“Vita, please.”
She wags a finger at me, her knuckle as knobby as the knot on an oak tree. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
“Ma, I’m fine.”
The elevator buzzes madly.
She takes two reluctant steps into the elevator. I release the button and the buzzing stops abruptly. “Don’t worry, Ma. I love you both.” I jump out of the elevator.
“We love you,” says my father. The doors close on my mother’s scowl.
When I turn around, the bag carrier is standing alone in the elevator bank. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and a smirk I would love to smack off.
“You look familiar to me,” he says casually. “Did you go to Harvard?”
“No. I’m too stupid.” I start to walk past him, but he touches my arm.
“You look like somebody I knew on law review there, in 1986. I was editor in chief that year.”
“Editor in chief, huh?”
“Editor in chief.”
I lean in close to him. “Let me tell you something. I saw the way you carried that bag, and I must say I’ve never seen a man carry a bag as well as you did. In fact, it takes an editor in chief to carry a bag that well.” I chuck him one in the padded shoulder. “Keep up the good work.”
I take off and head for the stairs.
Fucking back. It’s getting to be fun.
I run up the stairs to the conference room, mentally switching gears on the way. I have a job to do. I have to ask Hart every question I can think of, and I have only this one shot before trial. I have to find out everything he has to support his case so I can get a defense ready. And I have to find out what the hell is going on with Ned’s father and my files.
I slip inside the conference room. It smells of fresh coffee and virgin legal pads. Pete’s already there, setting up his stenography machine. He gives me a professional nonpartisan-type nod. We both know this is bullshit. He’s my reporter and it will be my record. He’ll make me sound like Clarence Darrow before he’s done, with none of the uhs, hums, and ers that I come out with in real life.
The Harts stand together at the coffee tray. I reach for Hank’s hand. “Hello, Hank.”
“Hi, Mary,” Hank says. “I assumed the dep would be here, since you replaced Masterson as defense counsel.” He looks like an English schoolboy in a plaid bow tie, which is slightly askew.
“Right. I should have called you, but I was out yesterday.”
“I know, I tried to confirm.”
“I’m sorry. By the way, when did you get the Notice of Deposition? I don’t seem to have a copy in my pleadings index.”
He thinks a minute. “We got it when Masterson filed the answer, I think. No, we got it with the other stuff.”
“Other stuff?”
“You know, the discovery. Interrogatories and document requests. We answered them two weeks ago. You’ve seen them, haven’t you?”
“No, actually. Maybe they got lost when the file was transferred to us.” Discovery. Of course, the written questions that Hart would have to answer and the papers he’d have to produce. Without those papers, I’m crippled for today. “Hank, would you mind if I borrowed your copy of the discovery for the deposition?”
“Not at all.” He sets his shiny briefcase on the table and opens it up. Anybody else would have denied having the documents and exploited my disadvantage, but Hank hands me a thick packet of paper. Candy from a baby. I’m almost too ashamed to take it. Almost.
“Thanks, Hank.”
“The documents we produced are on the bottom,” he says helpfully.
“Great.” I take the papers, but there’s too much to read now. I’ll do it over the lunch break, and wing it this morning. But why are the papers missing from the file in the first place? Who did this to me? “Who handled this case at Masterson, Hank? I forget. Was it-”
“Nathaniel Waters,” booms a deep voice, speaking for the first time. It’s Hart the Elder. “They pulled out their big gun.”
NSWis Ned’s father. Jesus H. Christ.
“Mary, this is my father, Henry Hart,” Hank says.
“Hello, Mr. Hart.” I extend a hand, but he ignores it. I withdraw it quickly, as Hank looks uncomfortably at me. Hart the Elder won’t even meet my eye and yanks a chair out from under the table. He’s an attractive man, tanned and trim. There’s almost no gray in his hair; I wonder if he dyes it. It would be consistent, for he seems vain, in a European-tailored suit and a light pink shirt. I can see why he was an executive at Harbison’s and can also imagine him being rude to employees, because he’s breathing fire at me.
Two hours later, it’s a full-fledged conflagration, and I’ve taken Saint Joan’s place at the stake. I started out with only the most reasonable questions, mainly about his early years at Harbison’s, but Hart fought me on each one. His son never objected. He couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“Mr. Hart, has anyone from Harbison’s ever made a statement to you regarding your age?”
“Mrs. DiNunzio, you know full well they have.”
“The purpose of this deposition is to find out your version of the facts, Mr. Hart. Now please answer the question.”
“My version? It’s the truth.”
“Look, Mr. Hart, this is your chance to tell your side of the story. Why don’t you do so?”
“It’s not a story.”
I grit my teeth. “Mr. Benesante, would you please read back the question?”
Pete picks up the tape and translates its machine-made abbreviations to Hart. “Mr. Hart, has anyone from Harbison’s ever made a statement to you regarding your age?”
“Do you understand the question, Mr. Hart?” I ask.
“English is my mother tongue, Mrs. DiNunzio.”
“Then answer it, please.”
“Yes, they have.”
“How many such statements have been made to you, sir?”
“Three.”
“Do you remember when the first such statement was made?”
“Sure. It’s a day that will live in infamy, if I have any say in the matter.”
“When was the statement made?”
“February seventh, 1990.”
“Who made the statement?”
“Frank Stapleton.”
“Would that be Franklin Stapleton, the chief executive officer of Harbison’s?”
“None other.”
“Was there anyone else present when he made this statement?”
“You think they’re dumb enough to have a witness there?”
“I take it your answer is no, Mr. Hart?”
“You take it right, Mrs. DiNunzio.”
I sip some ice-cold coffee. “Where was the statement made?”
“In Frank’s office.”
“Do you recall the statement, Mr. Hart?”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“What was the statement, Mr. Hart?”
“Mr. Stapleton said to me, ‘Henry, face it. You’re not getting any younger, and it’s time for you to retire. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, you know.’”
Pow!It’s a fireball.
