“Plaintiffs have brought an action for wrongful death, claiming that the acts of the Apollo Consortium caused the death of their son. But they have neither produced nor found any evidence to support this claim. Granted, the Nelsons have suffered a horrible loss, and I’m sure we all sympathize with them. But there is simply no connection between what happened to their son and the Apollo Consortium. Therefore, summary judgment should be entered against the plaintiffs.”
“Thank you, counsel,” Roemer said. He seemed pleased. Ben wasn’t sure if that was because he liked what Ben had said or because Ben had said it quickly. Roemer was thumbing through the pleadings file, searching for something.
“Mr. Abernathy, I don’t find a brief in opposition in the file from you. Did you reply?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
Roemer frowned. “Would you like to reply now?”
“Yes. Thank you, sir.” Abernathy fumbled with his papers and stumbled to me podium. Ben checked the Nelsons’ expressions; they were obviously concerned.
“You know, your honor, I don’t much hold with all this pretrial motioning.”
Roemer’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“I believe every man and woman is entitled to his or her day in court. Everyone is entitled to a fair shot at proving their case.”
“If we followed your theory,” Roemer said, “the courts would be so bogged down with trials we’d be backed up for years. Just dealing with all the lawsuits that do make it to trial is a nightmare.”
“Still, your honor, every litigant deserves a chance to be heard—”
“We’re not here to debate policy, Mr. Abernathy. The Supreme Court has given us our marching orders. Do you have any response to the defendant’s motion?”
“Well…obviously I disagree—”
“Do you have any evidence to support your clients’ claims?”
“Discovery is ongoing, sir. We still hope to uncover—”
“Perhaps you didn’t understand me, counsel. I asked if you have any evidence. Now.”
Ben covered his smile with his hands. This was going beautifully. He glanced at his colleague in the back row; he could tell Rob was pleased.
“Your honor, these are very complex, technical issues. We need more time—”
“There is no more time, Mr. Abernathy. Summary judgment is a put-up-or-shut-up motion.”
“Still, your honor—”
“Mr. Abernathy, do you at least have affidavits from your clients? That might be enough to put a material fact into dispute. Surely you could get an affidavit from your own clients.”
“I hadn’t really considered that, sir….”
Roemer threw up his hands. “This is absurd. You have no evidence. Furthermore, you have no likelihood of finding any in the future unless it walks up and clubs you in the face. This case is ripe for summary judgment.”
“Judge, if I may—”
“In fact, it’s more than ripe. This is a perfect example of what summary judgment was designed to preclude. A frivolous lawsuit alleging unsupported claims dragging a faultless defendant through pointless, expensive litigation. Summary judgment is hereby granted.” He banged his gavel to solidify his decision.
Ben rose. “Thank you, your honor.”
“You’ll draft up the order and judgment, counsel?” Ben nodded. “I’ll expect to see it in fifteen days. This hearing is dismissed.” Everyone shot to their feet as Roemer exited the courtroom.
Ben whirled around, buoyant. What a coup. Even if Abernathy threatened to appeal, as he probably would, it would be futile. He’d been creamed.
The only thing that could be better than a major victory is a major victory while your boss’s informant is watching. He started down the aisle toward Rob—then noticed the Nelsons sitting motionless on the front row.
June Nelson’s lips were moving, but no words were coming out. Ben leaned in closer. She was murmuring something over and over, just on the edge of audibility.
“My son…my son…They took my son.…”
Carl Nelson gently took her by the arm. “The show’s over, June. Let’s move along now.”
She did not respond. “Nobody cares.… They took my son.…”
Gently, Carl Nelson raised June to her feet and steered her toward the door.
“Is she going to be all right?” Ben asked.
“She’ll be fine. She’s just upset. It’s hard, losing your son like that. And now, with the judge throwing our case out of court—” His voice choked. He paused, inhaled deeply. “It’s as if the judge was saying it was okay. It was okay for them to do what they did. It was okay and nobody cares that our son is gone forever.”
Ben was unsure whether he could maintain control of himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Carl Nelson patted him on the shoulder. “That’s all right, son. You were just doing your job.”
They shuffled past Ben and left the courtroom.
32
TOMLINSON WAITED OUTSIDE THE Eleventh Street Denny’s, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of his car. He’d been there since eight-fifteen. An overabundance of caution—perhaps. But he wasn’t taking any chances. He was close—very close—to catching the killer, and proving to Morelli once and for all that he had the right stuff to play on the Homicide team. Now all he had to do was make sure he didn’t fumble the ball in the last quarter.
He checked the clock on the dash of his car. It was five after nine. Trixie was late. He tried not to become concerned. She was a teenager, after all. When was a teenager ever not late? Still, it made him nervous. Too many potential witnesses had died already. He wasn’t going to let this one slip silently into the grave as well.
He fingered the outline of the revolver in the shoulder harness under his jacket. He’d catch all kinds of hell if anyone knew he’d removed a weapon from the station arsenal—guns weren’t generally required for switchboard duty. But Trixie needed protection, and he intended to provide it. She was a likable girl—charming, in her way. He hated to think about what could have driven her to the streets at her age. Her life had been tough enough already. It was going to stop here, if he had anything to say about it. He hoped Trixie didn’t take much longer. Nervousness aside, he’d promised Karen he wouldn’t be out all night, as he had been last night, and the night before, and the night before that. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d spent a pleasant evening with Kathleen. These days, the only hours he was home were the hours she was certain to be asleep. He’d become exactly what he told himself he’d never be—an all-work, no-family fool. Just like his own father.
He rolled down the window of his car and listened to the dissonant sounds of the city. If he could just get past this one case, he thought to himself. If he could just get this psycho behind bars, get his promotion, and get on with his life. That was all he wanted. Why did it have to be so hard in coming?
At ten after, Trixie pushed open the front door of the building on the opposite side of the street. She was wearing tattered jeans with holes over the knees, a white T-shirt turned backwards, and gold hoop earrings. She looked almost normal—like any teenage kid you might see wandering around the mall. If only it were so.
She passed between two parked cars and started crossing the four-lane street. Just as she made it to the center, Tomlinson heard the squeal of tires. A large black van pulled away from the curb and peeled across the street. It careened down the center at an impossible speed; its target was obvious.
“Trixie!” Tomlinson screamed out.
Trixie looked up just in time to see the van’s headlights bearing down on her. She staggered backward, confused.