Chapter Twenty-Six
Legal Proceedings
With opening statements complete, Dane had jumped right into the storm of the hearing, as it launched full bore. LaBarge, as plaintiff, had the right to present first, and boy howdy, was he bringing in the manure, load by load.
Dane sat, a barely contained hurricane of fury as LaBarge’s lies piled higher and higher. Each successive witness told the same litany of falsehoods: Brooke applied to be caregiver for their relatives, ingratiated herself with her beauty, and ultimately defrauded the ailing person while on their deathbed out of something of high dollar value. They recited names and dates, all of which began near the time of the accident that put Brooke out of commission.
Ridiculous. Dane didn’t even bother cross-examining them.
When LaBarge finally rested his case and it was Dane’s turn, right out of the gate he brought forward the medical records from Brooke’s accident, grateful that HIPAA laws allowed him to subpoena them for court.
“Your honor, I don’t know who the Brooke Chadwick is these witnesses have referred to, but my client, as she stated in opening remarks, was not physically capable of such things.”
Dane extended the stack of records to the judge. They provided incontrovertible evidence of Brooke’s innocence against the fairy tale LaBarge had spun.
But the proving that LaBarge had lied about Brooke wasn’t the same thing as proving he had bad character. Both of those were vital— especially if they had no handwriting expert to prove Jarman’s holographic addendum was real. As much as Dane hated himself for doing it, he was going to have to put another witness on the stand— the last man on God’s green earth he ever wanted to put any trust in.
Just not quite yet.
“Thank you. I’ll consider these.” The judge took the records and glanced at them, then took a more careful look for a longer time. “Yes, I see. Thank you.”
Dane turned to give LaBarge a smirk. “To further confirm this, I’ll call Brooke Chadwick to the stand.”
__________
Brooke nearly choked. Sure, she’d considered other people testifying on the witness stand. Dane had discussed them at length. But it hadn’t dawned on head or her heart that she would be one of them. Before today, she’d never set foot in a courthouse; if she never entered one again, it’d be too soon.
When had Dane added her to his list of witnesses? The distance between the defense table and the witness box stretched long.
“Miss Chadwick, come forward, please.” The bailiff administered the oath, and she sat down, a swarm of bees warring in her gut— not because of Dane’s examination, but because Olivia had taught her that any witness who got examined could also be cross-examined.
She might be subjected to Sarge LaBarge’s bad breath and worse intent.
“Tell the court, Miss Chadwick, why you didn’t do the things you’re accused of.”
“I couldn’t. I’d never.” Her very soul rankled when she considered the things LaBarge had accused her of. There weren’t words enough in the universe to explain all the reasons why she didn’t do any of them.
“I know that, but why didn’t you? Be specific.”
“Objection. Leading.” LaBarge was going to start in on her now, an intimidation tactic. She couldn’t let it get to her.
“Overruled.”
Brooke gathered herself. “I make as many mistakes as anybody, but four years ago I was in an accident that killed my parents and left me without the use of my legs for almost six months. I couldn’t have cared for patients then because I was one myself.”
Surprised crackled through the LaBarge witness area in the gallery.
“I’m pretty sure the paperwork my attorney handed you is the medical records from my time in intensive care, in recovery, and later in the rehabilitation center. It was a long time. Hospitals gave me good care, and after that I understood why I wanted to be a nurse. Maybe I could help someone like I’d been helped.”
“Objection. Irrelevant.”
“Overruled.”
Dane said, “That was when you began your medical studies. After the accident.”
“I had my CNA— certified nurse’s assistant— qualifications, but I got them in high school, before the accident. I’d planned to get my RN, but circumstances and funding didn’t permit, so I just went for an LPN instead. Er, licensed practical nurse.”
Dane nodded, giving Brooke a reassuring smile. This wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. She was just telling the truth. The truth was easy.
Dane turned to the judge. “I’ve also presented Miss Chadwick’s nursing school transcripts, and her employee records as a candy striper, a CNA, an LPN and now on the pediatric floor at Maddox General.” He turned to Sarge LaBarge now. “Her hours of work are there, verifiable. Clocked in. For the court to examine.”
