Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 16

MARK AUSTIN SAT QUIETLY, his hands folded in his lap, and watched his mentor, Charlton Colby, prep yet another Blaylock employee for deposition. This" was the seventh one they had drilled tonight—and there were still several more waiting in the wings.

Mark’s early expectations regarding this case had been fulfilled—and then some. He had hoped this case would boost his billable hours, and that wish had come true beyond his wildest dreams. He’d billed eighty hours a week since the case began, and he wasn’t the only one, either. At least a dozen other associates had worked on the case in one capacity or another—doing legal research, drafting briefs, reviewing and cataloging documents. Colby himself had also billed high numbers, which at his hourly rate added up to some significant dollars. Colby had reportedly been billing time seven days a week, fifteen and sixteen hours a day. Elkins v. Blaylock had become the biggest cash cow Raven, Tucker & Tubb had seen in some time.

Mark had also hoped this case would give him an opportunity to work with Colby closely, to study under the man commonly considered to be Tulsa’s master of corporate litigation. That wish had also come true. Mark had been involved in every aspect of Colby’s work—the motions, the discovery, the tactics. The experience had been extremely illuminating if, at times, surprising. And a bit disturbing.

The current witness was a man named Archie Turnbull. Although Colby had allowed Mark to prep some of the witnesses on his own, he had insisted on personally preparing all of the top executives and anyone who was personally involved in waste disposal. Turnbull fell into the latter category.

Turnbull was a tall, thin man with an elongated countenance; he looked rather as if he had been grabbed at both ends and stretched. He was beyond balding; there were two patches of graying hair over each ear, with a few pathetic wispy strands stretched across his head, masking nothing from no one. He was nervous, but then, so was everyone when they came in here. And even more so when Colby started in on them.

“I want to impress upon you the importance of what you are about to do,” Colby said in solemn tones. It was late at night, and Colby had been working all day, but he still cut an impressive figure. He was athletic and handsome for his age; his gray pinstriped suit was well-tailored and immaculate. “Sometimes corporate employees think, "Oh well, I don’t really know anything, so my deposition won’t be important." But they’re wrong. Every statement is important. The tiniest slip could change the course of an entire lawsuit.”

Turnbull nibbled at the corners of his fingernails. He had been nervous before, and this lecture from Colby evidently wasn’t helping.

“Make no mistake about what is happening here. These plaintiffs are after the heart and soul of H. P. Blaylock. They want to suck out its profits and drain it dry. They are greedy and undeserving, but they wouldn’t be the first undeserving plaintiffs who succeeded in the courtroom. If they prevail, there may well be nothing left of this company. You’ll be out of work—you and all your friends. And if that happens, what will you do? Where will you go?” He paused, allowing Turnbull to contemplate this unpleasant prospect. “Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“Of course I do,” Turnbull said. He had to remove his fingers from his mouth to speak. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” Colby briefed him on basic deposition procedure. “Here’s the most important thing for you to remember—don’t volunteer anything. Answer the question succinctly and then be quiet. If it’s a yes-no question, then say yes or no and clam up. Don’t explain. Don’t try to please the questioner. Don’t try to make everything clear to him. You’re not there to help, and you wouldn’t succeed, even if you tried.”

Turnbull’s voice squeaked a bit as he spoke. “Surely we don’t want to leave them confused.”

“And why not? Confusion is good. They can’t prove a case if they don’t understand what’s going on. Listen to me, my friend. I’ve been in the litigation game for a long time now. You start trying to be Mr. Helpful and you’ll end up putting a noose around your neck. So you just answer the question succinctly and clam up.”

“All right,” Turnbull said meekly.

“This assumes you know the answer. If you don’t, by God you just say so. You don’t guess. You don’t say what probably happened or what usually happens. Got it?”

Mark noticed that Turnbull’s left eye was beginning to twitch. “Got it.”

“Now let’s talk a moment about your testimony.” Colby eased back in his chair, relaxing his intimidating posture a hair. “Of course, I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to say. That would be improper and unethical. I would never encourage a witness to do anything but tell the truth.”

Mark wondered why Colby paused. It was almost as if there was a but coming.

“Given the work you did at the plant, it is inevitable that you will be asked about the waste-disposal process. The plaintiffs" lawyer is desperate to prove that somehow Blaylock poisoned the Blackwood water aquifer—which of course was more than half a mile away from the plant. It’s ridiculous, but that’s what they want to do. So it’s important that we be firm and consistent in our description of the waste-disposal plan H. P. Blaylock maintained at all times and without exception.”

“Of course,” Turnbull said quietly.

“As I understand it, the runoff from all equipment tables—anyplace these chemical solvents would have been used—was collected in plastic bins. When they were approximately two-thirds full, the bins would be poured into steel drums; a drum was conveniently placed in every workroom. When the drums were nearly full, they were sealed—airtight—and carried to the back of the plant, where every two weeks they would be hauled to a federally approved waste-disposal site. There is absolutely no way any of that waste could have contaminated the groundwater. None whatsoever.”

Colby paused again, as if waiting for Turnbull to make some kind of response.

“Is that your understanding of the situation, too?”

Turnbull’s neck stretched. “Well … yes. More or less.”

Colby pounced forward. “More or less? What the hell does that mean? A wishy-washy answer like that could cost your employer millions.”

“But—you know”—Turnbull was struggling for words—“there were times—”

“Excuse me? Are you saying that wasn’t the policy? Because I have it from Myron Blaylock himself.”

“But … there’s a difference between policy and … implementation.”

“Are you saying there was someone who didn’t follow the official corporate policy?” He grabbed a legal pad. “Because if there are such persons, I want their names now. They will be subject to summary termination.”

Turnbull licked his lips, parted them, acted as if there was something he might say. But nothing came out.

“I’m waiting, sir. Was this waste-disposal policy followed or not?”

Turnbull finally managed to speak. “It … was.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. You should have said so in the first place.” He peered directly into Turnbull’s eyes. “Please remember what I said. Answer yes-no questions with a yes or a no. Period.”

“Sorry,” Turnbull said, tucking his chin. “Yes. That’s how it was.”

“Fine,” Colby replied calmly, a small smile playing on his lips. “That’s how I thought it was.” He stretched out in his chair, his hands placed casually behind his neck. “Mark, bring in the next one.”