16 SOULS Page 18

  “And no justice.”

  “Hey, young lady,” he said with a grin. “Where do you get off thinking this is a system of true justice? We’re just working at it. That’s why we call it a practice.”

  Near Denver International Airport

  Perhaps it was the darkened interior of the large hangar-like warehouse, or maybe he was losing the ability to come up with creative adjectives. But the only word Scott Bogosian could think of to describe the atmosphere in the warehouse was ‘spooky.’

  The Boeing 757 had not been torn to shreds in the crash, but the fuselage had broken along what was commonly called a ‘production splice,’ and the two major parts of the fuselage sat grotesquely twisted and forlorn on the concrete floor, the wings and engines removed, surrounded with a jumble of various tagged parts that had come off the bird.

  The landing gear and the tires in particular were Scott’s main focus, and his escort – the head of the local office of the National Transportation Safety Board – had been more than accommodating when Scott called.

  “I hate to bother you,” he’d begun, “…but there’s a part of the raw accident report on Regal Twelve that’s bothering me.”

  In fact, it was two things: an unusual lateral cut on one side of a main gear tire mentioned in the factual report and almost visible in one of the color photos of the wreckage; and, the insistence of the captain that lights had suddenly appeared on the runway just ahead. The common assumption seemed to be that he’d mistaken a glimpse of the approach lights and misunderstood, thinking they came from a misplaced snowplow still on the runway. There must have been something unusual to explain why a competent captain would attempt a dangerous go-around on fumes and with a broken airframe on his right wing.

  But where had that cut on the tire come from? Was it pre-existing, or had the 757 hit something other than the runway that night?

  And then there was that one additional detail from his own memory that kept nudging Scott: Fresh tire tracks in the deepening snow that couldn’t have been made by a behemoth fire truck. He remembered them with crystal clarity. They had been small tracks, like those a car or pickup would make, going in one direction as the fire truck he’d been riding in turned in another. Admittedly, Scott thought, his sense of both direction and location that night were markedly poor. The tracks he saw could be easy to explain, and yet, considering the fact that the captain was adamant that lights had appeared on the runway ahead, the question was inevitable: was there any substantive proof that a vehicle had, in fact, been on the runway? What vehicle had made the tracks he saw, and why?

  The NTSB rep had asked if Scott would like to take a closer look at the wreckage, and offered a field trip to the warehouse near Denver International where they were storing it pending the completion of the investigation.

  “It’s all been tagged and photographed extensively so, I don’t want you touching or moving anything, but you can look at anything you like.”

  “Where are the main gear tires?” Scott asked, following his host’s guidance to a jumble of twisted landing gear parts and tires. He moved carefully around each one, trying to recall which tire of the four on the right main landing gear had a lateral cut, but found it quickly.

  Scott looked up at the investigator.

  “Let me just sit here for a second and look at this and think, if you don’t mind,” Scott said.

  “Sure,” was the response, and the NTSB rep paced slowly away, trying not to appear bored as Scott took out a pocket flashlight and began examining the cut.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Present Day – Afternoon of September 5, the day before the start of trial

  The so-called ‘war room’ of Walters, Wilson, and Crandall’s gleaming main offices in downtown Denver had never been used for a criminal trial. Judith had commandeered both the war room and the firm’s treasury to pay for whatever help was needed to defend the Mitchell prosecution – and also to fund comfortable hotel rooms a block from the offices. With Marty living in Boulder and Judith only a few miles closer to Denver, avoiding an exhausting daily commute and the chance of being late for court was more than worth the expense. From the Hilton, the Lindsey-Flanigan Courthouse was a mere five blocks away.

  One of the senior partners, Roger Crandall, had started pushing back weeks before against the growing expenses. But Judith’s none-too-subtle reminder that he, himself had been largely responsible for bullying her into taking the assignment rapidly ended the conversation.

  “Whatever you need, Judith,” became the watchword.

  Unlike the glass-walls of the main conference room, the war room was larger and fully enclosed, with walls of fine oak paneling dominated by a highly polished walnut conference table covered in an avant-garde tablecloth of legal papers, exhibits, and pleadings. Judith was the commanding general of this army of evidence, assisted by two paralegals, an outside criminal defense attorney, and two in-house legal associates – young eighty hour-a-week partner wannabes intrigued that their stiff, white collar, corporate law firm was hip deep in a criminal case.

  Sitting at one corner of the huge table was the subject of it all: Captain Marty Mitchell. His feelings ranged from puzzlement, to engagement, to animated participation as they meticulously reviewed plans to deal with and counter anything the district attorney and his team could possibly throw at them.

  “I can see why you call this a war room,” Marty said quietly sometime around the 9th hour.

  At 6 pm, her review agenda complete, Judith called a halt and scheduled everyone to be back in the room at 7 am sharp.

  “Court begins at nine, and we must be prepared and ready to go.”