LaBarge’s turn was next. Brooke couldn’t breathe. What lies would he tell, or twist her truths to make her tell? Truth was easy, lies were hard.
“Would you like to cross examine, Mr. LaBarge?” the judge asked. Her watch’s second hand ticked like thunder in her ears.
“I reserve my questions for later.”
Brooke expelled all her breath in what had to be a loud huff. He’d postponed. For now. With gushing relief, she returned to her seat. Maybe later would never come. Dane was good. Very good. He was built for this job.
Thank the heavens above he hadn’t been disbarred earlier today. Prayers were indeed answered.
Mrs. Twyla Tyler came to the stand next, telling her story about being Mr. Jarman’s actual caregiver, at least at lunchtime, and swearing to the fact that Brooke had never met him during his lifetime, as well as the connection between Brooke and Mr. Jarman via Oscar.
“I’m afraid the fact that Miss Chadwick was an excellent nurse who cared for our grandson so tenderly before he left this life is the reason we’re all here today.” It took a moment for Mrs. Tyler to gather her emotions. Every time she brought up Oscar things got raw.
Brooke got that. There were months, years, when she couldn’t deal with her parents’ loss. Same with Quirt. Only lately, in the last few days, he’d been less hostile. Having him sit behind her, backing her up at the defense table, was the closest she’d felt to him in ages.
Dane and Quirt weren’t at each other’s throats anymore, either. Dane had given the files to Quirt, trusting him today, and Quirt had nothing but good to say about his lifelong best friend.
Something good had come of this whole shenanigan, no matter the outcome.
With Twyla Tyler’s testimony, Brooke’s character was established for good. Step one in their plan, check.
But at what cost? Now Mrs. Tyler had to endure being questioned by LaBarge. Brooke felt terrible for putting her through something she herself hadn’t been forced to endure.
“Mrs. Tyler,” Sarge LaBarge began, his tone cruel. “Just how well did you know Harvey Jarman. How well— in an intimate sense?”
“Objection, your honor.” Dane stood up. “Badgering.”
“Sustained.”
But LaBarge didn’t seem to think this was a defeat. He’d planted the seed of doubt he meant to sow with regard to Mrs. Tyler’s character.
“No more questions, your honor.”
Brooke expected Dane to let Mrs. Tyler go and sit down, but he didn’t. Apparently he had one more line of questioning if the judge let him redirect— and it came sideways at Brooke.
“Permission to redirect?” he asked the judge, and it was granted. Dane paced in front of the witness stand before speaking. “Mrs. Tyler. Before today, had you seen this man?” He pointed at LaBarge.
“Yes. Everyone has. We see his political billboards out my way. He has a distinct look anyone would recognize.”
“Okay. Had you seen him anywhere else, besides billboards or campaign material?”
She pulled a knowing look. “You mean at Harvey Jarman’s home. Yes. Just a few times, about three years ago.” Twyla Tyler had told them about a politician leaning on Jarman, convincing him to put the ball into his will. Leave it to Dane to realize this was actually ammunition for Brooke’s case.
“Tell the court what happened,” Dane prompted, and Mrs. Tyler repeated exactly what she’d said to Dane and Brooke that first meeting.
“Harvey Jarman told me about Faro LaBarge, and how he’d pressured Harvey into putting him in his will, right around the time his wife Mitzi got so sick and died. He was down and didn’t care about much for a while. That’s when he told me LaBarge manipulated him into making a new will— and naming LaBarge as recipient of the ball.”
“Objection!” Sarge LaBarge roared.
“On what grounds?” the judge asked. She waited while LaBarge steamed, and until he withdrew it. “Proceed, Mrs. Tyler. Please.”
Dane looked at some notes and then said, “But Mr. Jarman changed his mind.”
