Starting Over

Chapter 12-2

Tim turned around and looked over his seat at Jonah. “What's t-t-that medal given for?”

“Heroism in combat,” Jonah replied, his tone flat and direct.

Tim said, “What dih-dih-did you do-do-do?” Andy turned to Tim. Nudged his arm and shook his head. Tim's face tightened. “I'm sorry. I dih-dih-didn't mean to be nosy.”

“It's all right, son,” Jonah said.

From his rear view mirror, Andy eyed Nate looking out his window. “There's things we just don't talk about, Tim.” Isn't that right, Nate?

Nate spoke up, “Yeah…like the injured private taken prisoner at the beginning of the war. It was blown out of proportion. All the hype was political bullshit. Not saying she didn't deserve a medal…but really?”

“Maybe it was because she was a woman,” Tim said.

“Probably,” Nate replied. “I don't have anything against women. It was just overdone.”

Andy tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he listened to what Nate said. The kid was angry, but there was something else in his tone he couldn't quite place; something disturbing. He thought of Jonah then and the job offer he was going to make to Nate. He hadn't considered the benefits or the consequences of bringing the kid and the old black veteran together. Was it wise? He didn't know, but he'd promised Janet. The rest was out of his hands.

An hour before tip-off, Andy exited the I-5 interstate and followed the signs to the Moda Center. The parking lot around the twenty thousand seat arena the TrailBlazers called home was filling up quickly. He parked the car and they all got out into the falling snow. As they trudged to the main gate, Andy dropped back with Nate.

“You've never been to a game until you sit right behind the bench,” he said as he tried to figure out how to bring up the subject of Nate coming to work for him. If he was too obvious, Nate would shut him down.

Nate nodded. “Looking forward to it.”

“You're in for a treat,” Andy said, trying to keep the conversation going while gauging Nate's mood. After the discussion in the car about medals, Nate had grown distant. “Anyway, there's a lot that goes on most people never see when they huddle around strategizing.”

“I bet,” Nate said, his misty breath rising into the darkening sky. He stopped and pulled his gloves out of his jacket. “Damn, it's cold. Hard getting used to winter again.”

“I imagine.” They started walking again. “I remember when I was in 'Nam. The humidity and heat were brutal some days, say nothing of the nights. You couldn't get comfortable no matter what you did because everything was always damp and smelled like week old diapers.”

Nate smiled. “Iraq was a frying pan. You stayed in the shade as much as possible unless you wanted to be a crispy-critter.”

“There's a term I haven't heard in a while,” Andy said. “Had a different meaning in 'Nam.”

“What's that?” Nate said.

“In 'Nam, a crispy-critter was someone who got torched, usually by nape. Not pretty.”

“Nape?”

“Napalm. They used it in warfare against Charlie. Not nice stuff.” Andy paused, not pleased with himself for bringing the subject up. “Say…umm…you know anything about computers and the internet?”

“Some. Why?”

“Well, I'm having a hell of a time getting my website up for the store.”

“Who you using as a host?” Nate said.

“Moma-Web.”

“s**t, you don't want them. They're a pain-in-the-ass,” Nate said. “You need to hook up with WebBase-1.”

Andy cupped his hands to his face to ward off the chill wind. “Never heard of them.”

“Google them. They're the best.”

“I'll do that.” Andy coughed and rubbed his hands together as they walked. “Say, umm…would you be interested in helping me out?”

“In what way?” Nate said with a hedge in his tone as he trudged along beside Andy with his cane.

Andy slipped between two parked cars with Nate trailing behind. Over his shoulder, he called back, “I was thinking: being my webmaster? I'm an i***t when it comes to writing html. I'd make it worth your while.”

Nate was quiet a moment and Andy worried if he'd rushed things. He stepped out between the cars. When Nate joined him, he turned around. As he was about to say, 'or not', Nate spoke up.

“Sure, what the hell? Got nothing better to do. How much you paying?”

“How much you want?” Andy said as they joined Tim and Jonah, who were standing in a short line waiting to get through the front doors to the arena.

Nate shrugged. Shot him a crooked smile. “Nothing too far out of my pay grade. Twenty, an hour?”

Andy pulled his ticket out. “How about fifteen.”

“I guess,” Nate replied.

Tim turned around in front of them. “You going t-t-to work for my uncle Andy?”

Nate pulled his gloves off. Shoving them in his pocket, he reached inside his jacket and pulled his ticket out. “Thinking on it.”