  As the others filed out, Marty got to his feet and began pacing.

  “Wow. The complexity of this is mind-boggling.”

  Judith looked up and smiled as she scooped papers into a briefcase.

  “Well, looking at the switches and dials and screens and things in a Boeing cockpit is equally mind boggling. In our case, in law, being exhaustively prepared is virtually everything. Same as planning logistics in a war.”

  “You use the doctrine of Sun Tzu? You know, the ‘Art of War.’”

  “Not quite that colorfully, Marty. I’ve read the book, of course. Do the opposite of what your opponent expects. Some of those principles help in a legal battle in court, but the best method in litigation is to understand everything the opposition can throw at you so well, that you’re never surprised, and be able to argue the law and the facts better than anyone else there…which means research, research, and more research. And…” she added, raising an index finger as she snapped the cover of the leather briefcase closed, “…on that note, the one thing I did not talk about today is that legal brief I commissioned on the role of captain’s authority in law and society.”

  “Can we file it with the judge?”

  “Probably not, but…we’ll get it in somehow.”

  Judith winced internally, the words feeling like a premeditated lie. Just as Jenks had said, it was probably useless in Gonzalez’ court. But telling Marty that would only serve to depress him, and a depressed client could be dangerous to his own case. That thought, in turn, started gnawing at her. How much in the dark was she going to keep Marty about the almost certain outcome of this trial? She could see he was relatively relaxed and reasonably confident and that was exactly where he needed to be. But the crash at the other end of the verdict would be magnified, and she was not, in her heart, capable of dishonesty beyond a point.

  “Judith, one other question.”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ve said all along this case was legally wrong. Can’t the judge see that? Can’t we ask for dismissal on those grounds?”

  She sighed. “We already have, Marty. Two weeks back we moved for dismissal on the law and as I fully expected, he denied it.
But it’s what we do to lay the foundation for an appeal.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” she echoed, with a forced smile and as much sincerity as she could muster. “We both need to relax and get a good night’s sleep. I’d like to buy you a really expensive dinner and go over a few things.”

  Meaning, she thought to herself, I need to keep him focused and ready for court, and I’m worried about letting him out of my sight. Maybe I should just sleep with him!

  “Dinner sounds good,” he replied. “You seem preoccupied, Judith?”

  If you only knew, she thought, carefully hiding any indication that she’d just scandalized herself with that private joke. Using sex to control one’s client was not exactly ethical.

  “My favorite steakhouse is three blocks away. Meet you in the hotel lobby in twenty minutes, and we can walk there.”

  He caught her arm gently as they were stepping out of the war room.

  “Judith, all this…” he gestured to the room and the day, “…what are my chances?”

  “Of getting an acquittal?” she asked, instantly on guard.

  “Of actually being sent to prison. Honest assessment.”

  She sighed and pursed her lips, meeting his gaze. “You want me to quantify a percentage of probability?”

  He half chuckled. “I guess that’s what I mean. I just don’t speak lawyer.”

  She nodded. “Okay. I don’t gamble on my cases…in other words I don’t have a bookie. But if I did, and he forced me to lay odds, I’d say they’re two to one against you ending up for an extended period in jail or a prison, because even if we lose the trial, I think the case for a successful appeal is very strong. And, I never said this, okay? But even if we lost an appeal, I’d badger the governor mercilessly until he pardoned you, or exiled me”

  “Two to one?” he said, looking shocked. “Not for acquittal but against extensive jail time?”

  “Roughly, “ she added.

  “So…if I understand you correctly as to what you’re not saying…the odds are against an acquittal?”

  Judith sighed, feeling trapped by her own hatred of lawyers telling lies. “Marty, my law partners think an acquittal is unlikely. I do not agree, but you’re right, the odds are no better than fifty-fifty. But, two to one odds against, as I said, any extensive time in a lockup.”

  “Oh, Lord,” he said, his face betraying the loss of confidence like a falling barometer.

  She took his arm and turned him back toward her. “But, Marty, how you conduct yourself as a calm and competent captain in that courtroom is going to make all the difference.”

  “I understand that,” he replied, a sad but deeply thoughtful look on his face as he sighed and chewed his lip. “Thank you for leveling with me, Judith. I imagine that was a tough decision…especially considering how volatile I’ve been.”

  “I’ll admit,” she said, “…I’ve been a bit frightened of how you’ll handle the courtroom environment.”

  “Two to one. That’s just short of terrifying! Frankly, I’m beginning to wish the air national guard guys had turned you down.”

  “Marty, look at me!” Judith commanded. “You deserve the opportunity to set the record straight, and that would never have happened if you’d died up there. I’m absolutely…”

  Marty held up his hand to stop her.

  “It’s okay, Judith. The die is cast. I’m here and I promised you I’d stick it out, and I will, on the outside chance…”

  “Those odds aren’t apocalyptic, Marty!”

