Free Silent Justice by William Bernhardt Page B

haven’t been able to get anyone to represent you.” He paused, drawing in his breath. “And that’s why I can’t represent you, either.”
    The room was blanketed with silence. None of the parents spoke, or even moved. They all looked as if they’d been slapped in the face by a baseball bat.
    Christina had a pensive expression on her face. She was biting her knuckle, a sure sign that she was troubled. But she, too, held her tongue.
    At last Cecily broke the silence. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Kincaid?”
    He shrugged. “Sure.”
    “Have you raised any children?”
    “No.” He frowned. “Well, I helped raise my nephew for several months, but—”
    “Did you love your nephew?”
    “Of course I did. Do. But—”
    “How do you suppose you’d feel about this if your nephew had been one of the youngsters who died?”
    “Ms. Elkins—”
    “For that matter, you’re still young. You might have children of your own. How would you feel if your own flesh and blood had died—for no reason? Because some corporation didn’t have the decency to keep their poison out of the water well?”
    Ben drew in his breath. “I’m sure I’d feel just as you do. Devastated. But these are all emotional appeals. They won’t get us past a summary judgment motion.”
    One last time Cecily’s hand dipped inside her purse. “This is a picture of my boy. Billy. He was such an angel. He never did anything wrong. He never hurt anybody. He liked soccer and Robert Louis Stevenson. When he grew up, he wanted to be a doctor. But not to get rich, he told me, time and again. He wasn’t going to be a "swimming-pool doctor." He wanted to help people who really needed help, maybe go to a third-world country or something. And you know what? He would’ve done it. He would’ve made a difference.…” Her lips began to tremble. “He would’ve done some real good in this world. But all that potential is gone now. It’s all been wiped away by an act of corporate callousness. Is that right? Is that acceptable?”
    Before Ben could respond, Ralph opened his wallet and withdrew a photo. “This is my Roger.” He laughed slightly. “He wanted to be an astronaut.”
    “My Donald,” Margaret said, laying her photo atop the stack. “He talked about being an architect.”
    One after another, the tattered photographs fell into place. Jay Kinyon. Brian Bailey. Tracy Hamilton. Kevin Blum. Colin Koelshe. Finally, Ben saw eleven sets of eyes looking up at him, eleven youthful faces that passed from the world well before their time.
    And above those, all around him, Ben saw many more eyes staring at him. Waiting to hear what he would say next.
    He found Harvey hidden in the clothes closet behind some fishing gear and a lifetime supply of shoes, just where his wife had said he would be. It was a walk-in closet, very spacious, with more clothes than a man could wear in a year. Harvey always had been obsessed with his appearance. He pushed the clothes to either side and found a hidden inner closet door. When he opened that, he found a private hidey-hole, just big enough for one. Harvey was cowering inside.
    Harvey, a fiftyish balding man with a speckled turnip of a nose, was crouched in a near-fetal position, his hands covering his face. “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”
    He stared at Harvey with undisguised contempt. “Jesus Christ, Harvey. You ran off and left your wife to face the executioner?”
    “She’s crippled,” he said, his voice quivering. “She had an accident last year. She couldn’t move fast enough to get away.”
    He shook his head with disgust. “Pathetic.” He grabbed Harvey by the scruff of his neck.
    “Please don’t hurt me!” Harvey screamed again. “I can’t help you. I don’t have what you want!”
    “I wish I could believe you, Harvey. But of course, there’s only one way to know for certain.” He dragged Harvey forcibly back into the bedroom.
    Upon arrival, Harvey saw his wife lying motionless