Silent Justice (55 page)

Ben looked Colby straight in the eye. “There’s no audience in the room, Charlton, so let’s put an end to this charade right now. You two boys have gotten caught with your pants down, and now you’re going to pay the price.” Ben marched into the office, with Colby close behind.

“That so-called report is a pack of lies,” Myron Blaylock said, behind his desk. His knobbly hands were trembling slightly. “Not a word of it is true.”

“Then why didn’t you produce it during the discovery period when you were supposed to?”

“It wasn’t relevant,” Blaylock sniffed. “Since none of it is true.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. Colby, may I please be in the courtroom when you make that argument to the judge? Please?”

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Kincaid.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. I sat in the same room while you promised the magistrate you would produce all Blaylock’s internal studies. You didn’t do it. You lied to a federal magistrate.”

“I believed the report fell under the protection of the attorney-client privilege. I still do.”

“That’s a load of crap and we both know it. This document has nothing to do with the giving or receiving of legal advice. You just had your name stuck on it to create a feeble basis for withholding it.”

“That is not true.”

“Then why didn’t you submit the document to the magistrate in camera, like I suggested at the hearing? Let the magistrate decide if it was privileged or not.

Colby had no answer, so he changed the subject. “You don’t know whether that report has the least grain of truth in—”

“Like hell I don’t. It’s all true. I know it is, because the proof is right there in the report, which by the way I made dozens of copies of before I came here. Your man documented his work to a fault.”

“He was an unstable person,” Blaylock said.

“He was your own employee. Your own corporate lawyer. He spent more than a year researching the alleged funny taste the water in Well B had acquired. And he came to the same conclusion I did. He found that TCE and perc from this plant had contaminated the groundwater, which flowed via the ravine into the aquifer that feeds Well B. He even noted that TCE and perc were dangerous and could lead to serious illnesses.” Ben drew in his breath. “And he did it four years before I ever heard of this case!”

Blaylock folded his arms, his hands still fluttering. “He was a lunatic. Irrational. We fired him shortly after he filed the report.”

“Killed the messenger, huh? Very logical.” Ben leaned across Blaylock’s desk. “You
knew!
You knew all along! You knew you were responsible for those kids" deaths—and you did nothing.”

“That’s not true,” Blaylock said. His nervous twitching was increasing. “We tightened up our waste-disposal procedures. Increased the budget for removals.”

“But you didn’t tell anyone. And you didn’t remove the buried drums that were polluting the groundwater.”

“How could we? If we let this get out, shysters like you would be crawling all over us, filing a lawsuit every time some kid gets a hangnail.”

“You might’ve saved lives!” Ben’s voice reverberated across the room. “Most of my clients lost their children in the last four years.”

“The harm was already done. I knew it was just a matter of time before the EPA would become involved.”

“So you kept your mouth shut. Took no responsibility for your actions.”

“I still remain unconvinced that any contamination that might have occurred resulted in those leukemias.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Blaylock. You don’t believe it any more than I do.” Ben leaned forward. “You killed those kids. You killed them because you wanted to save money, and you kept quiet about it because you wanted to save money.” He whirled around and faced Colby. “And you helped him cover it up. Because you wanted some of his money.”

Blaylock fell silent. He steepled his fingers, as if deep in thought. “What do you want?” he asked finally.

“Myron!” Colby said. “Don’t give him—”

“Shut up, Charlton. Can’t you see that it’s over?” He turned his attention back to Ben. “What do you want?”

“You know damn well what I want.”

He pursed his lips. “How much?”

“I will accept, as part of a settlement agreement and in return for our agreement to forgo an appeal, the amount which the jury determined the plaintiffs were entitled to receive.”

Blaylock’s eyes bugged. “Twenty-five million? You must be joking.”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life. That’s what a fair and impartial jury said we deserved, before Colby’s buddy yanked the case away from them. So that’s what we’ll accept.”

“I will not pay it.”

“Fine. Then I’ll proceed with my appeal—which will be based upon the defendant’s unlawful withholding of a key piece of incriminating evidence during discovery. Of course, by the time my brief is filed, the judges will probably have read all about it in the newspaper.”