  “I know…I get that. I…can still sleep with those odds.”

  She held his gaze for a few more beats, her expression slowly dissolving into a relieved smile.

  “The real question is,” Judith began, “…can you drink with those odds? Right now, I mean?”

  “Hell, yes,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Present Day – September 7 – Day Two of the trial

  Sleep had come rapidly, and escaped just as suddenly, leaving Marty in the plush hotel bed with his mind racing. The repetitious dream sequence of the headlights popping on in front of him in the blizzard just before touchdown was actually becoming a bore. It never changed, and there was never an answer.

  Marty checked his watch, dismayed to see it was only two-fifteen. He knew his wakeful profile all too well: there would be no way of returning to REM sleep before daybreak.

  Show time in the lobby is 6:30 am he reminded himself. With two very long and very tedious days of jury selection already behind him, the real trial would get underway at 8 am, and the first agony would be listening to that scumbag Richardson as he oiled his way around the subject of why Marty Mitchell was a mad dog killer who needed to be locked away from society.

  I must have wronged him in another life, Marty had joked. What other possible motive did Richardson have?

  That same dark and deep panic that had propelled him to the top of the mountain weeks back returned without warning. There was a coherent point to it, and it was a scream that no way could he survive the ultimate shame of being a convict, or the uselessness and endless agony of vegetating in a sterile cell while the world quickly forgot about him. Yes, he would stay until the verdict as he promised, but if the verdict was guilty, he’d impose his own death sentence to be carried out immediately. He didn’t have the stomach or the endurance for an appeal, and this time he wouldn’t need a mountain. There were at least a dozen ways to leave the planet he’d considered, and the most bizarre and demeaning involved the courthouse steps in front of cameras.

  Marty rolled out of bed in one fluid motion, landing on his feet before heading for the shower with intent to use the hotel’s hot water supply as a watery escape pod of white noise. But the shower was a massive fail at masking the pain and the panic, and after a half hour he dried off, liberated a tiny bottle of bourbon from the mini-bar, and plopped back on the bed, working hard to talk away from the ledge the panicked little boy inside him.

  There had to have been, he thought, a reason for surviving his suicide attempt. There had to be a bigger purpose, right? Judith had essentially preached that to him at dinner the night before, but she could barely convince herself.

  He called up a mental image of her and the thought returned a smile – not because she was beautiful or alluring, which she was, but because she had done something very simple that now brought tears to his eyes. She’d decided he was worth saving.

  Judith had promised him an expensive pretrial steak dinner, and she had delivered, both of them feeling comfortable and calm enough to spend those hours joking about last suppers and other snippets of twisted gallows humor. He’d found himself enjoying the tones of her voice – the polished and professional words spoken with near-perfect diction that betrayed none of her Oklahoma roots – although she’d cracked him up by lapsing in to what she called her original Okie accent. Aided by too much of an obscure brand of smoky bourbon which had loosened his tongue, he’d taken her verbally back to the top of Long’s Peak to show her how much, at that moment, he had longed to leap to the next reality. He fumbled the description of those moments and the fear of nothingness, but she understood. On a far deeper level than just nodding, she got it.

  Judith, it turned out, was as much a cynic as he, especially when it came to religion and faith and what she characterized as the “Sit down, shut up, and believe what we tell you!” terrorism of rigid dogma. He’d caught a glimpse in that discussion of the smart little girl who had taken a huge risk in rejecting the hypocrisy that had consumed her family. She had survived, but the cost had been high, and even now, she told him, her siblings – two sisters – communicated reluctantly and only on holidays, as if sending carefully worded messages to the enemy.

  A few moments of silence passed between them as Judith decided she was being too frank
and Marty felt himself thinking protectively, as if he could scoot back in time and protect that little girl.

  He shook himself off the subject.

  “How did you get from there to the law?” he asked.

  A warm smile had spread across her face in response, broad, profound, and slightly embarrassed, all of it coming through with clarity.

  “I desperately wanted a structure I could trust, Marty. Some…human institution built on honesty, or at least a continuous struggle to find honesty and, that elusive concept, justice. I fled home, enrolled in college, and threw myself at a much older guy who was a lawyer. I loved the way he looked at the world! I loved what he taught me about the law…and, a few other more intimate subjects. Yes, he was using me shamelessly as a willing girlfriend, but what I got from him was a fast track to law school, and it turned out I was really good at it – good enough to get admitted to Yale. See, in the practice of law, it’s not what you believe. It’s how you can prove something or convince someone based on facts and the structure of the law. Yes, we have horrid hypocrites running around with law licenses, the DA being one of the worst. But we also have a profession that retains a sense of propriety, and, I think, a real sense of honor. At least when we screw it up and act unethically, we know we’re over the line.”

  Marty recalled with painful clarity averting his gaze at her words and nodding.

  “I did admit that I screwed up, Judith, and climbed to the wrong altitude.”