The Charred Body
by Charles C. Parsons
|
Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
Hank Johnson was a lean man of about fifty with salty white hair and a grim face. He’d propped his black shoes casually atop his desk as he looked across at us. His voice was confident: “Mr. Chance, I’m convinced that the Hawkins boy died because the landlord didn’t wire the smoke detectors according to the manufacturer’s instructions.”
Seated next to me, Chance leaned forward. “The fire occurred in a city-owned apartment building for indigents. Just what rules are you saying the city employees violated?”
As Johnson slid his feet to the floor, I put down my notepad and gazed around his cluttered workspace. He’d arranged this office, a large rectangle with a picture window, like a curator designing his own unique museum. Memorabilia from his fireman’s past was meticulously displayed. Faded black and white photographs hung on his walls, pictures of Hank in uniform lined up with other volunteer firemen beside ladder trucks at some fire station where he’d worked. Hank had served in the fire industry for twenty-five years, first as a firefighter, then, as a safety engineer after obtaining his bachelor’s degree.
Hank pointed to a manufacturer’s manual on his desk. “These instructions specify that all smoke detectors must be hardwired directly to the main inlet service line delivering electricity to the building. The manufacturer wanted the warning devices in all of the apartments throughout the premises to never be without electrical juice.”
Hank shook his head before continuing. “At Shadow Oaks, the city workers installed the detectors by connecting them into each apartment’s existing electric circuit. When the Hawkins failed to pay their electrical bill, the utility cut the service off to their apartment. Without current, the Hawkins smoke detector couldn’t sense smoke or sound a warning.”
I interrupted him. “Hank, that doesn’t prove that the city’s mistake caused the child’s death.”
Hank leaned back in his swivel chair looking first at me then at Chance. “According to the fire marshal’s report, a thirteen-year old girl was babysitting her infant brother, who was asleep on the living room sofa. The smoke detector was mounted directly over the sofa. The babysitter went out in the hallway for about ten minutes after lighting candles to illuminate the room. The alarm never sounded before she heard her little brother screaming inside. When she tried to reenter the apartment, the fire had already burned across the room and reached the metal entry door. It was too hot to push open. That door is more than thirty feet from the sofa which was the point of ignition. To a safety engineer, this means that inside the apartment the fire had reached a fully engaged state. If the alarm had functioned, the babysitter would have had ten minutes to save the child.”
I frowned at him across the desk. “That’s a huge assumption, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. According to the marshal’s report, the two-year old had already crossed the room from the couch where he’d been sleeping. The photos of the incinerated scene confirm that it took ten minutes for the fire to get to him.”
Chance stiffened in his chair. “Are you prepared to testify that the city’s negligence was the cause of the child’s death?”
“Absolutely.”
As we rose to leave, Chance thanked Hank for his thorough workup of the case.
* * *
We walked silently toward our car to drive back to Washington. Chance towered over me as he strode confidently in a crisp navy-blue blazer. He was at least six inches taller than I, lean but well-built. I started to speak, but he curtly stopped me. “Justin, I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not withdrawing from this case.”
I dropped into the passenger seat. “This one’s a loser.”
Chance backed out of the parking space in silence. Late afternoon shadows crept over the neatly arranged brick buildings in the business park where Hank’s suburban office was located. In the silence of the automobile interior, I noticed Chance, hands on wheel, twitching his shoulders as he hummed a Bee Gees tune.
I cleared my throat. “Some juror is bound to ask: ‘Where were the parents?’ Then they’ll learn that Yvonne gave a flashlight to her daughter, Tonya, and left the apartment. When the batteries ran out, Tonya lit some candles. Next the jurors will hear Yvonne had left to fuck her boyfriend.”
“Justin, Yvonne lost a son! That charred body in those Fire Marshall pictures was a little boy. Her little boy.”
I took a deep breath as I recalled my impression of Yvonne when she first visited our office. She’d been a polite, attractive woman with sparkling teeth and a wide smile. Instantly likeable. She worked as a teacher’s aide at a nearby school. She’d brought a box of photographs. In it were dozens of pictures showing baby Charlie smiling in her arms.
