Marine One (18 page)

"He's got to testify, Tinny. And bring his document."

"Won't happen."

"Then WorldCopter may go up in flames and he may be responsible."

"He said that was your problem, not his."

"What's his name?"

Byrd looked at me intensely. "No, you don't. No way am I turning him over. You'll subpoena him to trial. I know you will. Or you'll try and depose him and force him to lie under oath, which you know he won't do. No way."

"Then maybe I'll subpoena your ass and ask you to testify to his name under oath."

Byrd laughed. "Yeah, but I'd be happy to lie under oath. I got no problem with that, and you know it. And I'm like a journalist. I don't give up my sources."

"Even journalists can be forced to give up their sources in federal court."

"Not this journalist."

"So what do I do?"

Byrd looked around the restaurant and then back at me. "We've got to find out who else was at Camp David that night. Then we'll know why."

WE DROVE TO Hackett's office early in the morning so we could get set up for the deposition. His Washington offices were spectacular, just like his offices in New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. He had a paneled, corner office at each location, surrounded by those of numerous associates who ran his cases day to day. He had no partners. That would require sharing his profits.

He'd fly in on his Gulfstream and set up shop for a day or two at each office each month, but his primary office, his home base, was still in New York. Since the crash of Marine One he'd spent most of his time in Washington. He had increased his staff, hired a couple of additional attorneys, and taken on a well-known woman to handle the PR. Her job description must have been to get him on the front page every week. She issued written statements from him on everything. Every time the NTSB said anything, every time WorldCopter said anything, every time a document was filed with the court, every time there was a hearing, the press always got his opinion in a faxed, professionally prepared statement, which was usually quoted word for word.

Knowing all that, I should have anticipated what Hackett did next. When we arrived at his office and were ushered into the gorgeous conference room, sitting around the table and against the walls were at least ten reporters with their notepads ready and "gotcha" looks on their faces.

I tried not to say anything right away. I shook Hackett's powerful hand, as did Rachel, then the hands of the other three attorneys who sat by him. Rachel and I sat down and put down our heavy litigation bags. After we exchanged superficial pleasantries, I asked Hackett, "Who invited the press?"

"Well, obviously since you didn't, and we're the only two parties coming to this deposition, I must have. Did you really think someone else might have?"

"I just like to confirm things. I thought maybe they had offices here."

Hackett smiled. "The press calls me all the time, just as I'm sure they call you. Unlike you, I answer them because I have nothing to hide. They asked me what was happening next in the case, and I told them about this deposition. They asked if they could come, and I said of course. Depositions are open to the public. So unless you obtain an order from the court before the start time of this deposition-ten minutes according to my watch-they'll be here. You set this deposition for nine o'clock. Mrs. Collins is here, the court reporter is here, and I'm here. So we're ready to begin. If you find the presence of the press and the scrutiny of your case intolerable and want to try to exclude them, you will have missed your chance to take Mrs. Collins's deposition and you won't get another. Now, are you ready to begin?"

Hackett loved gamesmanship. I wasn't going to let him or his scheming distract me. I sat down, opened my notebook, looked at the court reporter, and said, "Swear the witness." I looked at Melissa Collins carefully for the first time. She was surprisingly attractive. I had met Chuck Collins and found him rather ordinary-looking, in a Marine sort of way. He was in excellent shape with short hair and sharp features, and he was always tan from his noontime runs. But I didn't think anyone would call him handsome, although Tinny had. I had always carried around a stereotype that attractive people married other attractive people. I found it unusual when an average-looking person married someone attractive. This seemed to be one of those exceptions. Melissa Collins was beautiful. Especially for a woman of her age, maybe thirty-five. She was tall and slender and at least the same height as Collins. She had steel blue eyes and looked directly at me with infinite curiosity and clarity. It was quite an amazing look. She was obviously strong, and composed.

Many attorneys begin by asking witnesses if they understand they've been sworn to tell the truth, and other silly questions that are essentially throat-clearing, but I had abandoned that long ago. I went right at the hard questions from the beginning, then asked follow-up questions as I went along. I just asked whatever question came to my mind and only looked at my outline later to make sure I had covered everything.

