“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.