Her husband, also Charlie, told us he was out working when the fire ignited. He’ d been using his pickup truck to move a customer’s furniture to a new location. He was raising money to pay the electric bill. Yvonne sobbed when Chance asked where she’d been, saying she’d gone out to visit a friend.
Later, I interviewed one of the firemen who’d responded to the blaze. As he described the destruction in the Hawkins’s apartment, he sniggered. “The mother was off screwing some guy while the fire raged.”
I’d rushed back to the office to tell Chance. He was seated at his desk peering intently through a magnifying glass at the Fire Marshall photos. I slid a chair up near him to catch his attention.
“You’re gonna dump this case when you hear where Yvonne was when the fire started.”
He listened intently to my exposé. I finished by stating, “Once the jury hears about the adultery, this case is toast.”
He shook his head. “Justin, Yvonne didn’t misinstall that smoke detector. You’re way too focused on adultery.” He returned to his inspection of the picture. But later he asked me to call Charlie the husband and have him come into the office alone.
Later, when Charlie entered Chance’s office, he sat down uneasily fidgeting his baseball cap in his hands. I watched Chance study him. “Did you know that your wife was having an affair when the fire happened?”
Charlie had lowered his head as he nodded. “Sure, I knew. I’d wrecked my back on duty in Afghanistan. After that, I couldn’t perform for her.” He wiped his left eye. “Was I supposed to make her do without, too? We had little Charlie by insemination; she became a super mother. I just ignored her little escapes; that’s what I called them.”
Chance winced, then taped his fingers on his desk. Finally, he glared at me. “The city can’t cover up its wrongdoing by insisting on ideal conduct from those it harms.” He rose quickly. “We’re going all in on this one.”
Charlie’s eyes glistened, “Thank you, Mr. Chance. Thank you.” He had reached out to hug Chance, but instead opted to pat him on the back.
* * *
Now, as we inched through city traffic, I felt moist sweat under my arms. “Chance, I must sound like a broken record, but this Hawkins case is a bad gamble,” I said. “Just one religious nut getting on that jury is all it will take. One person intent on punishing sin and, poof, our investment is gone.”
Chance crept past the Washington Monument, its brightly illuminated tip rising aloft like a sharp pencil braced to impale his customary confidence. He abruptly pulled into the curb lane and parked. Taking his hand off the wheel, he fumbled for his cell phone.
“I’m calling Martin Marshall. He’s sure to have handled a case like this one. Maybe he’ll join us for a drink this evening.”
Martin was an older lawyer friend who’d tried many death cases. After a short chat on his phone, Chance gave me a thumbs up; Martin would meet us at the Chancery Tavern near the courthouse in half an hour.
As he pulled back into the flow of vehicles, Chance growled. “There’s got to be a way to make the city pay full damages for that child’s death.”
* * *
We parked across the street from a pre-war red brick building with a bright green neon sign that read “The Chancery.” This tavern was the courthouse’s favorite watering hole. Inside the glass doors, a handful of lawyers in wrinkled suits were gathered at the bar. It was midweek; the remainder of the legal community was elsewhere preparing for tomorrow’s presentations.
Martin waved from a dimly lit booth on the far wall. Chance hurried over while I placed an order for three drinks. The drinks were to serve as payment for Martin’s advice. I walked to the table, a tray in my hands, trying not to spill. When I arrived, Chance was finishing his description of the child’s death.
Martin extended a hand to my tray. “You can count on the city lawyer trying to distract away from the faulty installation of smoke detectors,” he said, sipping his drink. “I’d look for them to announce some bogus legal theory. Something that also sullies the parents’ character.”
“Like what?” Chance asked.
“They might contend that Yvonne’s adultery was an illicit act that intervened just before the fire. Her failure to stay home was a superseding legal cause for the child’s death. They’ll argue that Yvonne’s bad act eclipsed everything else, then claim the inoperable smoke detector is a diversion.”
For the next hour, Chance and Martin debated what legal duty the landlord of a leased building owed to provide a timely warning of a fire. How could a landlord ever escape that obligation?
