CHAPTER 20
Viveka
I park my little Volvo that has seen a lot of miles and still keeps chugging beautifully. It is the car Adam bought for me when we first moved here, and despite his offers over the years to upgrade it to newer, I am fine with it. I don’t need fancy—just air conditioning in the South—and as long as it runs safely, it works for me.
There’s a small strip of grass that borders the edge of the wooded acreage of what is set to be Swan’s Mill. Gone are all the backhoes, bulldozers, and dozens of men with chainsaws ready to cut down the trees. Swan’s Mill sits on a two-lane road that’s peppered periodically with various subdivisions but with plenty of forested areas in between. Because the Triangle—that would be Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill—is rapidly expanding, everything is pushing outward. In a decade, this will be nothing but homes and very little trees.
As I get out of my car, another pulls in right behind me. A nondescript silver economy car that screams rental. My expert witness, Dr. Andrew Mellman, gets out with a wave at me. I recognize him from his picture on Cornell’s website. Dark curly hair that’s brown but with a liberal amount of gray streaked throughout it and his thick beard. His black frame glasses start to darken in the sunlight.
With the five thousand I essentially donated—via reimbursing Ford—I decided to put all the money into one very good expert. Dr. Mellman is an ornithologist from Cornell and is one of the leading experts in his field. He has a BS and MS in zoology and a Ph.D. in biology, but his entire research and teaching is now focused on birds. Moreover, he has done specific research on the red-cockaded woodpecker by collecting data to see if conservation efforts are working.
Ford could have easily hired Dr. Mellman. Five minutes of research online would have revealed this man’s preeminence. And Ford probably did exactly that, but given that Dr. Mellman is a conservationist at heart, Ford knew his money would be wasted there. Dr. Mellman is going to do whatever he can to help preserve the species.
He’s dressed for trekking through the woods. Heavy cargo pants, hiking boots, and a thick denim shirt. He pulls a backpack out of the rental car and heads my way. I’m also dressed to tromp through the woods with him. I put on jeans, a pair of old hiking boots I’ve had forever, as well as an old t-shirt. Even though it might get a little hot, I threw on a denim jacket for protection against any low-lying brush we have to push through. Lastly, I plaited my hair in a tight braid to keep it out of my way.
“Miss Jones,” Dr. Mellman says as he sticks out a hand.
We shake, and I smile. “So pleased to meet you. Please call me Viveka.”
“And you should call me Andy,” he replies.
“I’m really thankful you could help me on this on such short notice. I know it was asking a lot to drop everything and fly here.”
“Nonsense,” he reassures me kindly, his eyes sweeping the edge of the woods. “You coming in with me?”
“If that’s okay,” I demure.
He shrugs. “Sixteen hundred acres… about two-point-five square miles. Going to be out there a long time.”
“I’ve got all day,” I tell him.
“Then let’s do this,” he says with a smile.
I snag my iPhone out of my car, along with a clipboard with a yellow pad attached. I push a pencil behind my ear, and I’m ready. I’m prepared to take notes for any helpful nugget of information Dr. Mellman can give me for my argument next week. I plan on using him as a resource to learn more about this endangered species than what I could find on the internet.
Before we enter the tree line, Dr. Mellman sets his backpack on the ground and squats before it. He pulls out a pair of large binoculars I bet cost a fortune, along with a digital camera. Both have straps, and he loops them around his neck.
Lastly, he pulls out a mini hand-held recorder, presumably to take notes of his findings, and tucks it into a side cargo pocket at his thigh.
Patting his pack, he says, “I got plenty of water in here for both of us.”
Oh, thank God. I hadn’t even thought of that. I might like nature, the outdoors, animals, and wildlife, but I’d probably die if I ever got lost out here.
We spend a little over five hours walking the property in a grid fashion. Dr. Mellman was very prepared with a topographical map of the area where he made tiny little X’s and circles in different-colored pens he had tucked in another cargo pocket. He used his binoculars a lot, letting me have a turn when he found a nest. There were moments he would put the recorder up to his mouth and softly dictate his findings, using coordinates on the map to document locations.