“Oh, yeah. He wanted to give that famous ball to anyone but LaBarge. He was looking for the right person. For a while he’d considered giving it to my grandson Oscar, after Harvey and Oscar bonded over the story Nurse Brooke told him. Brooke Chadwick. But when Little O— I mean Oscar— died, Mr. Jarman changed his mind. I helped him track down Brooke, like I said earlier.”
Brooke could see where Dane was headed now, and her fingertips tingled with anticipation.
“Thank you, Mrs. Tyler.” He turned to the judge. “I think Mrs. Tyler’s testimony shows that Mr. LaBarge is guilty of the exact thing he falsely accused my client of— manipulation of an elderly person into changing a will.”
At the table across from Brooke, Sarge LaBarge kept a blank face, but his neck had gone from pale to pink to red to purple: a volcano ready to blow.
__________
Much as he wanted to let his heart soar over how well Brooke handled the questioning on the stand, and how perfectly Mrs. Tyler’s testimony had established Brooke’s character as upright and honest, and over how much of a total smackdown LaBarge seemed to be getting in court so far, Dane knew they weren’t out of the woods.
Not by a long shot.
Besides outing LaBarge for the conniving thug he was, the very crux of this case remained: whether Jarman’s will was genuine or forged.
If genuine, the ball was Brooke’s. She and Aunt Ruth would retain possession of the most valuable artifact in all of baseball history. They’d save heir investment in the museum, and Aunt Ruth’s retirement would be secure.
And Dane would have won both Brooke’s case and all kinds of ammo when he demanded she give him a chance at her heart.
If he couldn’t persuade the court of its validity, LaBarge got the ball— for who knew what purpose. Actually, that was a good question. A seriously good question. Who did know LaBarge’s intent?
Dane’s eyes swept the courtroom. They landed on the one face he dreaded most. And he knew— finally— exactly what he would have to do.
But just not yet. There was one other avenue, a complete and total long shot, but one he had to try first.
“I’d like to call Balthazar Koen to the stand.” Dane’s voice bounced off the back wall of the courtroom, off the ceilings, off the floor, and came back and smacked him in the face. “Balthazar Koen,” he said again, a little louder, as if it would summon the saving witness, with whom Dane had never actually made concrete contact— only the voice mail to his New York City phone number.
The bailiff cleared his throat and said even louder, “Balthazar Koen.”
From the back of the courtroom a little man with a long gray beard and a yarmulke stood up. “Eh? Did you say Balthazar Koen?” Hard of hearing— but he was here! “That’s me.”
Dane’s stomach did those loop-the-loops that trick pilots did in bi-planes. The ultimate gamble of all time had paid off!
Up to the front hobbled Mr. Koen, wearing a Yankees t-shirt and leaning heavily on a As he passed Dane, he tugged on his sleeve and whispered, “Is there a chance I’ll see that ball after this is over?”
“Sure thing,” Dane whispered in response before realizing there was no way the guy could have heard him. No matter, Koen got spry and practically hopped onto the witness stand.
“Mr. Koen, please tell the court your credentials.” Dane invited him in the loudest voice he could muster, and it worked. Koen heard him fine, right after he adjusted something on his ear. Nice. “You have expertise in handwriting, yes?”
Once Mr. Koen got started in his Bronx accent, he didn’t stop. His list of qualifications, experience, and skills started getting exhaustive after four full minutes, when he finally wound down. He’d even worked for the FBI.
“Please take a look at these two pieces of handwriting, Mr. Koen,” Dane said, presenting him with both the will’s addendum and the scorecard from Naughton Lanes. “Would you say they were written by the same hand?”
Mr. Koen took his time. Dane sent up about a prayer a second that this stranger wouldn’t blindside him, and that he hadn’t been sullied by LaBarge in the past couple of days.
Nothing was certain, and Dane refused to let himself glance at Brooke. No way would he let her see his nerves, in case any had seeped through to the surface.
At last, the gentleman spoke. “While I would like to state decisively that they were written by the same hand, due to the scant use of actual letters on sample number two, which contains mostly numbers, I can only give a sixty-percent certainty.”
Sixty percent! Sixty percent left forty percent chance it was a fraud.
