Silent Son (40 page)

“Then the defense motion is granted,” the judge said. “We examine qualifications and relevance
now,
before we do another thing.”

Brownie was in the lab, frantically sifting through his file. With Gardner and Jennifer already in court, time was running
out. He’d been chasing the gun lead nonstop since his talk with Romero, finally rousting every member of the Prentice Academy
work crew and showing them the ATF photo. None of them had seen “Ross Hiller” with anything like it. In fact, none had ever
seen him with a handgun at all. Only one man made reference to a gun, and he merely said that Roscoe had bragged about having
one. The man had not seen a thing.

That sent Brownie back to the drawing board. He’d scoured the plaster cast for a serial number, but the print was too shallow.
And the military records section of the archives couldn’t locate any reference to the experimental gun project. Brownie was
not going to be able to trace who had the weapon even if he found the serial number. At this point the gun trail was cold.
He’d have to find another lead.

Brownie pulled the birth records that had been found when the police executed the search warrant and blow-torched the safe
in IV’s closet. He laid them on his lab table. Adjusting the magnifier, he began to study the pages. WELLINGTON STARKE JR.
WELLINGTON STARKE III. WELLINGTON STARKE IV. Each document was authenticated by a certification seal, and each had a file
number imprinted at the top. Family records, Brownie thought. Why would IV be so interested in family records? And what was
so valuable about them that they had to be kept in the safe?

He put Grandfather’s certificate under the lens. Lieutenant Starke. Beef Wellington. The man who saved Henry’s life. Under
heavy magnification, Brownie studied the page. NYSDVS 4728512 was handwritten in the upper right corner, and underneath, the
indented certification: NEW YORK STATE DEPARTMENT OF VITAL STATISTICS, with a picture of the state seal.

Brownie put that document aside and picked up the next one in the pile. It was IV’s birth record. NYSDVS 21134699. The numbers
were partially printed on the seal, but it was still readable. NEW YORK STATE DEPARTMENT OF VITAL STATISTICS.

The next certificate was the father’s. WELLINGTON STARKE III. Brownie ran his eyes down the page, then back to the top. NYSBVS4576833.
NEW YORK STATE DEPARTMENT OF VITAL STATISTICS.

Brownie blinked and raised the page closer to the magnifier. N-Y-S-
B
-V-S. He angled the page to be sure he’d not misread it. N-Y-S-B-V-S. The letter was clearly a B, not a D.

Brownie snapped his fingers. Someone had made a mistake.

A child witness, unlike an adult, was not presumed to be competent to testify. Because of immaturity, an eight-year-old had
to answer a set of preliminary questions before he could give proof at trial. The issues were simple. Did he understand what
was going on? Did he know what an oath was? Did he understand that he had to tell the truth? Did he know what would happen
if he didn’t? They were simple enough issues, but there was a major problem. Gardner hadn’t gone through a dry run with Granville
first. He’d planned to do it later, during the trial. And now the boy was coming in cold.

Granville was ushered into the courtroom and up on the witness stand. King began with a blast. “Request that
I
be allowed to qualify the witness,” he said.

“Objection!” Gardner snapped to his feet.

Granville’s eyes jumped to his dad.

Gardner moved over to block his son’s line of vision with Miller and Starke. There was no telling what might happen if he
had a sudden resurgence of memory now.

“What is it?” Judge Hanks asked.

“It is customary for the court, and I emphasize,
court,
to ask the qualification questions,” Gardner argued. There was no way he wanted to give King a free one-on-one shot against
Granville. He could have the boy disavowing his own name in ten seconds.

Judge Hanks frowned. Again, she was in virgin territory. She had never done a child qualification in her life. “Uh, do you
have any authority on that, Mr. Lawson?” When caught short on legal knowledge, throw it back to the lawyers.

Gardner tensed. He had not anticipated this. A qualification battle right out of the gate. “Authority?” He was playing for
time, searching his memory for a ruling.

“It’s always done in this jurisdiction,” Jennifer suddenly said, rising to the rescue. “In the Donner case before Judge Simmons,
and the Haskins case before Judge Danforth, that’s how it was done.”

Gardner’s eyes said thank you.

“But what is the underlying authority?” Hanks persisted. “Where is it written that I can’t allow counsel to ask the questions?”