When we finally emerge back near our cars, he walks over to the actual pine tree I’d chained myself to over two weeks ago. He’d looked at that one first and confirmed there was indeed a nest in there. He’d spotted a female and several males, most of which he determined were helpers taking turns to incubate the eggs.
Pointing at the tree, he says, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Lay it on me.”
“This nest is isolated.”
“What does that mean?” I ask as I scribble notes on my pad.
“Of the roughly sixteen hundred acres, I documented one large cluster and one lone nest, which we can call a cluster. This tree has the lone nest, and I expect it was easy to see given it was on the edge of the forested area. And by edge, I mean it’s bordered on one side by the road. I suspect there will be other nests across the road that would be considered part of that cluster. It’s bordered on the west side by the next property, whoever owns that.”
“And the other cluster you identified?” I ask.
He points to what I think is northeast from where we’re standing. “About a quarter mile that way. The cluster covers about sixty acres, and I’ve documented at least seventeen nests, many I believe are active with eggs or hatchlings.”
“That’s great news, Andy,” I say with excitement. No way are those trees coming down no matter what Ford’s experts say because that’s too many birds that would be killed.
“Well, this is where the bad news comes in,” Dr. Mellman replies with a dour expression. “As you know, these birds are cooperative. They work together to create nests, feed each other, and care for the young. This single nest here depends on a co-op that probably exists across the road or to the west on the next property. It’s possible the judge may let them take this tree down because of that.”
Not if I have anything to do with it, I think.
“Is it possible it could be considered part of the other large cluster? I mean, that acreage in between… could that possibly connect them?”
Dr. Mellman shrugs. “Possibly. If there’s no evidence of nests across the road or to the west, the argument could be made this nest needs the other cluster further in to survive.”
“And can you check the other property?” I ask.
“Do we have permission to be on it?”
“Not really seeing as how I don’t know who owns it,” I admit.
He cuts his gaze across the road and seems to consider. No one else is around. He glances at his watch and then back to me. “I could spare another hour maybe. Go in a few hundred yards on both sides and explore a bit. It wouldn’t be conclusive evidence, but I can see what’s in there.”
“That would be awesome,” I say with genuine appreciation. I’d kiss him right now if I didn’t think it would freak him out.
“You wait here,” he says. “I’ll move faster without you.”
♦
While Dr. Mellman is off trespassing all over the other properties that neighbor Swan’s Mill, I lean against the back of my Volvo, checking emails and texts.
We still on for tonight? Frannie had written not long ago. Not sure if you’re still gallivanting around the woods.
We’re still good. See you at seven, I reply.
Frannie’s husband is a long-distance truck driver. He works one week on, one week off. Frannie’s a generally independent woman, same as me. But with her kids gone, she also likes to have fun, so we’ve always tried to do at least one girl’s night together on a traveling week for Bill.
Because we are kind of lame, that either involves movies at my house so I don’t have to worry about the dogs and more often than not, enough wine that Frannie has to stay the night.
There’s a text from Ford. Hey, hot stuff. How’s it going?
I give a quick reply. Finishing up out here. U?
Today is one of those days we aren’t seeing each other. Not counting, of course, the glorious morning I had when I woke up in his bed this morning. It was brief but world rocking, and then I had to jet out of there. I had to pick the pups up from Frannie’s, take them home to get them settled, then shower and change so I could meet Dr. Mellman at Swan’s Mill at ten.
Ford is directly asking about how it’s going with my expert, but he’s not asking details. Just a general inquiry as to my day stomping around the woods.
Heading to the field, he replies. Wish me luck?
Always. And I offer up a quick prayer that Ford remain safe. I was surprised and a little bit alarmed that he plays in a rugby league. He’s been doing it for about six years now.
In addition to golf, it’s just sort of his thing. He’s asked me to come to next weekend’s game. Like I told him, I don’t know much about sports, but I do know rugby is a dangerous game that can often result in cuts, bruises, broken bones, and sometimes burst testicles.
That’s what Ford told me, but he could have been joking. He was using it in context last night telling me I should give them extra loving care because they could get seriously damaged in the game today.
“Not sure if you look better in the chains or out of them,” a male voice that I find familiar but can’t quite place says.
