll get a ton of money if Jack has to spend the rest of his life as a pillow. And I got the impression from your friend that somehow this is supposed to make me happy.”

“Come on, Laura. That's not fair.”

“What's not
fair
is having our future depend on your slippery Mr. Hawthorne, to whom this is just another headline.”

“Our
future?” Tollison mimicked miserably, and recklessly looked her way.

She reddened. “You know what I mean.”

“I guess I finally do.”

The silence cowed them both. “Sometimes I think you've been hurt by this more than anyone,” Laura said at last, but only after he was driving faster than was safe, passing a van in a cloud of dust and an angry blast from his horn. Luckily for both of them, the bridge above the bay was too dangerous for him to give her anything more essential than a glance.

After weaving through the city and climbing toward the freeway once again, Tollison glanced at his passenger. “So how are you, Laura?” he asked. “I mean
really.”

She shrugged. “I'm surviving, I guess. People are being nice, all of a sudden.
Too
nice, actually. It's quite amazing,” she added. “People see me on the street or come by the house to drop off food or flowers or something, and they express such outlandish condolences that I find myself starting to believe Jack and I really
were
happy because so many people keep
telling
me we were.”

“That's nonsense.”

She didn't affirm or deny the label. “On the other hand, there're Jack's shirttail relatives who keep calling to ask how much
flight
insurance he took out that night; they're convinced there's a million-dollar policy floating around somewhere. Then there're his poker buddies, calling to chat, supposedly, but really calling to see whether Jack wants to sell his real estate office or his country club membership or his bowling ball. A few of them even imply Jack might want to sell his
wife.”
Her laugh was sour. “Then there was the local seer, who claimed Jack had spoken to her in the night, and for a modest fee she'd be happy to tell me what he'd said.”

“Hang up on them,” Tollison retorted, angry that he had left her vulnerable. “If they keep bothering you, let me know. How's your money situation?”

She shrugged. “Luckily there are a few souls left in Altoona who don't think Jack stiffed them some time or other. The Main Street Market lets me buy on credit, and the gasoline man fills my tank though he knows I'm lying when I say I've forgotten my wallet. The garbage company is the only one who's cancelled—I spend Saturday mornings at the dump. You meet the most amazing people at the dump—one of our illustrious city fathers spends every Saturday out there, complete with hospital mask and metal detector, trying to find his fortune. But otherwise life is wonderful. The hospital is reminding me how much we owe them, Blue Cross has decided it's never heard of us, the bank is going to foreclose on the house, and I'm working for the visiting nurses to try to make ends meet. I have the night shift. Tuesday I comforted an Alzheimer's case from midnight to four
A
.
M
. The poor woman thought I was her daughter. And she
despises
her daughter.”