Gardner and Jennifer hesitated. There was no such ruling. Like many legal traditions, it had just evolved through custom.
The judge was not handcuffed by precedent. She could do anything she pleased.

“I am prepared to run through the qualification questions, Judge,” King said. “Just give the word.”

Judge Hanks nodded, but said nothing.

Damn! Gardner thought. She’s not prepared, so she’s going to let King do the work. He looked at Granville. The boy was nervously
twitching in his chair, oblivious to what was happening. “I most strenuously object!” Gardner said.

Judge Hanks looked at the prosecutor. “I understand your position,” she said apologetically, “but we have to move this case
along. Mr. King is ready to proceed, and so am I. Objection overruled. Ask your first question, Counsel.”

Gardner slumped into his chair as a nightmare flashed into his mind. He was safe at the top of a wall. And a terrified innocent
was about to be devoured by dogs.

Kent King rose from his seat, strolled to the witness stand, and peered down at the face that greeted him from the oversized
chair. Behind, Gardner stirred restlessly at his post.

“How’re you doin’?” King asked.

Granville eyed him cautiously, but did not reply.

“My name is Kent King,” the attorney said. His voice was low, almost gentle. “I’m a lawyer. Do you know what that is?”

Gardner’s heart was racing, and acid rose in his throat. King was taking the high road. The soft approach.

Granville nodded his head yes to King’s inquiry.

“You need to answer out loud,” King said. “So the reporter, uh, that lady over there—” He pointed to the stenographer seated
in front of the bench. “The lady needs to hear you on her earphones.”

“Ask your question again, Counsel,” Judge Hanks prompted.

“Right,” King replied. “Do you know what a lawyer is, son?”

Gardner choked on the word “son” coming out of King’s mouth. He started to rise, but Jennifer grabbed his arm.

Granville looked King in the eye. “My dad’s a lawyer,” he said.

King smiled. “And do you know what he does?”

“Uh-huh,” Granville replied. “He puts bad people in jail.

“King folded his arms. “What else does a lawyer do?”

Granville’s eyes searched for his father.

“What else does a lawyer do?” King repeated.

Granville’s eyes turned back to King. “Some of them try to hurt my dad…”

King hadn’t expected that. “I see,” he said, trying to cut off the answer.

“They get had people out of jail.”

Gardner’s heart surged. He’d never discussed the details of his profession with the boy. It was always good guys and bad guys,
good deeds and bad deeds. But Granville had absorbed the deeper meaning. And he had sorted out the players.

King smiled again, giving no hint that he’d just been zinged by a kid. “Okay. So you know what lawyers do. Do you know what
a trial is?”

Granville squinched his forehead. “Think so,” he said softly.

“What is it?” King asked.

“Where the judge says who’s guilty,” Granville answered.

“Your
dad
teach you about that?” King asked.

Granville shook his head no. “Un-uh.”

“You have to answer yes or no,” Judge Hanks said, leaning down from the bench.

Granville looked up at her.

“Do you understand?” Judge Hanks said. “You have to answer the questions yes or no. Okay?”

Granville nodded. “Uh-huh. Uh, yes.”

“Good. Let’s move on!” Judge Hanks said.

King turned to the witness box. “Do you believe in Santa Claus?” he asked.

“Objection!” Gardner was back on his feet.

“Grounds, Counsel?” Judge Hanks asked.

“The question is irrelevant,” Gardner argued. Granville was sure to say yes.

Hanks looked at King.

“State of mind, Judge,” King said nonchalantly.

“Witness can answer,” the judge ruled.

“But, Your Honor—” Gardner began.

“That’s my ruling, Mr. Lawson.”

Gardner gripped the counsel table with both hands.

Judge Hanks looked down at Granville. “Mr. King asked if you believe in Santa Claus. How about that? Do you believe in Santa
Claus?”

Granville looked up at the judge. “Uh-huh,” he answered softly.

“Remember to say yes,” the judge prodded gently.

“Uh, yes,” Granville replied.

“And how about the Easter Bunny?” King picked up the tempo again. “Do you believe in him?”

Granville tried to look at his father, but King blocked the view.

“Yes,” Granville replied.