“Cool,” Tim said. “He's pretty easy. What are you going to–”

“Hey guys, got to move along,” Andy said, cutting in. He was guessing what his nephew was going to say. No, Tim, I don't want Nate finding out you're a computer wizard; at least not until Nate's been with me awhile.

They passed through the turnstiles into the congested lobby and wove their way through the masses into the outer hall rimming the arena. As they walked against the flow of humanity toward the stairway leading to the courtside seating section, a group of teen boys ran past them. One of them bumped into Nate, nearly knocking him off his feet. Andy grabbed Nate's arm and steadied him as the boy melted into the crowd ahead.

“You all right?” Tim said to Nate.

Nate winced. “I'm fine.”

“Damned kids,” Jonah muttered, shaking his head.

Andy let go of Nate's arm and kept an eye on him as they started ahead again. The last thing he wanted was Nate limping back home to his mother. After his first few gimpy steps, Nate was walking right again and Andy's concern fell away. Up ahead, a vendor was selling programs. Andy dug into his wallet. As he was about to pull out a twenty, a loud cry echoed down the hall. He looked up and saw a crowd gathering near the stairway. He turned to Jonah. “I'm gonna check things out up ahead. Can you–”

“Don't worry. I got this,” Jonah replied with a knowing look.

Andy ran up and cut through the onlookers. A boy, maybe ten or twelve years old, lay on the floor with his ankle turned back underneath him. He knelt beside the nasal wailing child. “I'm a retired EMT,” he said to the distraught, brown haired woman across from him. She looked up from running trembling fingers through the boy's dark, curly hair, not seeming to comprehend him. Assuming she was the mother, he nodded toward the boy's leg. “May I?”

The distraught woman ran the heel of her palm over her tear stained cheek. “Thank you, some kid ran into my son and knocked him down.” She glanced toward the boy's foot. “Do you think it's broken?”

Andy reached under the boy's leg and gently palpated the ankle. As he did so, a security man brought a litter over and set it by Andy's side. Andy turned to the uniformed man. “It feels like a bad sprain,” he said as he immobilized the joint with a steady hand. “It needs to be x-rayed though.”

As other staff members and medical personnel showed up, Andy backed away and prodded the mother to move aside so her son could be administered to. She looked up at him with glassy brown eyes then back at the boy. It was as if she was in a world of her own, orbiting her son. “He'll be fine,” Andy said to her.

She didn't answer though. Instead, a large, bald headed man in an old faded TrailBlazers jersey broke through the crowd. In his vice-like grip, he held one of the racing teens by the arm. He handed the sullen-looking boy off to one of the guards. “This is the punk that ran into my son and knocked him down.” He sneered and stuck a large, fat finger in the kid's face. “You're lucky I'm not your father. I'd kick your ass all the way home.”

The man turned and walked over to the mother who was standing next to Andy. Sweat was beading on his furrowed brow. He drew her into his arms. “You all right baby?”

As she melted into him, she nodded.

The man shot Andy a passing glance then escorted her over to her son, who was strapped to the litter. As they stood by their whimpering child, Andy saw the boy sign something back to his father. Suddenly, the fated accident with the Stewart boy flashed before him. He sighed as Nate, Jonah and Tim walked up and joined him.

Well, so much for this game distracting me from court tomorrow.

Andy turned off the coastal highway into the crowded parking lot that fronted the county courthouse. With every mile that had passed on his way in from Salem, it became harder and harder to breathe. He just wanted this over with. He looked for his lawyer, Ed Reynolds', silver Lexus and found it beside a barren basswood tree near the front entry. As he headed his way, the burly, bald-headed counselor got out of his car.

“So anything more from the Stewarts' lawyer?” Andy said, when they were headed to the front doors.

Ed shrugged. “Nope. Like I said, I don't think they have much of a case. You did everything you could to avoid that child. It's plain and simple, and backed up by an unbiased investigation. They're fishing and the judge is hoping not to waste people's time adjudicating a case that's dead on…I mean a foregone conclusion.”

“So, he'll push them to reconsider their suit?”

“He'll try and impress that upon them, yes.”

“What if they don't come down?”

“We say nothing,” Ed said, “and wait to see what happens. I had a chat with the department's counsel, Mr. Stanton, and the counsel for the insurance company. They're anxious to get this behind them, too, but they said anything more than two hundred K and we're going to trial. But one thing at a time,” he cautioned as they headed to the elevators.

