The Crestfallen Rose

By Michael Martin

The Crestfallen Rose merges the journey of a child born blind with that of two women whose lives are devastated in pre World War II Germany, into an exciting tale of love and death.

Samantha Talbot is born blind. Her mother Ally, searches for the cause. She finds a mysterious link to a pesticide, and Worldwide Chemical. No lawyer will touch her case, until a former District Attorney, David King, agrees to fight for she and Sam.

Decades before Samanthas birth Amalia Hecht and her uncle Karl perfect a miracle pesticide that is sought by the Gestapo. They pass it secretly to an American agent. Hunted by the police they flee Germany. Amalia befriends, Rachel Wisemann, a young girl, at the Swiss border.

Ally, Samantha, and David face Worldwide Chemical in Federal Court in Miami, their quest frustrated by an ambitious judge, unscrupulous lawyers, and a callous opponent. Deftly drawn protagonists, Ally, David, Amalia, and Rachel become one with the reader in a thrilling tale.

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www.thecrestfallenrose.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9780595854646

Michael Martin

Michael Martin, a Mennonite pastor turned blacksmith, is founder and executive director of RAWtools Inc. and blogs at RAWtools.org. RAWtools turns guns into garden tools (and other lovely things), resourcing communities with nonviolent confrontation skills in an effort to turn stories of violence into stories of creation. RAWtools has been featured in the New York Times and on Inside Edition and NPR. Martin lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Book preview

The

Crestfallen Rose

qq.jpg

Michael D.Martin

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

The Crestfallen Rose

Copyright © 2008, 2011 by Michael D. Martin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

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www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Jacket design and photo of the author by Stephen Martin and Kate Martin ©

ISBN: 978-0-595-41107-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-595-67869-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-0-595-85464-6 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 10/29/2012

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Acknowledgments

Biography Michael D. Martin

For

Joy, Kate, & Rachel

As crude a weapon as the caveman’s club, the chemical

barrage has been hurled against the fabric of life.

Rachel Carson

Silent Spring

Chapter One

Houston, 12:01 a.m., March 15, 2001

Fire leapt into the night air. Sparks crackled and swirled as floating particles of chemicals reached flashpoint. Sweaty men in black coats inhaled oxygen from tanks. Masks covered blistering flesh. Caustic vapors infiltrated the rubber seals. The firefighters wretched.

Water from five trucks arched over their heads. The warehouse exploded. The building collapsed, exposing steel girders. Gases volatilized into the night.

Men ran out, waving for water gunners to spray them.

Pull back, pull back! Get the hell out of there. Let it burn.

Chief Fire Marshal Edward Hearst ran to the blaze, bullhorn in hand, barking orders. Floating cotton balls of chemicals cooled in the night air and covered his deep blue parka.

A form writhed next to a red brick marker: Chemical Retain Warehouse #13.

Susie Phelps, his rookie firefighter.

Hearst flung the bullhorn to the ground. He cradled her into his arms, then ran. Her long blonde hair fell over his thick hands.

"Medic, medic. Move your ass, now."

An EMS vehicle raced toward the Fire Marshal, red light flashing. Hearst, carrying his charge in one arm, yanked open the rear door and bellowed at the attendant inside.

Trauma Center, Number Six. Radio chemical inhalation. Her lungs may be destroyed. Get a police escort. Move it out, and son, – the attendant glanced at his Chief while laying Susie Phelps on a gurney – Pray, pray hard.

Hearst returned to the fray to insure all his men were safely away from the inferno. Near him, on a knoll, a solitary figure held both hands to his mouth, gazing at the erupting flames and chemicals vaporizing into the night.

Hearst ran toward him. All he needed was a civilian casualty.

The man cried, My babies, my babies.

The man, thin and gaunt as eighty approached, was well known from news articles.

Doctor Gessle, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s a chemical rainstorm, sir. Please come with me. He reached for Gessle’s hand, then hesitated. How did one approach a Nobel Laureate?

1:00 a.m., Rosebud Nursery, Plantation, Florida

The moon illuminated rain-spent clouds, bathing Rosebud’s greenhouses. The flowers sensed the light. Petals trembled, and a March breeze wafted the roses’ pungent scent into the white clapboard cottage of its owner.