She had clearly been prepared for the usual approach. I started in by asking if she was the wife of the pilot of Marine One, which she of course quickly acknowledged. I then asked, "Did you ever consider divorcing Colonel Collins?"

Hackett came out of his chair. He accused me of harassing the witness, of trying to intimidate her, of inappropriate questions, whatever he could come up with. I looked at her again and said, "Your attorney has objected, but he did not instruct you not to answer, which was wise on his part because that is inappropriate in a federal case. Did you ever consider divorcing Colonel Collins?"

"No," she said softly and firmly. She was annoyed by my question but wasn't going to show it.

I went back and started at the beginning of her relationship with Collins, how they had met, where they had been married, the various places they had been stationed, his time in the Marine Corps, how difficult the separation was, and how absolutely wonderful their relationship was before he was killed. "Did you and your husband ever sleep in separate bedrooms?"

This time Hackett came unhinged. He accused me of invading the privacy of her relationship with her husband, which of course I responded to by pointing out that she had made a claim for loss of consortium-the loss of sexual satisfaction from her marriage-and that as I understood it, she wanted WorldCopter to pay her for that loss. I had to determine what that loss was. Hackett acknowledged that and said that I was entitled to inquire, but the questions had to be appropriate. The question was of course appropriate. He just hated it. After our debate Hackett stood up. "We're going to take a break. I want to speak to my client about this."

Being obstreperous is common among attorneys. It was what they did. And they got away with it because, if you brought a motion to stop it, the judge would always say, now now, you young children get along, go back and try it again. There just aren't enough judges around who will spank an attorney for behaving badly.

Hackett probably wanted to ask her why in the hell I was asking about her and her husband sleeping in separate rooms, and if there was something he should know. Clearly she hadn't told him about their marital problems. He'd find out soon enough. It wouldn't make any difference in his demands or anything else about the way he'd approach the case, but he'd find out. And he'd be a little annoyed. But I wasn't there just to point out things to him that he didn't know, I was there to find answers that would change the case. If a woman came into a courtroom crying about the death of her loving husband, and it turned out they hadn't slept together in five years and she'd filed for divorce while sleeping with someone else, that was an entirely different case.

She returned. Hackett sat down beside her. "She's ready to answer."

"Do you remember the question?"

"Yes."

"And what's your answer?"

"Our relationship was fine. We slept together in the same bed, every night."

I looked her in the eye and saw nothing but hardness. So she was willing to lie. Either that or Tinny Byrd had gone to the wrong house. So how do you prove that a woman hadn't been sleeping with her husband? Who else is going to testify about that when she's lying and he's dead?

"You're still living at the same house where you lived on the day of the accident?"

"Yes."

"And have you changed anything, have you rearranged any furniture, moved anything from one closet to another, anything like that?"

"I've cleaned up a little bit."

"Have you moved your husband's things? Have you taken his books, clothes, personal effects, and moved them from one room to another?"

Hackett sat up and leaned his elbows on the table. "What is the possible relevance of this, counselor?"

I ignored him. "You can answer the question."

"No. I've left everything where it is. I'm not able to do that yet."

I looked at Hackett. "I'd like you to instruct your client to keep everything as it is. I will be preparing a formal demand to enter her premises and inspect the house, and I will have it personally served on you today. We'll be doing that inspection"-I glanced at my watch-"in ten days."

"There's no reason to inspect her house. This is just to annoy her," Hackett said, annoyed himself.

I turned to Rachel and whispered in her ear, "E-mail Braden to prepare a demand to inspect her house." She nodded and pulled out her BlackBerry.

I continued, "And if you were sleeping in the same room, when was the last time you had sex with your husband prior to the accident?"

Hackett slapped his hand on the table. "This is ridiculous. You don't need to ask these questions."

"Are you making a demand for loss of consortium?"

"Of course. It's part of the standard wrongful-death case."

"Then I am entitled to find out the nature of the relationship."

He sat back and huffed, but said nothing else.

"Your answer?"

"The night before."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"And before that night, when was the last time you had sex with your husband?"

