Chapter ONE.
On the day the gods chose for his destruction, Peter Hale ate his breakfast on the terrace of his condominium. The sun was just beginning its ascent above the city of Portland and a blood-red aura surrounded the flat, black silhouette of Mount Hood. The dark metropolis looked like an ink-black carpet crisscrossed by Christmas lights. A poet would have savored the sunrise for its beauty, but Peter enjoyed the advent of day for another reason. He believed that Galileo was wrong when he imagined an Earth that revolved around the sun. In his heart of hearts, Peter knew that the sun that was slowly rising over his city revolved around him.
A crumb from his bran muffin fell onto the leg of Peter's gray Armani trousers. He flicked it off, then took a sip of the cafe latte he had brewed in the espresso machine that graced the marble counter of his designer kitchen. Peter lived in the condo, drove a fire-engine-red Porsche and pulled in a high five-figure salary as a fourth-year associate at Hale, Greaves, Strobridge, Marquand and Bartlett. The salary did not cover all his expenses and Peter was a bit overextended right now, but he never had any trouble obtaining mortgages, car loans or things of that sort since everyone knew he was the son of Richard Hale, one of the firm's founding partners and a past president of the Oregon State Bar. With all this, Peter was not a happy camper.
The living room drapes moved. Peter looked over his shoulder. Priscilla padded across the terrace wearing only an oversized Trailblazer T-shirt. She was a flight attendant with United. Peter had dated her on and off for a few months. Most men would have killed for such a lover, but Priscilla was talking about 'commitment' with increasing frequency and Peter was finding it more and more difficult to avoid discussions of the dreaded 'C' word.
Priscilla bent down and kissed Peter on the cheek. Peter's head moved slightly and she sensed the rebuff.
'Boy, are you a grouch this morning,' Priscilla said, straining to keep the hurt out of her voice.
'Yeah, well, I've got to get to court,' he answered brusquely.
'How is the case going?'
'Great for Sir Richard. Not so good for me.'
Priscilla sat across from Peter. 'What's wrong?' she asked.
'The same damn thing that's been wrong since I made the mistake of going to work for my father.'
Peter did not try to disguise his bitterness. It felt good to vent his anger.
'Last night, right after court, Sir Richard informed me that he would be cross-examining all of the defendant's important witnesses and giving the closing argument.'
'Your father has let you try some part of the case, hasn't he?'
'He's let me examine a few insignificant witnesses.
That's about it.'
'Oh, Peter. I'm so sorry. I know how much you've been counting on being lead counsel.'
'Yeah, well,' Peter shrugged, 'I should have known better. My father just has to hog the glory.'
Peter looked out toward the sunrise, but his thoughts were turned inward. When his father asked him if he wanted to work at Hale, Greaves, Peter had imagined brief apprenticeship followed quickly by a succession of major cases in which he would act as lead ce i counsel, winning multimillion-dollar verdicts and establishing his credentials in the legal community. It had taken four years serving as Richard Hale's vassal to bring him to his senses. He had worked on Elliot v. Northwest Maritime from day one and he knew more about the case than his father ever would. If his father would not let him be lead counsel in Elliot, he had little hope of being lead counsel in a major case in the near future. He had to get out from under his father's influence. If necessary, even leave Hale, Greaves. A new start with a new firm might be the answer. He would seriously consider a move when the Elliot case was over.
The senior partners in Hale, Greaves, Strobridge, Marquand and Bartlett looked out from corner offices on the fortieth floor of the Continental Trust Building at the rivers, towering mountains and lush green hills that made Portland, Oregon, so unique. Though the skyscraper was new, the firm's quarters were decorated with heavy, dark woods, polished brass fittings and fine old antiques, giving the place an air of timeless quality.
At precisely 7:30 A.M Peter entered a small, windowless conference room where he and his father met before court every morning to review the witnesses who would testify that day and to discuss any legal issues that might arise. Peter's father still had the same massive build that helped him win second team All-American honors in football and an NCAA wrestling championship at Oregon State in 1956. He owned a full head of white hair and his craggy face was outfitted with a broken nose and a cauliflower ear. Richard Hale practiced law the way he played sports, full steam ahead and take no prisoners. This morning, Peter's father was striding back and forth in front'of a low credenza in his shirtsleeves, a phone receiver plastered to his ear, muttering 'Jesus Christ!' at increasing decibel levels each time he made a turn.
Peter took off his suit jacket and hung it behind the door on a hanger. He noted with distaste that his father had flung his jacket onto a corner of the long conference table where it lay crumpled in a heap. Richard loved playing the humble, hulking man of the people in front of juries and he thought that the disheveled clothes helped his image. Peter could not imagine wearing a suit that had not been freshly pressed.
'When will you know?' his father barked, as Peter took several files from his attach case and arranged them in a neat pile.
'No, goddamn it, that won't do. We're in the middle of the goddamn trial. We've been in court for two weeks.'
Richard paused. His features softened. 'I know it couldn't be helped, but you don't know judge Pruitt.'
He paused again, listening intently. Then, his face turned scarlet with anger.
'Look, Bill, this isn't that difficult. I told you I needed the goddamn things two weeks ago. This is what happens when you wait until the last minute.
'Well, you better,' Richard threatened, ending the conversation by slamming down the phone.
'What's up?' Peter asked.
'Ned Schuster was in a car wreck,' Richard answered distractedly, running his fingers through his hair.
'He's in the hospital.'
'Who 'Schuster. He's supposed to testify today. Now, Bill Ebling says they can't get the papers to court because Schuster had the only copy.'
Peter had no idea what his father was talking about.
He glanced down at his files. There was one for each witness and none was for a Ned Schuster. When he looked up, his father was leaning against the wall. His face was as pale as chalk and he was rubbing both sides of his jaw vigorously.
'Dad?' Peter asked, frightened by his father's ashen pallor and the beads of sweat that suddenly bathed his face. instead of answering, Richard grimaced in pain and began rubbing his breast with a clenched fist. Peter froze.
'Heart attack,' Richard gasped.
Peter snapped out of his trance and raced around the conference table.
'I need to lie down,' Richard managed, as his knees sagged. Peter caught him before he hit the floor.
'Help!' Peter screamed. A young woman stuck her head in the door. Her eyes widened.
'Call 911, fast! My father is having a heart attack.'
When Peter looked down, Richard's teeth were clenched and his eyes were squeezed tight. He continued to rub his chest vigorously as if trying to erase his pain.
'Hold on, Dad,' Peter begged. 'The medics are coming.'
Richard's body jerked. His eyes glazed over. The two men were sprawled on the floor. Peter held his father's head in his lap. He was concentrating so hard on his father that he didn't notice the room filling with people.
Suddenly, Richard's eyes opened and he gasped, 'Mistrial.'