Ally Talbot woke, startled. She dreamed of a burning building, laughing skeletons leaping from a fire. She wrestled the pillows on her bed, pulled the hem of her red flannel nightgown over her slender hips, and silently cursed. Ally smelled flowers. A once welcomed fragrance, now guilt’s trigger.

She heard something.

Not again, she thought.

The sound repeated, words muffled. Ally sat up in her bed, flipped the covers to the end, hoping the sound would stop. She rubbed her face with both hands, fingers passing over her eyes, nose, and gaunt cheeks.

Mommy!

Ally leaped to the floor and ran down the hall like a gymnast approaching a vault.

Sam?

Ally reached through the bed railings, feeling the sheets for her daughter’s small form. A pink nightlight on a bedside table shone on the child’s blankets. A vase filled with two long-stemmed yellow roses stood next to the lamp. She felt the blankets in search for her daughter, then shuffled the pillows, sending them airborne, one of them striking the vase. It thudded against the carpet, petals fluttering across lavender fibers.

Sam, where are you?

A whimper told her.

Ally sank to her knees. She shoved aside the white cotton bed-skirt and reached under the bed. Sam was curled toward the foot of the bed. She grasped the child with one hand, then pulled her from under the bed into her arms. She rocked her for a while on her knees. After a few minutes, she moved to the rocker beside the window overlooking the nursery, carrying Sam.

Samantha raised her head, eyes open, staring vacantly.

Mommy, it was after me.

Ally cradled her, a baby no longer at just past three. She heard her short gasps of air and felt the quivering of her lips. She kissed Sam on the cheek while caressing her faultless olive complexion.

Sam, there is no it.

The child rested her head on her mom’s shoulder, rubbing her cheek into the flannel nightgown. Ally ran a hand through Samantha’s chestnut curls. The wooden runners of the rocker creaked in tune with the creatures of the night. Ally brushed her child’s ear with her lips.

Your leg and blankie got tangled in the guardrail.

Samantha rubbed her nose against her mom’s gown. I lost Kitty, Mommy. The monster got it.

Ally rose with Sam in her arms, walked over to Kitty, and grabbed it with her free hand. She returned to the rocker and placed the white, polyester animal under Sam’s arm.

See, Kitty is safe and so are you. There’s no monster, Sam.

Sam pulled Kitty to her chest. You said there was a monster, Mommy. Lots of times. I heard you tell Daddy. You cried a lot.

Ally glanced out the window, the nursery security lights visible in the distance. They illuminated a host of blind mosquitoes swirling in the incandescent light. When she and Alex had argued, she’d failed to realize, or at least believe, that blindness is an affliction of sight, not the mind.

Ally, too, had nightmares about the monster in the greenhouse she had unwittingly let loose. She exposed her gestating child to a creature that infiltrated her blood, then rode the rich red stream through the umbilical cord into Sam.

A soft pink glow from the night-light on the bedside table bathed mother and child. Each night Sam would ask Ally to turn it on. She wondered if a particle of light could penetrate her daughter’s world of darkness.

The runners of Ally’s wooden rocker creaked as they settled into the carpet. Sam flinched, but her breathing remained regular. Holding Sam tight, she rose from the rocker, waiting for Sam to say, Rock me, Mommy. Sam was growing; her legs came way past Ally’s knees. Ally laid Sam in her bed, placed Kitty by her chin, and pulled her favorite pink blankie over her.

She turned. The white porcelain vase lay unbroken on the carpet. The pink glow of the nightlight bathed the yellow petals in an eerie glow, a mosaic on the lavender carpet.

Ally, on her knees, grasped the petals in her hand, smelled them, stood, and kissed her daughter good night on her forehead after blowing aside one of her chestnut curls.

Miami, 6:00 a.m.

David King stood on the balcony of the old Miami Bay Hotel, absorbing the six a.m. sunrise on Biscayne Bay. His right hand gripped Cuban coffee laced heavily with cream; his left, a cigar. An incoming tide caused ripples on the waves. The waters of the bay flowed past channel markers that guided boaters into the Atlantic. A wisp of smoke appeared on the horizon. It came from whale-tail shaped smoke stacks that formed the aft superstructure of the Royal Caribbean superliner, Celebration. King envied the passengers who would soon disembark sunburned, bags full of purchases of invaluable goods that would find their way to the back of dusty shelves in obscurity once home.