LaBarge would be all over this like a dog on a ham bone, growling and snarling.
Unfortunately, after a few probing questions, unsuccessful attempts to get Koen to commit further, Dane had nothing else. Koen looked genuinely sorry to not be able to do more for him. This did credit to his honesty, especially since Dane had no idea what would motivate a guy to drive many hours— with no discussion of payment— down the coast to do a job sight unseen.
LaBarge was practically slavering as he approached the witness stand in cross examination. His question was simple but powerful. “How do we know Jarman kept his own score?”
“We don’t.” The handwriting expert said.
He might have just sunk their case. Dane broke down and stole a glance at Brooke, who looked like her lungs had gone into collapse.
But then she surprised him. Brooke reached beneath the table and took Dane’s hand. With no hesitation, he laced his fingers with hers. A perfect fit.
“There’s got to be another handwriting sample somewhere.” She leaned in and whispered, looking desperately around the room. “Is asking for a short recess a thing?”
Dane nodded. “You need a break?”
“I need to talk to someone.”
__________
Brooke’s insides swirled like a ride at the county fair. After Dane requested and was granted a recess, Sarge LaBarge alternately shot daggers and haughty triumphant looks in Brooke’s general direction. Panic made her impervious to them, though, as she made a beeline toward Twyla Tyler.
“I’m so grateful you stayed, Mrs. Tyler.” They hugged. “You were wonderful.”
“I wish I could do anything else to help. I can’t even stand being in the same room with that LaBarge guy. He’s even worse than his lawn signs, polluting the lovely yards of my town.”
“That’s just it, I’m afraid. I need something, anything, that might have Jarman’s signature on it. Anything he wrote.”
“I don’t know, dear.” Mrs. Tyler bit her lip. “I haven’t seen anything substantial. Not a long letter, or anything.”
Worry snaked up Brooke’s spine. She knew she might cry. The points LaBarge kept bringing up seemed so petty and pointless to Brooke, but how would the judge see them? Would it come down to a simple he-said she-said? And who would this judge believe? Brooke hadn’t forgotten the hint LaBarge dropped about being a close personal friend of Judge Vandalay, whether or not it seemed to be panning out today. All the truth in the world couldn’t outweigh a single lie when the judge had been bought and paid for through political favors or some other thing.
LaBarge was so blackhearted. There had to be a way to illustrate that, beyond what Mrs. Tyler had just said. A second witness to seal that obvious-to-Brooke fact.
Ames.
But Dane had yet to call him to the stand.
Brooke bit her lip until the inside bled a drop.
__________
Dane slid up beside Brooke, who’d gone back to pester Mrs. Tyler. If Twyla Tyler said she didn’t have anything of Harvey Jarman’s handwriting, there was no use trying to get blood from a turnip.
He racked his brain. Where else could they find something on zero notice? A signature from the DMV? Some other government application?
There wasn’t time. And Brooke looked like a million-pound weight had dropped onto her soul.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” Mrs. Tyler said to Brooke, who looked like she might cry. “Unless— do you think this slip of paper would help?” Mrs. Tyler held out a little slip of blue paper. A glance at Brooke, and Dane saw her eyes light up— at last. “I keep it in my wallet as a way to remember a good friend. It’s not much.”
Brooke brightened, and looked over at Dane with those big brown eyes, all dewy and hopeful. They shot arrows straight at his heart.
Sucker. He was a total sucker for this woman.
“What do you think, Dane?” Brooke held it out to him. Dane snatched it and in a second gave a muted whoop. He grabbed Mrs. Tyler around the waist and gave her cheek a big kiss.
“This is it. This is gold!”
Mrs. Tyler blushed and put a hand to her cheek after the kiss. But Dane turned his attention to Brooke— who had better kiss him when they won this trial. Because with this note they were on track. Completely.
Mrs. Tyler said, “But it’s just a one-liner. Thanks for lunch. Harvey. I never thought it could matter. He slid it inside a dish he returned one day after I first started bringing him lunch. It’s too short, right? No substance.”
