“I know, I know. You should go to the courthouse to watch the fireworks. Might make a whole chapter in your book.”
“I’m about to head that way. Was letting the traffic die down a bit first.”
“You know, now that I think about it, I want you to call and see if Challenger can come down right away to prep. Then I want you to go up and bring her down.”
“You mean, like, tomorrow? Trial doesn’t start till Monday.”
“Doesn’t matter. If I get her approved by the judge as a witness, all bets are off. Tidalwaiv will double-down on the intimidation and any other pressure points they can find, including the daughter. We need to bring them both down here so we can hide them until it’s time for Naomi to testify.”
“You mean Challenger.”
“Challenger, right.”
“Will Tidalwaiv get to depose her before trial?”
“They’d have to find her first. And believe me, they’ll try.”
“Got it.”
“Okay, Jack, I’ll see you in court.”
I disconnected, dropped my phone into the center console, andreached into my jacket pocket for the burner I’d been carrying with me all week. I hit the one contact I had programmed into the phone. Bambadjan Bishop picked up right away.
“You’re clear, Bamba,” I said.
“You sure?” he asked. “I never really—”
“I’m sure. Come home. Let me know when you get here and we’ll meet.”
“You got it.”
Twenty-five minutes later I was in one of the attorney rooms down the hall from Judge Ruhlin’s court. Other than arranging an initial meeting between Brenda Randolph and Bruce and Trisha Colton, I had kept the two parties to the lawsuit separated. But now it was time to show a united front.
“The jurors are going to be watching us closely from today until we get a verdict,” I told them. “Once they understand who you are, they’re going to be very curious about you and the seemingly incongruous bond between the plaintiffs in this case. They are going to watch you closely for any sign that you are not really united in this fight against Tidalwaiv.”
I paused there to see if they had any objections or questions. The two women said nothing. Bruce Colton just nodded and cast his eyes down at the table. Like Brenda, Bruce and Trisha had seen their lives destroyed. Their son would be in state mental facilities or prison for years. It was a coin toss as to which was a worse fate for Aaron, but they faced the rest of their years living with what he had done and the guilt of their own responsibility for it, whether that guilt was warranted or not.
“So, this is how I want to do this,” I said. “I want Brenda and Trisha at the table with me—the two mothers. Bruce, I want you in the front row right behind us.”
“I want to be with my wife,” Bruce said.
“I understand,” I said. “But what I want to do is present the two mothers as victims of this company. Two mothers who have lost their children. Two mothers who are unified. Remember, this is not a criminal trial. We don’t need a unanimous verdict. We only need a majority. A trial is like a stage play. The jury is the audience. I’m going to go for as many women on the jury as I can get, especially mothers, and I want to play to them. When they get into the deliberation room to decide a verdict, the women will take charge. You understand?”
“I guess so,” Bruce said. “I still don’t like it.”
I moved on, looking for reactions from the two women.
“Brenda and Trisha, don’t be afraid to comfort each other,” I said. “Some of the testimony will be very difficult to hear. For both of you. Don’t hesitate to hold hands or do whatever you can to help each other get through the testimony.”
Trisha nodded. Brenda just stared down at her hands, which were clasped tightly on the table.
“Now, as we discussed, all three of you will be called to the witness stand,” I said. “You’re all prepped and know what I’m going to ask. What we don’t know is what the Tidalwaiv lawyers will ask you. As a rule, you don’t want a witness who is a victim to be on the stand too long, so my guess is you will not face many questions from them. But that’s all next week. This week is about picking a jury. I hope you can pay attention. You know that saying ‘See something, say something’? That applies here. If you feel strongly about a potential juror, one way or the other, grab my sleeve or write me a note. I will make sure you each have a pad and pen in front of you.”
“What about me?” Bruce said. “If I’m not at the table, how do I tell you what I think?”
“You can get my attention,” I said. “Just whisper and I’ll hear you. To be clear, I’m not asking you to approve or disapprove jurors. That’s my job. But if you get a sense about someone, maybe througheye contact or their answers to questions from the judge, then let me know.”
I paused again for questions but none came. In my mind, Bruce Colton was a wild card. He was a successful but uneducated businessman, having turned a family-owned electrical supply company in the Valley into a multimillion-dollar business. But he was the one who had brought a gun into the house, and he worked twelve-hour days, leaving his son with little male supervision in his formative years. Bruce was angry and alienated by what had happened, felt unfairly blamed and at times embarrassed by his son’s crimes. In some states the parents of teenage shooters had been prosecuted for their carelessness with their children and guns. The Coltons were lucky that it appeared that Maggie McFierce was not going to prosecute them.