David took the plastic lid off his second Styrofoam cup of café con leche, procured from the Bay hotel’s kitchen after room service refused to acknowledge his presence. Frustrated, he had taken the service elevator. The busy night waiter was reading the Spanish version of the Miami Herald. After scolding King for using the service elevator, he poured coffee for him, and, with a serious but humorous wink, sent him to his room with the admonition to use the lobby elevators.

David King lit a second cigar, the first having been a two-inch stubble from the night before.

South of his balcony, the morning sun lit the facade of multi-storied luxury condos that formed a half moon set upon acres of green space. Tennis courts, dark with the morning dew, were empty, as was the bike path that circled the courts.

To the north of his balcony loomed the towering buildings of the Miami skyline. These buildings housed the daily workers of the city in their air-conditioned cubicles, laminated windows reflecting the rising sun. He watched as lights turned on in the workers’ offices, giving the appearance of random movements on a checkerboard. David had no envy for the morning workers who were trying to jump-start the day.

King took a long draw from the cigar, watching the smoke drift to the northeast. His eyes rested on a structure that ended his morning tranquility, the Hotel Biscayne which housed his opposing counsel.

The Hotel Biscayne dwarfed the skyline, his hotel, his balcony. Its palatial rooms of leather couches, king sized beds, and flat screen televisions contrasted with his room of faded pink walls, inoperable refrigerator, and a worn fabric couch complemented by a print so bleached by the sun that the hacienda and palms depicted were out of focus.

The Miami Bay Hotel once had lobbies, bars, and restaurants filled with strutting business types. It now catered to Latin tourists with hyper kids running through its once proud halls.

King glanced once more at The Hotel Biscayne, flicked a cigar ash over the rail and stepped into his room from the balcony, pushing aside the pink plastic curtains. As he gazed at the rundown surroundings of his room, he thought about his client, Samantha Talbot. Sam was past being a toddler at three. He wished he could hold her in his arms on the balcony overlooking Biscayne Bay, point out cruise ships coming to port and speedboats filled with laughing children, and listen as she exclaimed with glee while the white froth from the waves lapped over seawalls lining the inter-coastal. He knew this would never happen.

The showdown with his opponents housed across from his hotel would be ten o’clock sharp, United States District Court, Judge John Saul presiding. The notice of hearing had come, unceremoniously, in an envelope marked USDC for the Southern District of Florida. David hated getting mail from federal court. Nothing good ever came in one of those envelopes. This one ordered him to appear on March 15th, 2001, at a hearing scheduled to last one hour. It commanded him: Be prepared to argue his motion demanding that his opponent turn over product samples and that the Judge sanction their lawyer for subterfuge.

David had filed the lawsuit a year before, claiming Worldwide Chemical’s pesticide WC-IFD88, a combination insecticide, fungicide, and disease killer, had caused Sam to be born blind after Ally’s exposure to it while pregnant. Their legal theory was Strict Liability, which was anything but strict. In order to prevail, Ally, as Sam’s mom, had to prove the pesticide had something in its make-up that caused Sam’s neuronal cells to mutate while her eyes were forming during gestation.

The company had denied every allegation; even that Ally had sprayed the product on her roses, noting there was none of it left. They referred to the federally approved EPA label that claimed the product was not a mutagenic, as well as warning of its use around pregnant women. When shown Ally’s purchase records of WC-IFD88 from a local pesticide retailer and asked the manufacturing lot number on her boxes of the product, they claimed they didn’t know.

Finding a sample of the product was crucial. Without it, their scientists could not compare its effect on sprayed plants to ascertain if cell mutation took place or compare its elements with plant and soil samples from Ally’s nursery.

David ran through the elements of his argument before Judge Saul while showering in the narrow cubicle provided. Stained brown water spewed from the showerhead, turning hot and clear in a moment. Motions to compel production of documents or materials were normally a formality. Worldwide Chemical was different. His request they produce samples of WC-IFD88 manufactured during the time Ally Talbot could have been exposed had been stonewalled. Samples of chemicals produced were retained out of each lot, and there had to be hundreds of pounds of recalled product stored in the retain warehouse.