Martin finished his drink. “Chance, get your wrongful death complaint on file. Then let’s draft a motion requesting the judge to exclude evidence of adultery at trial because it’s unduly prejudicial and will only sidetrack the jury.”
It was nearly midnight when we left the tavern. Martin patted Chance on the back as we parted. “You’ve got guts taking this case.”
* * *
The next morning, seated at my laptop, I started a draft complaint seeking damages for the death of minor Charlie Hawkins. An hour later, Chance sat down beside me. “Martin just called. He’s concerned the city will attempt to portray the Hawkinses as hungry vultures to the jury. Just greedy people after money rather than parents seeking justice for the death of their son.”
Chance took a deep breath before continuing. “Martin suggests we choose someone other than the parents to sit at the plaintiff’s table.”
I laughed. “Has our screenwriter Martin picked out a straw man plaintiff to represent the dead child’s estate?”
“Martin agreed to do it. He’ll file the petition papers with the Probate Division to create a child’s estate so we can bring the lawsuit. That makes him the logical choice to serve as plaintiff.”
I returned to my laptop. “Okay, so now it’s ‘Martin Marshall, Personal Representative of the Deceased’s Estate vs District of Columbia.’ I suppose the parents can watch the trial from the gallery. Have you cleared the change with the Hawkinses?”
He nodded. “They’re for it. Make the change, and let’s file the lawsuit.”
* * *
Three weeks after we filed the wrongful death action, William Hicks, a lawyer called asking for Chance. Hicks announced that he was with the Office of General Counsel for the District of Columbia. I pressed the conference call button on our office telephone to listen. Hicks began by stating he was proud to be defending the city in our lawsuit.
Then he goaded Chance. “Do you derive pleasure representing trashy women who cheat on their husbands?”
Chance calmly replied, “Mr. Hicks, young Charlie Hawkins would be alive today if your client had properly installed the smoke detectors in that building.”
The two men traded insults about their clients for a few minutes, then discussed the discovery they each needed to conduct for their trial preparation. Hicks insisted on an early deposition of Yvonne Hawkins.
* * *
Chance affixed a glossy whiteboard in a corner of his office wall. On it, he listed the experts and evidence he would need to prove the death case. He also grafted onto the chart a list showing the costs he’d incurred for trial.
Chance paid Hank Johnson’s retainer of $5,000 to testify as a safety engineer. Next, he hired a forensic pathologist to explain the mechanism of the infant’s death and to opine how long the infant endured pain from the flames before his tiny organs succumbed. The pathologist’s retainer and advance to appear at trial was $6,500. Chance also hired a forensic economist to opine on the probable annual earnings capacity of the child over his life expectancy had his young life not been snuffed out in infancy. The economist retainer and advance for appearing at trial was $7,500.
While Chance handwrote these outlays, I stared unhappily at his whiteboard. “How much are you planning to spend on this dicey venture?”
Chance shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever it takes. We’re all-in on this one, just like the Texas oilman who never blinked while he drilled.” He smiled. “The Texan’s motto: ‘Will it be a gusher or a dry hole?’”
* * *
Discovery proceeded expeditiously. Chance and I attended Yvonne Hawkins’ deposition in an austere, cramped conference room at the city’s headquarters. Seated in her chair across a laminated-top table from Hicks, Yvonne shivered visibly as our opponent accused her of deserting her children. Chance made numerous objections for the record, but Hicks pressed on with his hostile verbal attack. Hicks’ lips dripped saliva when he inquired if she had achieved an orgasm that night.
Chance threatened to terminate the deposition if our adversary persisted with such undignified questioning. The threat appeared to chasten Hicks. He concluded his inquiry without further salacious remarks.
Once back at his desk in the office, Chance reflected on Hicks’ tactics. “The city’s intent on making this case nasty. If they overreach, they’ll repulse the jury.”
He then picked up the fire marshal’s picture of the charred body. His fingers squeezed it. “These city SOBs killed this boy! We can’t let them get away with it.” He sulked the rest of the afternoon.
When the parties announced they’d completed discovery, the court commissioner assigned the litigation to Judge Burton Penn for a jury trial.
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Charles C. Parsons