Blaylock opened his bottom desk drawer and withdrew a large ledger-sized checkbook. “Fifteen million.”

Ben shook his head. “Twenty-five.”

“Twenty. That’s as high as I go.”

“Twenty-five. Or I file my appeal. Today.”

Blaylock’s teeth clenched. He put his pen to paper. “We’ll structure it to be paid out over ten years, one point two five each six months. This will be the first installment. I’ll postdate the check; it will have to be ratified by the board of directors. Funds will have to be transferred.”

“I’m in no hurry. I’ll give you forty-eight hours.”

Blaylock ripped the check out of the book. Colby intervened. “In exchange for this settlement payment, I will require you to return all copies of the report and to agree that you will make no mention of it or disseminate it to any third persons.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No.” Ben didn’t blink. “I won’t sit on the report.”

“You have no choice. Listen to me, Kincaid—this is a deal-breaker. We must have a confidentiality agreement.”

“I won’t do it. I won’t help you cover up your dirty secret. But I will forgo pursuing criminal charges or filing a bar complaint based upon your conspiracy to withhold subpoenaed documents, which might keep you, Charlton, from losing your bar license, and you, Myron, from going to prison.”

Colby was incensed. “What is this, blackmail?”

“No,” Ben replied. “This is justice. Now give me my check.”

Blaylock wordlessly passed the check across his desk.

“Thank you. Let’s go, Christina.” Ben paused by the door. “May I make one recommendation? Draft up some formal statement of apology and regret. When word of this report hits, you two are going to be about the least popular men in the state. A lot of people will be accusing you, calling you names, asking uncomfortable questions.” He paused. “And there are eleven families who will never forgive you.”

F
UNNY HOW YOU COULD
go almost five years avoiding the cops, and then when the one who tracks you down finally leaves, you miss him. Life will have its little ironies, won’t it?

Fred pulled back the tattered drapes and peered out the window. It was not quite half an hour since Lieutenant Morelli had left the fishing cabin. He’d gotten a message from headquarters on his cell phone telling him there’d been another murder, so he went to the local PD to see what he could find out about it. Don’t worry, he’d said—if the killer’s in Oklahoma, then he isn’t here.

He had warned Fred not to try to flee, but it wasn’t much of a warning. He knew Fred wasn’t going anywhere. The jig was up. They knew he had the merchandise, and he couldn’t run forever. No matter where he went, they would eventually find him. Assuming his murderous friend didn’t find him first, which, all things considered, Fred thought the more likely result. Which was all the more reason to stay exactly where he was. And hope the cop returned. Soon.

Maybe this would be a good time to fix a sandwich, he told himself. He had brought a few provisions. A tall, multimeat Dagwood sandwich—that might be just the thing right now.

He strolled through the living area into the kitchen nook—which in this cabin took all of three steps. He opened the ice chest and started hauling out supplies and—

He froze. What was that?

He’d heard something, somewhere behind the cabin. Hadn’t he? He was almost certain. Something was moving out in the bushes and trees.

He ran to the back window and peered out. Could be anything, he rationalized to himself, even assuming he really had heard something moving. Could be a raccoon or possum. Maybe a badger. Could be a hunter or fisherman. Could be two lovers out for a moonlight stroll.

Except he didn’t see any moon. Or anything else, for that matter.

Would a raccoon hide? Would a badger?

He felt beads of sweat trickling down his neck. He had come so far. So far. He could live with losing the merchandise, maybe even doing some prison time. But he really really didn’t want to die. Especially not at the hands of the homicidal maniac who used to bait his hook for him.

Fred’s palms were wet. Get a grip, he told himself. Don’t blow it in the final inning.

He heard something else, some movement. There was no doubt about it now. He not only heard it—he saw it. Something was moving.

Someone. It had to be someone.

And it wouldn’t be Lieutenant Morelli. He was in a car. Only one person would try to sneak up without being heard.…

Panicked, Fred ran back to the front door and slid the bolt into place. An instant later, he flicked off all the lights. And sat quietly. In the dark.