David rummaged through his suitcase. He couldn’t find an undershirt. Picking up the Mickey Mouse t-shirt he’d just discarded, he wondered if the faded black ears and the red mouse would show through his white button-down dress shirt.

So be it.

He finished dressing, putting on the standard lawyer garb, black pin stripes, red and grey tie, and grey socks. He placed the hotel pen into his white dress shirt pocket. Finally, David observed himself in the rust-stained mirror. He saw slightly thinning black hair; his thirty-fifth birthday was on its way. He employed a usual morning barb to break the tension. Hello, handsome. Make sure you brush the cigar leaves off your teeth.

A few moments later, he looked out once more through the plastic curtains over Biscayne Bay and walked out the door of Room 1244, briefcase tight in hand.

Focused on the impending confrontation, David barely noticed the stains and smells rising from the corridor carpet as he walked to the elevators in the gloom of twenty-watt fluorescence. The elevator ride, silent and short, dropped him by the lobby door, which was opened by a smiling bellman, accompanied by a loud Como estás. David mumbled an unfelt Muy bien, gracìas, and wandered out into the heat to hail a cab.

A taxi, weather-beaten by time, miles, and salt air, pulled up to the curb. The driver hollered, Where to?

USDC, First and something.

Its on Flagler, bud-dee.

David got into the cab, his knees pressing painfully tight against the back of the front seat. Leaning up close to the cabby’s ear, he clarified, Federal court is on First, one street behind Second and next to Dade Junior College.

With a sullen look and a quick, Okay, the driver squealed his peeling black and white from the curb.

A drop of sweat made its way down David’s cheek. He pulled out a portion of the white toilet paper he had taken from the room, wiping it. No such amenities as Puffs existed at the Miami Bay. As the short ride continued, he thought Mrs. Benjamin would have already dropped Kate at school. Thank God for big things. Where would he be without her? Live-in nannies cost money, but he couldn’t work without her.

He opened his briefcase. The snaps holding the lid in place popped open. It was scarred by time, a gift from his aunt Martha at graduation from law school, a good luck piece. David reviewed his pleadings and documents for the fifth time to make sure they were in the right order, not due to his efforts but to Isabella Hendrix, his legal assistant, right arm and constant motivator during tough times. He muttered under his breath, I should have asked her to come. This pile of papers will go all over the courtroom once Judge Saul starts his inquisition.

Chapter Two

David King departed the cab a half block from the new federal building. As he walked toward the First Street entrance of the new federal building, a silver limousine pulled across the line of traffic. It stopped in front of the barricades protecting the throughway between the old and new federal buildings, blocking traffic on First. The driver of the silver Lincoln limo stepped out to open its doors. David glanced inside. Worldwide Chemical’s lawyers had taken the five-minute ride from the Biscayne in air-conditioned comfort.

King walked past the limousine, crossing the gray and white tiles that replaced the street to create a mall-way between the old and new federal buildings. He forced himself to bound up the deep pink and gray marble steps leading to the courthouse entrance. David paused at the towering glass doors, glanced over his shoulder, and caught sight of Worldwide Chemical’s lawyers.

Janet Corbin was first in line. Five-feet, ten-inches in height, she sported a deep blue suit. Blond hair partially covered her shoulders. Her facial expression would have parted the Red Sea.

Good morning, Janet, David said.

No response, not even a tilt of the head.

Corbin, jaw set, walked on with a fixed blue-eyed gaze. David smelled a whiff of perfume as she passed by, her faux alligator skin briefcase gripped tight in her right hand.

Alligator, how appropriate.

The bag toters were next. All big-time lawyers have bag toters. Bag toters carry files, lots of files. The lawyers don’t need the files, but they bring them to intimidate the opposition and impress the judge. Bag toters are either legal assistants or young lawyers. They don’t speak, they don’t smile, they are invisible.

David continued holding the door open for them. They passed through, one, two, three. The third bag toter murmured, Gracìas, abogado King.

