Richard neglects to point that out. Instead he asks, “You worked out of their home?”
She nods. “I did.”
“Do you know the defendant, Steven Timmerman?”
Martha looks over at Steven and says, “I do.”
“Did you have occasion to see Steven when he was in the company of Walter Timmerman, or Diana Timmerman, or both?”
“Many times.”
His questions force her to focus on those times when Steven argued with Walter, and she concedes that it happened fairly frequently. She glances occasionally at Steven, as if distressed that she has to be doing this to him.
She tries to repair the damage by saying, “Sometimes they got along very well. Walter could be difficult, especially with Steven. He had very specific expectations for him.”
“And if they were not met?” Richard asks.
“He expressed his displeasure in very strong terms.”
“And how did Steven respond?”
“He would get angry.”
“Would he ever storm out?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever see him throw things in anger?”
She glances at Steven again. “Yes, he broke a lamp against a wall once.”
Richard now gets Martha to turn to Steven’s relationship with Diana, and even though she tries to couch it, it is obvious their interactions were a disaster.
“Did Steven ever tell you that he hated his stepmother?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say about her effect on his father?”
“That she was destroying him, and that as smart as he was, he still couldn’t see through it.”
When it’s my turn, I ask Martha, “Do you have any knowledge as to whether these problems between Steven and his father, as well as his stepmother, started before your arrival?”
“Oh, yes, they all said that. It had been going on much longer than that.”
“Did Steven ever attack his father?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t believe so.”
“Did he ever attack his stepmother?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“Have you ever seen him commit or attempt to commit a violent act?”
“No.”
“Thank you, no further questions.”
The last witness for the day is Thomas Sykes, Timco’s CEO by day, and Diana Timmerman’s Hamilton Hotel lover by night. He doesn’t have much to say, simply confirming the stormy relationships that Steven had with his father and mother.
I could question Sykes about his affair with Diana Timmerman, but I’m not sure what it gets me at this point. Instead, I basically ask Sykes the same questions I asked Martha Wyndham, and get the same responses, most notably the one about never having seen Steven commit a violent act.
“I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor, but I do reserve the right to call him back to the stand as part of the defense case.”
Hatchet is fine with that, and I let Sykes off the stand. I haven’t embarrassed him with a revelation of the affair, but I’m not above doing so later.
In court, there’s actually very little that I’m above.
WHY DO I GET MYSELF into these situations? I’m about to go into a meeting alone with a man whom the FBI and Laurie both think might try to kill me.
There’s something wrong with this picture. I’m a lawyer, the person who is supposed to get involved after the violence, not during. There were no self-defense classes in law school, and we were never taught how to deal with a dangerous criminal while wearing a wire. The only time the word “wire” came up was when we were told that international corporate clients might pay our fees by “wire” transfer.
But here I am, in an FBI van at a rest stop off the Palisades Interstate Parkway, having a wire taped to my chest. I’m sweating so much that I’m afraid it will electrocute me. Laurie is watching all of this with an impassive stare, which I am sure masks very significant worry, if not outright dread. The only confrontations I can handle are verbal. If you wanted to buy a foxhole, I could handle the closing for you, but you wouldn’t want me in there with you if things got dangerous.
My plan is not exactly well thought out. I want to get Robinson on record admitting that my theory about the synthetic DNA is correct. I don’t expect him to admit to any murders; I still don’t know if he committed or planned any. But I, and certainly Corvallis, would like to get him to implicate others.
Whether I accomplish this by threats or an inference that Robinson and I can turn this into a mutually profitable situation, I can’t yet say. I’m going to play it by ear and take the conversation in the direction I deem most fertile in the moment. That is an area in which I feel comfortable.
Corvallis will be in the van with four other agents, two of whom work the technical equipment, and Laurie. Other agents will be spread out on the grounds near the house, ready to move in if I am in danger. I also will have a small panic button attached to my belt, a signal for them to storm the house and save the lawyer.
Once we are all set, and the various electronics are attached to me, I exit the van and get into my car. I wait ten minutes for the FBI people to go ahead and get in position, and then I drive to the house myself.
As I pull up to a house and property just a notch below that of Walter Timmerman’s, I don’t see the van or any agents. I hope that they are just good at concealment, because if they’re not there I could be in major trouble. I feel like Michael Corleone before his meeting in the restaurant with Solozzo, depending on the gun to have been planted in the bathroom.
I park, take a deep breath, and go to the front door, which is wide open. This doesn’t feel like a good sign, and it’s not the only one. Coming through the open door is a stench that is unlike anything I have ever experienced.
In every movie I have ever seen where this situation occurs, there is a dead body waiting to be discovered by the hero. The only thing missing here is the hero, because if it’s me then I’m miscast.
I turn and look around, hoping to see Corvallis or someone who will provide guidance. Seeing no one, I softly say, “The door is open and it smells awful.” I’m sure they can hear me in the van, but the communication is only one way, so they can’t answer me, and it does me no good.
I decide to go in, because not to do so is to leave and therefore make no progress. Besides, while the stench may mean a dead body, it also would mean the body has been dead for a while. Therefore, if someone murdered that body, he has had plenty of chance to leave already.
I walk through the foyer and living room, covering my nose with my sleeve and ridiculously calling out “hello!”-as if Robinson were going to come walking out saying,
When I get to the kitchen, I come upon what is easily the most disgusting sight I have ever seen… the most disgusting sight anyone has ever seen. What used to be Charles Robinson sits at the kitchen table, but he is no longer human. It is as if his enormous body has melted from the inside out, and he is covered with disgusting blotches of ooze and blood. Much of it has dripped to the floor.
I once saw the decapitated, burned body of a corrupt cop, and I later saw his head wrapped in plastic. Those were disgusting sights, but compared with this they were like a field of daffodils.
I start to run from the kitchen, simultaneously pressing the panic button and screaming, “Get in here! Get in here!” The words don’t come out quite as clearly as I would like, because my vomit gets in the way.
When I reach the outside, I literally fall to the ground and gasp for air. Agents rush to me, no doubt thinking