"I don't know. A couple of days."

"On the average, how often did you have sex with your husband?"

"It varied. He was gone a lot."

"When he was home."

"I don't know. Maybe three times a week, maybe twice."

Now that I had her feeling uncomfortable and realizing that this was very real, and that this testimony could be used in trial if it came to that, she was much more reserved than she had been when we entered the room.

"Did you understand what I and your attorney were talking about? That we're going to ask that you allow us into your house to inspect it, look at it, videotape it, and have a better understanding of your living relationships with your husband, where he spent his time and the like, you understand that?"

She shook her head. "I don't understand why you would need to do that to me."

"What I need from you now, ma'am, is an assurance that you will not change anything materially inside your house that might help us understand your relationship with your husband. Do you give us your word on record that you will not change it any?"

Hackett put his hand in front of her on the table so she wouldn't answer. "She's not here to make promises. She's here to answer questions."

I continued to look at her and said, "I have asked her a question, whether she's willing to give me that assurance. If not"-I turned my head to Hackett-"I will simply ask the court to impose an order that nothing be changed or modified. We can do it either way."

Hackett said, "She won't change anything materially."

"I appreciate that you're willing to give me your assurance. But unfortunately you don't live there."

I looked at her again. "Will you give me yours?"

"Yes, there's nothing to change, of course."

"Fine. Let's go on with some of the other questions then." I spent the rest of the day asking the questions that you have to ask in a wrongful-death case. It's difficult to probe into a person's life and ask questions that he or she has never been asked by anybody, not even their parents. It's difficult to ask how someone values the death of a spouse. What did her husband mean to her? How different is her life? She told us of the dreams that they had together, the life they had planned after his retirement from the Marine Corps, the mountain home he planned to build in North Carolina, how difficult it had been not to be able to have children. They had grown to love the independent life that they lived, the ability to travel at the drop of a hat. Her ability to go visit him in the places he was stationed, in Japan, in Europe, in ports in the Mediterranean. She had traveled the world and had enjoyed her life. And that had all been snatched from her. She cried, she took breaks, she showed that she cared and that she was vulnerable.

And I wasn't buying it. Ever since she had told me that she and her husband had slept in the same room, I wasn't buying it. It was just fabrication to support the first lie. If it was as she said, how could their lives not be completely intertwined in a wonderful relationship? She was just giving me the answers she had to give. It all sounded too good and sweet.

I ended the day after she was tired and wanted to quit, and after I had implied that we were going to go on for three days. "Your husband was quite the reader."

"Yes."

"I know that you provided copies to us of the books in his den, or rather in your house."

"Yes."

"He left margin notes in nearly every book he read."

"True. He was always writing in the margins."

"He said what he thought about things in the margins, about the author, or the topic, or something else entirely."

"I didn't really read his notes."

"It would be strange for him to say things he didn't mean in those notes, wouldn't you agree?"

"I'm sure he meant every word. He was never one to say something he didn't mean. It was one of his pet peeves, when other people would say things to please others, or to be better regarded."

"Did he have any particular interest in the international policies of President Adams? And Asia, in particular?"

____________________

I walked to my car in the parking garage in the basement of Hackett's building. I thought the deposition had gone reasonably well and checked my BlackBerry for messages. I had an e-mail from Frank Flannery. He was ready to meet. I said to Rachel, "You want to go meet the mystery witness?"

She looked at her watch. "It's almost six. But I guess so, yeah."

I pulled out of the garage and headed directly for Flannery's office. We parked in the cramped garage underneath his office building on M Street and took the elevator up to the lobby, then to his law office. The office of the well-known firm was stately. People were leaving, and the receptionist was shutting down her computer when we arrived. We told her we were there to see Flannery. She asked us to wait and he would be with us shortly.

Flannery came up and I stood to greet him. I introduced myself and Rachel, and he escorted us into a glassed-in conference room next to the reception area. He closed the miniblinds to block the view into the conference room from the reception area and told us how the meeting would proceed. Just a meeting, the witness would say whatever he wanted. After the meeting we would all figure out what we were going to do.