Bearing Witness (11 page)

Benny turned the receipt over. “March of 'eighty-three.” He looked at me. “Beyond the statute of limitations.”

“That's okay. It's still evidence.”

He chuckled as he waved the packet of receipts. “You better believe it, woman.”

Although that meeting occurred outside the time period covered by my lawsuit, I would argue for its admissibility at trial under the theory that bid-rigging meetings are like cockroaches: when you stumble across one, you can be fairly certain there's more where that one came from.

I pulled the next stapled expense report out of the box. “Keep your fingers crossed,” I said. “Maybe there's another needle in this haystack.”

***

There wasn't, but we did find some other things worth copying. For example, the Eagle Engineering federal contract bid documents we located fit the pattern we'd seen with the Beckman bid documents: thick files on the bids they'd won, thin ones—or just empty file folders—on the others, all of which tended to suggest that Eagle Engineering knew in advance which jobs it was going to win, and thus which jobs were worth the time and effort necessary to make an accurate assessment of the likely costs of the project.

In addition, the documents revealed that the groundwater treatment plant in San Carlos de Bariloche was not Eagle's only joint venture down there. In 1968, Eagle and one of the other alleged co-conspirators, Beek Contracting, built a floodwater-control system on Lake Nahuel Huapí, which appeared to be on the outskirts of San Carlos de Bariloche.

Although I found no additional incriminating American Express receipts, there were two boxes filled with Max Kruppa's appointment calendars and personal papers. The calendars covered the period 1956 through 1993. (Kruppa died in 1994.) Although I didn't have time to go through each one, I spotted a few cryptic entries that suggested illegal meetings among the co-conspirators.

Even more tantalizing was a collection of yellowed carbon copies of typed correspondence dating back to the company's founding in 1938. The letters covered the period 1938 through 1945. Although they were addressed to people in the United States, five of them were written in what appeared to be German. One of the letters was addressed to Otto Koll in Chicago, and another was addressed to Conrad Beckman in St. Louis. Although the letters were far outside the statute of limitations, if the topic was bid-rigging, they could be even more valuable than the American Express receipt or the calendar entries. Much the way adults will spell certain words or use a secret code when discussing certain topics around their children, perhaps Max Kruppa was less circumspect when communicating with his co-conspirators in a language he may have assumed most law enforcement officers would not understand.

I'd already made arrangements with a Memphis copy service that, according to Kenny Randall, specialized in big copy jobs. Two of the copy guys met us at the Eagle warehouse at five-thirty that evening. I showed them the various documents I wanted copied. They promised to have them delivered to St. Louis at least an hour before the start of my deposition of Conrad Beckman tomorrow afternoon.

The delivery deadline was important. My two-hour deposition would be my only shot at him before trial. I might just decide to spice up those two hours with a few surprises from Memphis.

Chapter Ten

Precisely at three
.

Just another example of the petty oneupmanship that the Roth & Bowles litigators had cultivated to a high art—or a low farce. So long as I was there by three o'clock, the one thing that definitely would not begin on time was the deposition of Conrad Beckman. Instead, I'd be kept waiting whatever length of time they deemed necessary to score another point in the silly power game that only they were keeping score in. Nonetheless, I had to play along, for if I showed up at, say, 3:10 p.m., they would all be waiting for me in the conference room and Kimberly Howard would imperiously announce that I'd already used up ten minutes of my allotted two hours.

Accordingly, at 2:52 p.m. on Friday afternoon I got off the elevator on the fifty-first floor. The words “Roth & Bowles” were engraved in the slab of gray marble over the portal. I stepped into the pretentious wood-paneled reception area. The prim receptionist with the British accent announced me to Kimberly Howard's secretary and directed me toward the waiting area behind her, where my court reporter, Jan, was already seated. They let us cool our heels until 3:15 p.m., and then Kimberly's secretary arrived to lead us down the hall, around the corner, and down another hall. She opened the door to a huge conference room. It had a mahogany conference table as long as a bowling lane and a state-of-the-art panel of video screens and teleconferencing equipment along the far wall. The side wall along the length of the conference table was solid floor-to-ceiling windows with a dramatic view of the St. Louis riverfront.

We were alone in the huge room. God forbid Kimberly and her entourage should have to wait for us. Jan set up her shorthand equipment at the far end of the table, and I arranged my stuff next to her along the side of the table. No doubt, Kimberly and Beckman would set up camp across from me. After a few minutes of idly clicking my nails on the tabletop, I stood and turned to look out the window. From fifty-one stories up, the Arch was a silver croquet wicket below. I checked my watch—3:21 p.m. I took a seat with my back to the windows and waited.

And waited.