David thought, Welcome to Miami.

Last, walking nonchalantly, was Baynard Leach, a tall thin man with thick, graying hair. He wore a double-breasted black suit, light-blue dress shirt, and a silver-and-gray tie with a big G for Gucci in the middle. Not a strand of his gray hair was out of place. Cool looking as an old Aqua Velva commercial, he smelled strong of musk. The man paused at the open door, checked his watch as if time was unimportant, came face-to-face with David, and said in a measured voice, Give it up, King. Your motion to sanction Ms Corbin is frivolous, unproductive, and worse, a colossal waste of my time. We’ll produce samples to you in due course. They won’t do you any good, the Company is innocent. If you lose the Motion, I will ask Judge Saul to sanction you pursuant to Federal Rule 11.

David allowed the inch-thick, bulletproof glass door of the courthouse to close.

Thanks for the advice. I would have thought you were Medellin mafia—black suit, silver limo, manicured nails, smelly cologne. You’re the perfect gangster. Your drawl, which I think you accentuate for effect, marks you as a southerner, a true Charleston snob, as one bar review article put it.

Unfazed, the thin man walked through the security gate, awaited by his bag toters.

~

The eight-foot bronze doors to the elevator opened the instant David pushed the up button. David rode up, ignoring the mood music, its melody out of sync with the turmoil between the occupants. Two law clerks giggled in the corner, comparing notes about their boyfriends in Spanish, not realizing David understood the conversation. He smiled at them, thinking they were the only friendly faces he would see within the next hour. The lift stopped on the sixth floor en route. A short, balding man with a bemused look on his face entered. Jesse Cohen, a friend who worked with David in the U. S. Attorney’s Office a decade before. He didn’t notice David, his mind focused on an impending court hearing. A loud ding, accompanied by a metallic voice announcing the eighth floor, informed David to get off and face the hostile orchestration of his opponents.

Jesse Cohen preceded David from the elevator. David, after exiting, approached Cohen, tapped him on the shoulder. Jesse, long time. What brings you to this place where justice holds court in the bowels of humanity?

Cohen smiled, his shoulders instantly losing their previous tension. Great to see you. I’ve been appointed to represent one of a trio of young drug offenders caught up in a cocaine bust after the Public Defender declared conflict on two of the three.

David placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Jesse, you, a criminal case? I thought you were doing divorces now. There must be drug busts every day in Miami.

Cohen smiled. There are several busts a day. These kids bond out, get caught a week later. The lawyer’s annuity. What brings you to this taxpayer’s palace of justice for the criminal, the insane, the greedy?

Always the cynic, aren’t you? I’m asking Judge Saul to compel a chemical company to give me a sample of the product, a pesticide, so I can have it tested. A lot of pregnant moms around the world have borne blind babies after being exposed to it.

Samples, David, that’s pretty routine. What’s the fuss?

David sighed. You know how when your creating motions in your office, you get carried away with your own bull shit.

Jessie nodded. Occupational hazard, compounded by Scotch in late afternoon.

Part of my motion requests that Janet Corbin, a lawyer for Worldwide Chemical, be sanctioned by the Judge for playing games with me when I went to Houston to obtain samples of the product.

You mean that dynamite blond that just entered the courtroom? What’s the rub?

At the reception desk at the company. You know where they issue badges. She said the deal was off because Hans Gessle, the creator of WC-IFD88, was called unexpectedly out of town. She touched me with one hand and apologized, offered to buy lunch, get to know me better.

Cohen interjected, Hell, I’d buy her lunch in a heartbeat, David, especially if I were single, like you.

Something smelled, Jessie, and not just her perfume. I declined and left. In the parking lot, I saw a car parked in a space reserved for Gessle. I called the front office, asked for Dr Gessle, told them I was a chemical salesman. They said Gessle had just left for lunch with a lawyer from Dallas. I was pissed.

Cohen laughed, And you missed lunch with a real piece of work. Ain’t Gessle the Nobel prize winner? What a case. You get all the good stuff, David. Does your client have a pretty mom? My informants tell me you’re not dating anyone. You don’t have to get all gushy over somebody, David. You need a friend, and it would be good for Kate.