Was this better? It seemed worse. Now he heard creaks in every corner, saw movement in every flicker of light.

There wasn’t even a decent hiding place in this miserable cabin. The furniture was all thin and fragile—no tables or dressers he could use to block the door. Not that any of that would stop the killer for long.

He ran from one end of the tiny shack to the other, unable to decide where to stay put. No place seemed safe. No place was safe.

He pressed his hands together, but they were so wet they slid off one another. His whole body was like that; he felt as if he’d been standing out in the rain. Except that his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might explode at any moment. And his brain was so fried he couldn’t figure out what to do next.

He heard it again—the unmistakable sound of movement behind the shack. Damn this dark, anyway! He flicked the switch, illuminating the cabin. At least now they’d both be able to see one another. They’d be on equal ground. Except of course that his friend was already a multiple murderer. And he was …

Fred the Feeb?

No, goddamnit. Never again. He would get a grip on himself. He would take control.

He drank in several deep breaths, calming himself. Forcing himself to take deliberate, even, slow steps, he returned to the back window.

He heard it again, saw the leaves and bushes move. But this time, he observed that they all moved at once, in unison. And a whistling sound accompanied the movement.…

It was the wind. All this time—it was just the goddamn wind!

His hands pressed against his face, wiping the sweat away. You see what happens, he told himself. See the result of letting your imagination get the best of you, letting fear take control? You end up running in a blind panic. Like a fool. Like Fred the Feeb.

He grabbed a towel and dried off the rest of his sweat-soaked body. Jesus Christ, what an idiot he’d been. He was never cut out for this cloak-and-dagger crap. He might not be Fred the Feeb, but he wasn’t James Bond, either. Leave the action-adventure stuff to someone else.

He laughed quietly. As he did, he heard a car pulling up outside. Thank goodness. Nothing was going to happen to him while the cop was here, that much was certain. Prison time might be a small price to pay for peace of mind, at this point. No wonder Tony had a heart attack. If Fred’d been alone much longer, he probably would’ve worried himself into an early grave, too.

He ran, not walked, to the front door and opened it.

It was not Lieutenant Morelli standing on the other side of the door.

“Hiya, Fred,” his old fishing buddy said, grinning. “Miss me?”

“I
NEVER THOUGHT WE’d
actually make it here,” Ben said as he gazed out the main viewport of Professor Matthews’s magnificent yacht. “It still seems unreal.”

“The yacht,” Matthews asked, “or the fact that you’re in it?”

“Both.” He meant it, too. He was still amazed that he’d managed to bring the Elkins case to a positive conclusion. Ben had delivered the check to his clients—Blaylock’s first payment on the structured ten-year settlement payout. Although Ben’s share wasn’t enough to pay off all his creditors, he was at least able to appease the most insistent ones and give everyone something. More important, the money, combined with the media release of the “blue report,” had given each of the parents the satisfaction of knowing that their child had not died in vain.

Christina popped through the door into the main cabin. “Well, I’ve seen the bedrooms, the sundeck, and the boiler room. I assume there’s also a parlor and conservatory somewhere on this monstrosity.”

Matthews laughed. “That’ll be in the next model. This one’s only thirty-five feet.”

“Oh, is that all,” Christina said, winking. The main cabin, where they were presently, combined the “bridge”—with all the steering and navigational equipment—with a larger dining area. Up above, visible through a glass ceiling, was a spacious deck, ready-made for sunbathing and stargazing. Down below were the sleeping quarters and the boiler room, with the engine and most of the other mechanical equipment. It was all connected by wide metal decks and ladders. It was a boat of which the Onassis family could be proud.

“I don’t even want to think about what this set you back,” Ben said. “Obviously, Dean Kronfield is paying you a great deal more than he’s paying me.”

Matthews laughed. “I couldn’t afford this in a million years. I told you already—I inherited it.”

“Couldn’t you dock it somewhere closer to home?”

“I could. But this is an oceangoing vessel. It seems a shame to waste it on Lake Tenkiller or some such. Here on the Gulf, all of the Atlantic Ocean is at our disposal.”