My head snaps up and I push from my car, turning around. My spine stiffens as I see Drake Powell strolling… no, strutting my way. I see a truck he presumably drove parked down the road along with a jeep behind it.
He gives me a genial smile as he approaches, but his eyes roam over me like I’m a piece of meat. It produces no reaction within me. I’ve been given that look since I was in my early teens, and I’ve learned not to let it affect me.
“Mr. Powell,” I say coolly with a nod.
“You out here with your expert?” he asks, gaze sweeping around.
“I am,” is all I provide. “You?”
“Yup,” he says as he tucks his hands in his khaki pants and rocks on his heels.
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t do anything but stare at me, rocking back and forth. His smile has turned almost “cat eating the canary” type of thing, and it hits me in that moment.
This bastard did have something to do with that brick coming through my office window. I can’t prove it and never will be able to, but I know it. I think Ford knew it as well.
“I don’t get it,” he says, the smirk sliding off his face and his eyes going cruel. He takes a step toward me and lowers his voice. “What the fuck could you possibly get out of this case? You practice in a shithole, have taken this case on for free, costing me a lot of goddamn money in the process, and for what? You’re going to lose. You’ll go on with your pathetic life, and I’ll be scrambling to get this project back on track. I’ll never recoup the monetary losses you’ve caused me.”
I give Mr. Powell a polite smile. “Technically, Mr. Powell… you and I shouldn’t be talking about this case. But I will tell you, I do this to make people like you obey the law and to protect those that can’t do for themselves.”
“For a goddamned woodpecker,” he snarls.
And… I’m done with him. “Well, you have a nice day, Mr. Powell.” My voice is overly bright as I turn on my heel and walk to the driver’s side of my car where I’ll gladly wait for Dr. Mellman to finish up.
“Cunt,” Drake Powell says, and he makes no effort to lower his voice. He wanted me to hear that, and I know that word is near and dear to him. It was written on the brick he or someone at his direction threw into my office.
I’ve been faced with meaner people than him before, and I’ve had tougher battles. He doesn’t scare me. He certainly doesn’t hurt my feelings or make me feel guilty for taking on this case. My allegiance is to my client as is my care and loyalty.
Besides… how could I ever feel guilty for causing this prick some inconvenience?
I get in my car and shut the door, shooting another text off to Frannie. Feel like NY pizza tonight?
Neither Frannie nor I are big pizza eaters, unless it’s New York style with extra grease. There’s a joint not far from my house that makes excellent pies.
There’s a hard knock on my window that startles me. My gullible side immediately thinks it’s Dr. Mellman, although he’s not been gone very long.
When I crane my neck left, I see Drake Powell bent over… leering in my window. He’s sort of the average middle-aged man. Pleasant face with the slightest of bellies. He has a wedding ring on, and I’m going to guess that midsection is what many women call a “dad bod”.
Ford doesn’t have a dad bod. Of course, he’s not a dad, but he works hard for that six pack he’s sporting. It flexes and comes into sharp definition many times when we’re fucking.
Drake Powell’s ordinariness turns into something bordering on creepy the way he’s staring at me. There’s something in his stare that speaks to perhaps retribution, but I’m not sure what he could really do to me. The brick through the window has probably exhausted his bag of tricks.
I debate ignoring him, but he seems like the type of guy who could take douchiness to true assholishness if I didn’t at least let him have his say.
I roll my window down, which is crank style, so yeah… that’s how old my Volvo is, and try to plaster a pleasantly curious expression on my face as to why he’s bothering me again.
“You should watch out,” he says.
“For what?” I ask, my voice going sharp and unyielding. I don’t play threatening games with anyone. Last time I did that was when I was sixteen and just starting to get the idea I could break free of my mother’s control.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me, waiting to see if his mental intimidation tactic is going to work.
I stare back with what I’m hoping conveys boredom.
Perhaps a little bit of pity that he feels the need to do this with me. What I really want to do is ask him if this is the only way he can get it up? By making himself feel bigger by putting a woman in her place, which I suspect is actually very true.
But I take the high road.
I give him a polite smile and wait to see if he elaborates.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he just points at me and says once again, “Watch out.”