At 3:43 p.m., the conference-room door swung open and in marched the forces of darkness in single file. Kimberly Howard was in the lead. Behind her came Laurence Browning, the obsequious senior associate, and behind Laurence came one of the two younger male associates who had flanked her at the status conference in Judge Wagner's chambers. And finally, striding into the room behind the others but towering over them all at six foot three, was Conrad Beckman. He wore a dark blue suit, crisp white shirt, and a gray-and-navy-striped tie. With his silver hair combed straight back, thin lips, strong jaw, and steely blue eyes, he looked every inch the intimidating chairman of the board. Although he was now in his early seventies, he radiated a strength that was athletic and surprisingly rugged. This was no elegant, white-haired fencer with épée and black tights. No, this was an aging bare-knuckles boxer who'd knock you on your butt if your attention wavered for just an instant.

Kimberly took the seat directly across the table from me and put Beckman to her immediate left. Laurence Browning sat next to Beckman, and the junior associate sat next to Browning.

Deposition preliminaries are often casual, friendly events, with the lawyers shaking hands and catching up on recent events while they wait for the court reporter to take down the names of the parties and the attorneys and to confirm the caption, court, and cause number of the lawsuit. This one, however, felt like a psych-out contest before the start of a heavyweight boxing match. Kimberly said nothing, and her underlings followed suit, of course. Beckman sat placidly with his hands on the table in front of him, his fingers interlaced. I arranged my papers for the tenth time and waited for the court reporter to get ready. Finally, she finished jotting down information, put down her pen, poised her fingers over her shorthand machine, and looked at me with a nod.

“Let the record show,” I said as I turned from her toward Kimberly Howard, “that this is the deposition of Conrad Beckman. By Court order, the deposition is limited to two hours.”

There was a stirring across the table. I paused to watch Laurence Browning remove a stopwatch from the pocket of his suit jacket. He ostentatiously positioned the stopwatch in his hand with his thumb on the start button. He turned to me with a smirk. With his pudgy cheeks, thick pursed lips, and round pop eyes, he could have been a cartoon blowfish in an underwater production number in Disney's
The Little Mermaid
.

Checking my watch, I announced: “The time is now 3:54 p.m. That means this deposition will last until 5:54, unless objections are made to any of the questions I ask Mr. Beckman.” I glanced over at Laurence. “To avoid any disputes about timing, I have asked the court reporter to bring a stopwatch with her. Do you have it, Jan?”

Jan nodded and lifted it to show everyone.

“Whenever there is an objection,” I explained, “Jan will stop the time, take down your objection, and then restart the stopwatch.” I looked over at Laurence and winked. He made an indignant
harumph
and turned toward Kimberly, who was writing something on her legal pad.

“Are we ready to begin?” I asked.

“We are,” Kimberly said without looking up.

There are several approaches to taking a deposition. The one I normally favor is to make the witness comfortable at the outset. I try to make my questions and his answers seem closer to a conversation than an interrogation, and usually start with a leisurely exploration of the one topic the witness is most familiar with and most comfortable talking about: himself. His background, his education, his prior job experiences—the goal being to get the witness relaxed. The more relaxed he becomes, the more talkative and less on guard he'll be, and thus the more I'll learn from him.

This was not one of those depositions. To begin with, I had only a limited time. Two hours for a deposition of this magnitude was but a blink of the eye. In a typical case, Conrad Beckman's deposition would last several days. Moreover, the usual approach would never work with Beckman, especially within the time constraints. He was far too savvy and there was far too much at stake for him to allow himself to get relaxed and talkative. So, instead, I decided that I might as well get him uptight and keep him uptight for his two hours. Turning to the court reporter, I said, “Swear the witness.”

Jan turned to Conrad Beckman. “Raise your right hand, sir. Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

Beckman nodded. “I do,” he said in his deep raspy voice.

“Mr. Beckman,” I said to him, “you understand you are under oath?”

“Yes.”

“You understand that if you answer a question here untruthfully, you could be guilty of perjury?”

“Objection,” Kimberly said indignantly.

I ignored her and kept my focus on him.

He contemplated me with those icy blue eyes. “Yes.”

“Good,” I said, checking my notes. “Sir, do you maintain a personal appointment calendar?”

He smiled at my naïveté. “My secretary does.”

“When a new year begins, sir, what does she do with your calendar for the prior year?”

“I presume she places it in the file.”

“Which file would that be?”

He chuckled without a trace of warmth. “The one for old appointment calendars.”

“How far back does that file go?”

He shrugged. “Several years, I suppose.”

“Ten years?”

“Perhaps.”

“Longer?”

“Perhaps.”

I nodded. “In order to recall your activities on a particular day, say, fifteen years ago, would you need to refer to your appointment calendar?”

“On a particular day fifteen years ago?” he asked with mild amusement. “I should think so, Miss Gold.”

“And the same would be true for a particular day, say, five years ago?”

“Certainly.”

“Or twenty years ago?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

I turned to Kimberly. “Plaintiff renews its previous request for copies of Mr. Beckman's appointment calendars going back as far as they are maintained.”