“It’s got all the substance we need.”
__________
Brooke watched, chewing three fingernails to the nub while the next several things happened.
Dane entered Mrs. Tyler’s note into evidence. He was allowed to call her to the stand to testify where she got it. LaBarge, in turn, tried again to smear her.
“What exactly does Thanks for lunch. Harvey. mean?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. Dane objected. The judge sustained it, with a warning to LaBarge.
Then Dane was allowed to call Mr. Koen back to the stand. Brooke still wondered where this guy had come from— how he’d come to be a rescuer for her out of the blue. But she couldn’t ask now. Dane was questioning him as he examined the paper.
“With comparison to the handwriting in the will, Mr. Koen,” Dane asked, “is it the same hand, in your expert opinion?”
Mr. Koen took a long, hard look at the two pieces of paper, not hurrying in any way. Meanwhile, Brooke considered the length of time a person could go without oxygen before death— using herself as a test subject.
At last, the spindly man said, “While it would take much longer to be a hundred percent certain, I believe there is a ninety-eight percent chance these two samples were completed by the same hand.”
A gasp went up from LaBarge’s side of the room, followed by grumbled muttering.
Then Koen said, “With that third sample, from the bowling score card, I can see three possible examples of his handwriting, and it ups my estimate to ninety-nine. But, of course, I can’t be a hundred percent certain. Not at this time.”
LaBarge jumped to his feet the second he was given an opportunity to cross examine. “Will you please repeat your last statement, Mr. Koen?”
“I cannot be a hundred percent certain at this time.”
LaBarge turned on Brooke and then back to the judge with a sneer. “He cannot be a hundred percent certain. Let the record stand.” He narrowed his eyes and sent poison darts at Brooke.
LaBarge was right— she knew it. Their case was not guaranteed. Nothing, as Koen said, was a hundred percent certain.
__________
Dane, despite this incredible victory, and Brooke’s brilliance at asking Twyla Tyler again for some handwriting, could not rest on any kind of success. If he’d learned anything in his year of courtroom experience at Tweed Law, it was that nothing was certain until the judge handed down a verdict.
Dane had one last card to play: exposing LaBarge for the manipulating shyster he was. Without it, the lies about Brooke dangled in the air, uncontested, like gossip at that horrible beauty salon in Maddox— except these would be on the official record of the Maddox County Superior Court.
He had to set the record straight.
One huge, unanswered question plagued him. While the judge took another short recess, Dane leaned over and asked Brooke, “Why do you think LaBarge is even doing this? He hasn’t said one thing about the ball itself since opening statements.” It was more like he wanted to destroy Brooke Chadwick than get the Called Shot Ball.
In response, Brooke just blinked at him, as if he were missing the obvious point. When she finally spoke, he understood.
“Uh, that’s why Ames is here. To give the court— and us— that answer.”
His insides flashed hot and cold. He’d gone back and forth all afternoon about it. At one point he’d decided definitely to put Crosby on the stand. But then he put him in reserve when Koen appeared— thinking maybe Crosby’s testimony wouldn’t be necessary.
Well, that was self-delusion. Somebody had to prove what LaBarge really was.
Dane laid a hand on Brooke’s knee, then got up from the table as if to take a recess of his own. It was getting near to six now when court would close down. This could be continued, and the agony would rack Brooke all night.
They needed to wind this up. And fast.
He approached the unwelcome face in the gallery.
“Crosby? I’ve got a few questions for you.” Dane took aside the doctor, and said in his lowest voice. “Now’s your big chance to make restitution. You want that, I take it.”
Crosby’s eyes hardened, but some kind of humility forced him to nod.
“Good. Then there’s no time. Give me three bullet points I can use when I lead you through questioning.”
__________
Judge Vandalay returned. To Dane she asked, “Do you have any more witnesses?”
Brooke pressed his hand under the table, and Dane soaked up the warmth of it. A silent bellow of derision ripped through him, but Dane answered, “Yes, your honor. Ames Crosby.”