“And the tooth fairy?” King was beginning to roll. “When you lose a tooth, does the tooth fairy leave money under your pillow?”

“Uh-huh, uh, yes.”

Gardner was dying inside. King was easing Granville down the fantasy trail. The boy couldn’t sort fact from fiction, the argument
would go, and the proof was from his own mouth.

“And cartoons,” King continued. “You watch cartoons on TV?”

Granville nodded.

“Remember,” Judge Hanks said. “Yes or no.”

“Yes,” Granville replied.

King glanced at Gardner, then back at the witness. “If you told me that Santa Claus came to your house last Christmas and
left some toys, would that be the truth or a lie?”

Gardner couldn’t allow this to continue. “Objection! The question is compounded. There is no way
anyone
could give a correct answer! Not even an adult!”

For the first time today, Judge Hanks hesitated. Gardner’s comment sounded kind of right. “Can you elaborate, Mr. Lawson?”

“It’s a compound question. If toys were received, a yes answer would be the truth, but counsel is trying to discredit the
witness. To combine his perception of truth with his belief in Santa Claus, and insinuate he doesn’t know the difference.
There’s really no correlation.” Gardner was drawing on legal instinct.

“Wrong!” King said when Judge Hanks looked at him for a response. “He’s already admitted to believing in Santa Claus. That
lays the foundation for a follow-up question.”

“But the question you asked is compound,” the judge replied. “Rephrase it.”

King smirked at Gardner. He was about to resume questioning when he spotted Jacobs motioning to him from the defense table.
“May I have a moment, please, Your Honor?” he said.

The judge said okay, and King huddled with Jacobs. After a few words, King looked over at the witness stand.

Gardner followed King’s eyes back to Granville. Something was wrong.

“Your Honor,” King said. “We’d like to request an immediate recess.”

Gardner looked at his son. Until now, the boy’s attention had been bouncing between Gardner, King, and the judge. His eyes
had maintained that track all morning. Or so Gardner thought.

“Please, Judge!” King repeated. “We need to recess now!”

“Very well, Counsel,” the judge answered. “Ten-minute recess!”

Carla Hanks banged her gavel and left the bench.

King and Jacobs wasted no time in hustling their clients out of the room. In an instant, they were gone.

Gardner rushed to the stand. “What is it, Gran?”

The boy seemed to be in a hypnotic state. “Huh?”

“Tell Dad what’s wrong,” Gardner urged. Jennifer pressed in close behind, anxious to hear the answer.

“Nuthin’, Dad,” Granville finally said, his expression still distant.

But something
had
happened. Jacobs had seen it. Granville had finally focused on the two defendants, side by side at the counsel table. Roscoe
Miller and IV Starke. And suddenly, something had clicked.

“Are you okay?” Gardner asked his son again. Maybe he had experienced a flashback, a recollection, prompted by the men across
the room.

Granville nodded yes again, but his mind was still way, way off.

There was no question about it. The memory was stirring.

Brownie paced the floor of the lab, waiting for his fax to come in from New York. After finding the discrepancy in the filing
number of IV’s father’s birth certificate, he’d decided to check further. He’d phoned the New York State Department of Vital
Statistics and ordered the records that had been filed just before as well as just after that certificate. The clerk had said
okay. It would take a few minutes, but he’d send them out.

Brownie stopped beside the fax machine and scratched his head. A certain answer from New York would revitalize his theory.

The machine beeped, and Brownie watched as the paper slowly crept out of the vent. One page, then another. Then a beep to
signal that the transmission was complete.

Brownie put the first page under his magnifier. WELLINGTON STARKE III’S control number was 4576833. This one’s number was
4576832. Brownie checked the notation preceding the number: NYSDVS.

He turned to the second fax, number 4576834. This was the certificate filed immediately after Starke’s. NYSDVS, it read.

Brownie put Starke’s certificate with the two he’d just received. Each had a date and time stamp on the bottom of the page.
He compared them under the lens. All three were the same date, and all three had been filed within two hours of one another.
That meant that they should have been identical, in sequence, and all should have had the same stamped notation of the New
York State Department of Vital Statistics. But they were not the same. Wellington Starke III’s was different. The substitution
of a B for a D in the NYSDVS notation was not the mistake of a file clerk. It must have been done by someone outside the department.