Cohen glanced up at his friend towering a good half-foot over him. Cohen, bald, blue-eyed, and feisty, was David’s best friend when they worked in the United States Attorney’s Office. They made an odd pair when prosecuting criminal cases together. Cohen would go on the attack. David, tall and lanky, with wavy brown hair and mahogany colored eyes, played the good guy, resulting in a long string of convictions until David resigned from the office.

They had reached the door of 8C. David said, This is my courtroom. Where are you going?

Cohen said, 8A, Judge Clark presiding.

David said, Give him my regards, he’s one of the best.

Cohen took his friend by the hand, a quick shake goodbye. Call me when your hearing with Judge Saul is over. Let’s do lunch. I’m serious about you dating someone, David. It’s been a long time since – Sally. You can’t guilt trip yourself forever.

David grimaced, pushing open the large oaken door to Judge Saul’s courtroom. Yes, it has been. I’ll think about lunch. I need to get my mind on the Motion for the Talbots. This is gonna be a tough one. It’s good to see you, Jesse.

Each courtroom had a mystique peculiar to it. Similar to a small church, a red-carpeted center aisle separated mahogany pews. Trials were like wedding ceremonies. The relatives of the victim sat on one side, and relatives of the accused on the other. Today, as David walked the red carpet, the courtroom was empty. Polished mahogany benches reflected fluorescent lighting twenty feet above, while vacuum tracks crisscrossed the aisle carpet.

David reached the carved wooden gate separating the audience from the litigants’ arena. It moaned quietly on its brass hinges. He placed his briefcase to the side of the counsel table to his right. He pulled back one of the two Chippendale chairs covered in oxblood leather and sat down.

To his left sat Janet Corbin and Baynard Leach, ignoring him. Behind them, just inside the chancel, were the three bag toters. They peered into the confines of the courtroom, expectant, nervous, excited.

A small door in the back of the courtroom opened. In came two women. The first assumed a seat behind a wide wooden desk the same height as counsel table, just under the judge’s bench. The woman, whose nametag read, Amanda, Deputy Clerk, sat in a chair at the center of the desk. She asked counsel, Do any of you have any exhibits that need to be marked? If so, please bring them now. Judge Saul will be in any minute.

Leach and King responded they had filed all necessary documents with the Court.

The second woman sat just underneath the witness box located in front of David’s counsel table, stage left to the judge’s bench. She opened a suitcase she had wheeled in, pulled out her stenotype machine, set it up, and began typing the style of the case and the nature of the Motion from a copy of the pleadings provided to her by the clerk. She typed into her computer Allehendra Talbot, as mother of Samantha Talbot, vs. Worldwide Chemical, David King appearing for the Talbots, and Baynard Leach and Janet Corbin appearing for the defendant.

The courtroom was otherwise empty.

David opened his briefcase in his lap, placing a copy of his Motion to Compel Production of retain samples, the sanction against Janet Corbin, and Leach’s response to both Motions in the order he wished to argue their contents to Judge Saul.

Baynard Leach did the same at his counsel table. Each issue had been briefed separately by one of the bag toters. Each bag toter had in his or her hand copies of federal court decisions. Should their issue arise, each one was prepared to hand to Leach the applicable law.

David stared intently at his notes, willing himself calm. He glanced at the court reporter who was practicing typing, moving her head and long black curls in rhythm, smacking gum, oblivious to the fact her red mini-skirt had hiked itself halfway past her thighs.

David raised his gaze to the elevated Judge’s bench that dominated the courtroom. Just behind the Judge’s chair on the wall was an eagle, its four-foot wingspan dominating the scene, olive branch in one talon, and lance in the other. To the judge’s right, next to the rear courtroom door, an American flag hung loosely in the listless air.

David wiped another bead of perspiration from his face, doodled on his notepad, yawned in apparent boredom, and glanced at Corbin, whose eyes remained glued to her notepad. She was an enigma to him, a star performer with a 300-person firm, Johnson & Coyner of Houston, talented, drop-dead gorgeous, yet in his view having no concept of fair play, ruthlessly, willing to win at any cost to her integrity.

ALL RISE!

