“So now the fog lifts a bit?” Micki asked.
“I object,” Bumpps said, “to this whole, entire line of inquiry. It’s wholly irrelevant, impertinent, impermissible. And while we’re at it, I object to the counsel’s sarcasm.”
“So noted.”
“Do you now recall what EHS stands for, ma’am?”
“Not exactly.”
“Would it surprise you to be reminded that it stands for Environmental-Health-Safety?”
“I guess. Whatever.”
“So — just like the scrap yard where you work now — you were in charge of safety at the Stone Automotive plant then, weren’t you?”
“Oh, they gave me all kinds of jobs,” Joy said, stirred up now, her green eyes hard and glinting. “Stupid thankless jobs. Girl jobs. Paperwork and training and books to keep up. They gave me that job because I had a cute figure. The OSHA inspectors liked me. I hated it. Just hated it.”
“And you just finally had your fill of it, didn’t you?”
“Yes. One day I just marched out.”
“Marched right out.”
“Absolutely.”
“And never went back.”
“Not ever,” Joy said, with steely satisfaction, “not even once. J. J. could keep working there if he wanted to. He was a man, they treated him right. But I never again darkened that building’s door.”
Oh, man. Was this a gift or what. Micki had played her right into the tightest of corners, and Joy had no clue. Neither did Arnie. Nor could they, really, because Micki hadn’t slammed the door yet. Spikes, though — the skinny gent in black, by the door — he sensed something. He drifted over to Arnie’s end of the table, eyes on us.
Micki stood with arms folded and looked down the table over her little spectacles at Joy. “Please explain to us, Ms. Monrho, what ‘lockout-tagout’ is.”
“Object,” Arnie snapped. “This witness has no knowledge of—”
“But of course she does, Brother Bumpps,” Micki said. “At her current job, she is the safety coordinator. At Stone, her role was similar. The question must be answered.”
“She can answer,” Arnie said sourly. “What do I care? By the time the judge gets done ruling on my objections, Sister Quick, your cross will end with ‘Hi! I’m Micki!’ ”
His rude condescending tone made my fists knot. Micki stiffened, let out a breath, shook her head. “Let’s move on,” she said, remarkably steady. “Ms. Monrho? Lockout-tagout?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Joy said.
“If you take us along in tiny baby steps, we’ll try real hard to understand.”
Joy shifted. “When a machine needs repair or adjustment or other work, lockout-tagout is a process for securing it. To prevent the release of hazardous energy, thereby protecting the safety of the people working on the machine.”
“Very good! Thank you! Were you not, in fact, a lockout-tagout instructor while you were at Stone?”
“No.”
“No? We have records.”
“Oh,” Joy said, waving a hand, “half their paperwork was fakes.”
Spikes, standing at Arnie’s shoulder now, spoke up. “We need a recess.”
“That sounds good,” Bickers agreed.
Faith Monrho suddenly put a hand on Micki’s arm and stared wide-eyed up into her face. Micki patted her once, and winked. “We’re just about finished,” Micki said. “Five more minutes.”
“I don’t want to stop now,” Arnie growled. “Let’s just wrap this farce up.”
“Ted,” said Spikes.
“Five more minutes and we’re done,” Micki pressed.
“I agree with counsel,” Arnie said. “Let’s finish this and get the hell out of here.”
A murmuring had built in the conference room. Now it ceased. Spikes, looking openly disgusted, moved back to the wall, arms folded. Micki reached for the Stone Automotive plant badge from Bickers. “Ms. Monrho,” Micki said to Joy. “You’ve sworn under oath that this badge is your property.”
“Yes.”
“All right. Were you aware, madam, that every time a badge like this is used, it leaves a unique digital signature?”
Joy’s brow furrowed. After a long silence, she said, “I wouldn’t know either way.”
“Every time. So if you would: Tell us where you were on February 25, 2004.”
“I don’t know. Work probably.”
“March 10?”
“Could have been work, I don’t know.”
“And March 22, 2004?” Joy did not answer. Just stared. Micki asked quietly, “What is the significance of that date, Ms. Monrho?”
A tear formed at the corner of one green eye. “The day the love of my life died.”
“Do you remember where you were that day?”
“Of course. I remember every minute.”
“So you do recall going to the Melvindale plant very early that morning.”
She hesitated, then snapped: “No!”
Micki dropped the badge on the tabletop. “That’s puzzling. Because this badge, this precious keepsake of yours — this badge was there on that date, ma’am. This badge registered in the plant’s computer at four sixteen A.M.”
She extended a hand to me. I gave her the padded envelope that Art Drinkard had brought. As Micki took out the flat silvery portable DVD player, Arnie said: “I once again lodge my most urgent objections to Counsel’s fishing expedition — and her irrelevant, argumentative, immaterial assertions — and—”
“Ted,” Spikes said from his spot by the wall in a weary, cutting tone, “would you please just shut up.”
I did not see Arnie’s reaction because Micki, DVD player in hand, had bent to me. “How do you turn this thing on?” she whispered.
I opened the lid, mashed the ON button. The little screen lit up. Micki put the player on the table and gave it a push. It glided down and stopped not far from Joy and Arnie. He and his flunkies clustered close, staring at the screen. Joy looked too, with an odd half-smile that mystifies me to this day. Micki said, “The footage you’re viewing was shot from the parking lot cameras scanning the receiving dock on the east side of the plant. You see the date stamps. The first segment is from February 25... Right about now you’re seeing a segment from March 10, again early in the morning... And now what you’re viewing is the same entrance door just after four A.M. on the morning of March 22.”
Joy abruptly slid her chair back and rose. “You know what, we’re done here.”
“Who, madam,” inquired Micki, “would be the person the tape shows entering the plant on the morning of your ex-husband’s death? Is that you, by chance?”
Joy pushed by Arnie, who was staring dumbstruck at her. “You’re on your own,” she hissed at him. “I can’t help you with this anymore.”
“Please, Ms. Monrho!” Micki said. “Don’t go. We’d like to hear your answers.”
As Joy swept past the law firm flunkies, she looked at us, face a mask of blind sulfuric rage, and spewed a short and specific instruction as to what we could do. Pushing past Spikes, she plunged through the big double doors. Everyone else, including Arnie, who was, for once, speechless, sat frozen, staring. Never one to freeze, I got to my feet and went out into the carpeted hallway. I could have given chase and apprehended her with a full body slam. But there was no need. As Joy Monrho marched up the paneled hallway toward the skylighted foyer, two men in business suits rose from chairs. Between them was a uniformed officer. Joy did not hesitate, just headed toward the elevators. The detectives stepped toward her. “Joy Monrho?”
“Three months,” I said.
Micki, who had been lost in thought, stirred. “What?”
“Three months it took,” I told her, “after J. J. married Faith, for Joy to fully realize that he was not coming back to her.”