Andy's heart drummed as they entered the large conference room. He eyed the Stewarts, who looked up in unison as he entered. They were a blue-collar couple. Stout and just shy of six feet, Mr. Stewart had a bulldog face with ice-blue eyes and dark heavy brows. A wide nose tilted slightly to one side: maybe one too many fights? Seeing how he worked at the cannery in town and had thick calloused hands to prove it, Andy didn't doubt he'd gotten into a brawl or two over the years. As for Mrs. Stewart, she was a wiry woman; maybe an inch or two shy of her husband's height and she wore her fading brown hair up on top of her long, thin face. A faint hint of rouge brushed her cheeks and no eye shadow accented her muted hazel eyes.

Mr. Stewart frowned. Held him in a suffocating gaze. Mrs. Stewart just stared blankly at him, ripping his guts out. Ed and the department's counsel took their seats across a long mahogany table from the Stewart's lawyer. As he sat, Andy sucked a deep breath and swallowed the burning lump in his throat.

After introductions were made and business cards were exchanged, the Honorable Steven Connors cleared his throat and expressed his opinion on the merits of the case to the Stewarts. Afterward, the judge leaned forward in his leather-upholstered chair, took off his wire-framed glasses and set them in front of him.

“Make an offer Mr. Reed,” Connors said to the Stewarts' lawyer then followed it up with a firm exhortation with a hint of a warning in it. “A reasonable offer.”

Mr. Reed turned to the Stewarts and whispered something into the ear of the father. After the father whispered back, Reed, said, “With all due respect, your Honor, we don't feel what we're asking for is out of line. A child died because of the negligent acts of Mr. McNamara.”

The memory of the boy lying motionless on the pavement flashed before Andy as Reed's words stalked the room.

As Ed opened his mouth, Judge Connors waved him off. “Whether or not negligence is involved Counselor, is a matter to be determined.” He turned his attention to the parents. “I'm very sorry for your loss, and I don't mean to minimize your grief, but I urge you to make an offer they can respond to.”

The mother and father looked at each other and broke into whispering between them. Finally the father leaned over to Mr. Reed. After a brief conversation, Reed said, “In the interests of showing good faith, we'll accept seven-hundred-fifty thousand.”

Stanton leaned back in his chair with a hawkish expression and darted glances with the insurance lawyer. A short private conversation ensued. At last he said, “Our offer is a hundred thousand, which we think is very generous considering the evidence.”

Mr. Stewart bolted forward in his chair. “Generous! Are you serious?”

Andy tightened his grip on the armrests of his chair. Reed held his hand up and urged his client to sit back. “Counselor, a child's life was lost here. Surely, you can do better than that?”

Stanton sat forward and eyeballed the attorney across the table. “And we sympathize. But the evidence speaks for itself. My client and Mr. McNamara took every precaution as required in the performance of their duties, which has been borne out by an exhaustive police investigation. But in the interest of moving this thing along we'll go to one-fifty.”

Mr. Reed rolled his eyes, hardened his expression. Eyeing the Stewarts, he said, “ A million-five.”

Stanton rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Final offer, two hundred and it's a gift I might add.

Reed turned to the Stewarts. The bitter expressions on their faces told Andy this was going nowhere. The judge sighed as Reed glared at Stanton. “In that case, we'll be seeing you in court.”

As Reed collected his files and shoved them in his brief case, Judge Connors pulled out his court calendar. “Very well gentlemen. Right now, we have a busy docket so I won't be able to get you scheduled until sometime in May. I'll have the clerk firm up a date with you in the next week or so.”

Judge Connors got up and headed for the door with the department's counsel following behind. After they left, Reed cleared his throat and said to Ed, “It's unfortunate the department isn't willing to come to terms. We were prepared to possibly drop the suit against Mr. McNamara, but now we're left with little choice unless he wants to settle up. You have an offer?”

Ed leaned toward Andy. “Sure you don't want to go with a two-hundred-seventy-five?”

“I can't afford that,” Andy whispered back, feeling like a s**t.

“Okay one-fifty, it is then, but I don't think it'll go anywhere,” Ed replied. He turned to Reed. “We're prepared to offer fifty.”

“I guess not. Gentlemen, have a good day,” Reed said. As he went for the door, the Stewarts followed, holding Andy in condemning stares.