Kimberly gave me a frosty smile. “And defendant renews its previous objection to that request.”

I turned back to Beckman. Might as well cut to the chase.

“What is an IFB?” I asked.

Kimberly looked up from her notes.

Beckman frowned slightly. “In what context?”

“In the context of government contracts.”

He rubbed his chin. “An IFB is shorthand for an invitation for bid.”

“Is that the shorthand term used within your industry for the notices of proposed U.S. government procurement actions that appear in the
Commerce Business Daily
?”

“Excuse me,” Kimberly said. “Would you repeat the question?”

I turned to Jan, who had paused to click the stopwatch. “Jan,” I said, “please read back the question for Ms. Howard.”

When Jan finished reading the question, I turned to Beckman. I heard her start the stopwatch again.

“Yes,” Beckman said.

“You understand the nature of the claim against your company, correct?”

His nostrils flared slightly. After a pause he said, “I have read the allegations.”

“Then you understand that my client claims that your company conspired with five of its purported competitors to divide up the pending federal IFBs on certain wastewater treatment plants, correct?”

In a voice that remained impassive but with a hint of cold steel, he said, “I have read the allegations, Miss Gold.”

“And you understand that those five competitors are Eagle Engineering, Koll Limited, Muller Construction, Beek Contracting, and Eicken Industrial, correct?”

“I have read the allegations, Miss Gold.” This time more steel.

“And you deny those allegations?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Absolutely.”

I shuffled through my papers and found the photocopy of Max Kruppa's American Express receipt. I studied it for a moment and looked up at Beckman. As I did, I lowered the sheet of paper until it was flat on the table facing me. Making sure that everyone on the other side of the table could see that I was referring to it, I asked, “On March 26, 1983, Mr. Beckman, did you meet for lunch in a private room at Morton's restaurant in Chicago with representatives of Eagle Engineering, Koll Limited, Muller Construction, Beek Contracting, and Eicken Industrial for the purpose of dividing up the pending federal IFBs?”

There was a long silence. Kimberly and Laurence subtly leaned forward, trying for a better look at the photocopied receipt without being obvious about it. I kept my focus on Beckman as I watched him consider the question and his answer. You could almost see those unruffled features getting winched a few turns tighter. He shifted his gaze toward me. “I have no present recollection of where I was or who I saw on March 26, 1983.”

“No present recollection,” I repeated. “In order to refresh your recollection, sir, would you need to refer to the March twenty-sixth entry in your appointment calendar for that year?”

A pause. “Perhaps.”

I looked at him curiously. “Perhaps?”

I knew what he was up to, but I might as well hear it now. We were both shooting in the dark, since neither of us knew what his appointment calendar showed for March 26, 1983.

He gazed at me coolly. “An entry in an old calendar may not refresh my recollection.” A pause. “Additionally, the entry may not be accurate.”

“Why would that be?”

He gave me an imperial shrug. “Occasionally an appointment is changed without the change being noted in my calendar.”

I nodded, suppressing the urge to smile. He'd been careful to carve himself an escape hatch just in case his personal calendar contained corroborating evidence of a Chicago meeting.

I turned the photocopy facedown on the table and reached for a set of photocopies from Max Kruppa's appointment calendar.

Again, I placed the first page—the one that included May 25, 1975—faceup on the table. Even when viewed from across the table and upside down, it was obvious that I had before me a page from someone's appointment calendar.

“What about May 25, 1975?” I asked, looking up from the page. “Did you attend a meeting in Chicago at the O'Hare Hilton with representatives of Eagle Engineering, Koll Limited, Muller Construction, Beek Contracting, and Eicken Industrial for the purpose of dividing up the pending federal IFBs?”

“What is that?” Kimberly asked, pointing at the photocopied calendar page.

I ignored her. “Well?” I asked Beckman.

“I asked you a question, Rachel,” Kimberly said, her voice rising. “What is that document you're reading from?”

I glanced toward the court reporter, who lifted the stopwatch and clicked it to stop the time. I waited until her fingers were poised again over the shorthand keys. I turned toward Kimberly. “This is my deposition,” I said calmly. “That means I'm the one who asks the questions. I don't answer them. That's your client's job today.”

Kimberly stood up, her eyes wide. “Are you refusing to answer my question?”

I ignored her and turned to the court reporter. “Could you please read my question back to Mr. Beckman?”

“Did you hear me?” Kimberly demanded.

I kept my eyes on the court reporter. “Go ahead,” I told her.

Kimberly remained standing as the court reporter leafed through her shorthand tape. “Here it is,” Jan said. “‘What about May 25, 1975?'” she read. “‘Did you attend a meeting in Chicago at the O'Hare Hilton with representatives of Eagle Engineering, Koll Limited, Muller Construction, Beek Contracting, and Eicken Industrial for the purpose of dividing up the pending federal IFBs?'”