Willie Randolph came through the door next to the flag. All rise, all rise. His gliding bulk, resonant voice, caused all to stand, minds flutter in confusion, hearts switching to quick time.

Following Randolph was Judge John Saul. John Saul, in his late fifties, was six-foot-four, had intact wavy gray hair, complimented by a faded black robe and a barely visible black tie.

Saul assumed his perch. Randolph continued, The United States District Court for the Southern District of Florida is now in session this 22nd day of March, Judge John Saul presiding. All of you with business before this Court draw near to be heard. God save this honorable Court.

Saul, no murmur of greeting, said, We are here this morning on a matter entitled Allehendra Talbot, as mother of Samantha Talbot, versus Worldwide Chemical. I have read the Motion filed by the Talbots’ lawyer and the response by the chemical company.

Saul gazed imperiously at David.

Mr. King, why should I do what you’re asking me to do? Production of samples is one thing. Sanctioning opposing counsel is another. I’m here to listen, but you must know my docket is flooded with drug cases. It seems for every one I get rid of, two new ones appear — Is Ms. Corbin here?

Janet Corbin stood and quietly said, Yes, your Honor, I’m Janet Corbin from Johnson & Coyner of Dallas, Texas.

Saul nodded, his eyes lingering on her for a moment.

David rose from his chair, approached the podium. Saul had scanned the motion at best. The Judge would have a written summary prepared by a law clerk.

David rested his hands on the podium.

Your honor, we’re here this morning to talk about a product named WC-IFD88 we believe is a mutagenic capable of causing changes in cell structure in gestating fetuses of pregnant moms who have been exposed to the product.

That’s a mouthful son. Sounds more like a hair tonic to me.

No sir, it’s a pesticide. It’s a combination fungicide, insecticide, and disease fighter sprayed on plants.

Saul scratched his ear, leaned forward. Plants, counselor? I thought this case was about blind babies—and you want some of the stuff to test on mice, even though you know I know animal tests are not conclusive evidence of anything.

David had heard Saul was an ass. Well, Judge, testing on humans was practiced on Jews and Gypsies during World War II, but it’s sort of out of vogue now.

Saul poured himself a glass of water from a silver decanter on his dais. Being a little impertinent, aren’t we, son? If you like, we can stop this hearing right now. You want something from me, remember? Get on with it, time is valuable.

David grimaced, Leach and Corbin were laughing.

No impertinence intended, your Honor. My position is that thousands of girls and boys worldwide have been born blind thanks to Worldwide’s Chemical’s product, WC-IFD88.

What about the mothers, counselor? Shouldn’t they have had the good sense to stay away from this stuff?

Yes, they should have if they had known the stuff was toxic and could vaporize into an invisible gas after they used it.

Son, Worldwide Chemical says WC-IFD88’s ingredients are proprietary trade secrets and giving a sample to you could jeopardize that secrecy.

David glanced at his notes. How could such a simple hearing become so complex?

Your honor, we’re going to examine the ingredients, because they refuse to tell us what they are. We’re clearly entitled to test the product to find out if it will blind mice and if it vaporizes hours after application into a gas which pregnant moms could inhale.

Okay, Counsel, so you want some of the stuff that you think blinded a baby because the mother sniffed some, right? Why can’t you just buy some? There’s a farm and garden store near my house.

David grasped the podium. When Worldwide Chemical found out Samantha and other infants around the globe had been born blind, and that there was a statistical relationship to the moms exposure to WC-IFD88, they recalled the product. All of it resides in the company’s Houston warehouse. My scientists would like a sample from two or three lots to test.

Saul poured himself coffee from a silver decanter. Well that makes sense, counselor. Why didn’t you just ask for some? Take a trip to Houston, have a night on the town. This sanction business really bothers me.

David glanced at Corbin. She was mesmerizing, her cobalt blue eyes bored into her notepad. Hadn’t she telephoned him when she received a copy of the Motion, cursed him even, ending with: Hick prick, I’ll get you.

Judge, I flew all the way to Houston to obtain samples. Ms. Corbin had set up a meeting at Worldwide Chemical with Dr. Hans Gessle as our guide. Gessle didn’t show. I found out later he was in his office. They gave me the grand stall, a real kiss off. Why, I don’t know. Ms Corbin is specially admitted before you to try this case since she is a Texas lawyer. I ask the Court as a sanction to revoke her admission and send her packing back to Texas.

Corbin blushed, and doodled on her notepad.

Saul glanced at Leach and Corbin. "Which one of you two are going to argue your side?

Leach stood, buttoning his coat. Your honor, I am, Baynard Leach of the firm Calhoun and Haynes of Charleston. Ms. Corbin is a partner of Johnson and Coyner in Houston, who has represented Worldwide Chemical for years, and she affirms to me they’re good folks. Ms. Corbin herself is distinguished. She worked for Senator Henry Valenzuela, Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee after law school, reviewing background material for judicial appointments.

Saul visibly shuddered, sipped his water, and made some notes on a legal pad.

Corbin kept glancing at her watch, expectantly.

Leach droned on in a mesmerizing southern drawl. Mr. King and his clients have no good use for the samples they seek. They’re just up to mischief, and I know this court won’t tolerate that.

Saul took the bait. Nobody plays games in my courtroom. But Mr. Leach, providing samples of products, in matters where it is alleged they’re defective, appears pretty commonplace.

The large oaken door at the rear of the courtroom opened, and a young man in a blue double-breasted, pin-stripe suit ran down the red-carpeted aisle. Important message for Mr. Leach.

Corbin gazed at David, grinning for the first time. Leach accepted the note from the runner while Saul fumed. This better be something important.

Leach reviewed the note and blushed. He glanced at Corbin.

Your honor, it appears Mr. King’s motion is now moot. The production retain samples of WC-IFD88, along with all recalled material, have burned in a fire early this morning in Houston.

Saul frowned, then smiled.

Well, Mr. King, it appears we have nothing more to discuss.

David closed his folder. How about sanctions, Judge, for the deliberate destruction of evidence?

Leach interrupted. My note says the Fire Marshal has certified the fire as an accident caused by an electrical spark, which ignited the chemicals.

Saul stood. This hearing is over. Ms Corbin looks like a nice girl to me, no sanctions.

David slapped his hand on the podium. What about all the blind babies, Judge? I ask you to strike all of Worldwide Chemical’s defenses, and enter verdict for Samantha Talbot.

Corbin stood, incensed. Your honor, my client’s product, WC-IFD88, was created by a Nobel Laureate for the benefit of mankind. Where does this lawyer - pointing at David - get off attacking Dr. Hans Gessle?

Saul beckoned to the Chief Marshal. I said this hearing is over. Mr. King, it sounds like your dog won’t hunt. I suggest you dismiss your case before the defendant moves for sanctions against you personally.

All Rise!

After Saul left the courtroom, Leach walked over to David.

I told you it wouldn’t work. People like the Talbots don’t have a chance against us. We have too many resources, our witnesses are real pros. We can bury ideologues like you. Tell the Talbot woman to dismiss her case and we won’t tax our costs. She can lose the nursery, you know.

David did not respond, but looked directly into Leach’s face. Leach paled and walked swiftly out of the courtroom, preceded by the three bag toters. Janet Corbin followed him out, slamming the large double doors, exclaiming, Yes, yes, yes!

The courtroom emptied. David returned to counsel table to gather his pleadings, documents, and files that were spread amiss on top of it. He knew he would receive a good-natured ribbing from Isabella for rearranging her files. He sat down at the table, resting his head on his forearms. As he thought through the folly of his Motion, two large arms encircled him and two equally large hands appeared in front.

A deep voice said, David, you know I’m not supposed to say anything. These folks are really bad dudes. You’d better watch your ass. There’s nothing they won’t do to win this case.

David looked up and smiled at Willie Randolph.

I’m going to pursue this to the end, Willie. Samantha and Ally Talbot are going to show up for trial. If the jury wants to let Worldwide Chemical off the hook, so be it!

David left the courtroom, hearing the slight thump of the door as it closed behind him. The elevator ride to the first floor was quiet. He was glad there was no one to banter with.

David walked out of the Federal building and watched the silver limousine pull slowly away. Instead of hailing a cab, he walked slowly along First Street, the old Federal building to his right. He stopped, lit a cigar, leaned