My Uncle Heard His Own Order In The Deposition Room

Six weeks later, Esteban sat across from me in a room with no audience seats.

There was a court reporter, his lawyer, June, and a pitcher of water nobody poured.

He wore the blue tie he used for charity photographs.

"Good to see you, nephew," he said.

I nodded. June had asked me to let her do the talking.

By then, the board had obtained its own released copies. They matched mine. The outside accountant had also examined the charity's bank records and Esteban's vendor payments.

Nothing rested on my memory alone anymore.

Before we started, his lawyer had asked about the repair. I answered slowly. The radio's original power board had failed. I'd fitted a spare board from a damaged set of the same type, fed it from a dry battery, and rebuilt the antenna lead with copper braid.

"So you built a new radio?"

"I made the issued set transmit again."

"You weren't a radio operator."

"I was assigned to maintain that set and keep the link open. Page 24."

He turned to it. The order gave my name, my job, and the condition for shutting down: all occupied buildings cleared.

He read it once, then put a paper clip on the page.

Across the table, Esteban watched the clip settle into place.

June began with his old assignment.

"You worked at inland dispatch during the evacuation?"

"I coordinated the response."

"From inland dispatch?"

"Yes."

"Were you physically at Cedar Spit that night?"

"No."

The court reporter's keys made a soft, steady sound.

June showed him a copy of the first head-count sheet. Fourteen names appeared on it. He agreed that the initials at the bottom were his.

Then she showed him the final summary. Eleven names.

"Why were Ada Bell, Luis Vélez, and Owen Pike removed?"

"Contract staff had separate transport."

"Did that transport leave?"

"I understood it had."

June placed the road shuttle log beside the two sheets. It had arrived with the records his lawyer produced. The driver had marked the trip canceled at 12:40 because the road was flooded.

Esteban's initials appeared on that notice, too.

"Is that your acknowledgment?"

"I was handling many things."

"Is it yours?"

"Yes."

He picked up his water glass, found it empty, and set it down.

June asked about the rescue request at 2:18.

"I don't recall receiving a clear request. The equipment was unreliable."

She played the recording.

Lower service building occupied. Three civilian staff. Request second lift.

His own voice answered, clear enough that the reporter stopped typing to listen.

Close evacuation board after first lift.

June stopped the audio.

"Was that your voice?"

He looked at his lawyer.

"Yes."

"What did you mean by closing the board?"

"The eleven assigned personnel were accounted for."

"And the three people named in the request?"

"There were procedures."

"Which procedure called for closing an evacuation while people remained?"

His lawyer objected to the wording. June asked it another way. Esteban still couldn't name one.

For years, I'd wanted him to admit he was afraid that night. But sitting there, I found I didn't need to hear it. I needed the answers on the page.

June moved to the charity bills.

He said his company had supplied historical research, speech preparation, and donor materials.

"The invoices say archive restoration," she said.

"That covered the whole project."

"What records did you restore?"

He named the eleven-person summary.

"Where did you obtain it?"

"My personal files."

"Was it damaged?"

"Not physically."

"Did you tell the board you owned the vendor?"

"They knew me."

"Where is the written disclosure?"

He asked for a break.

In the hallway, I stood beside a window facing a wet parking lot. My fingers had found a screw in my jacket pocket, a small stainless one I'd picked up beside a scrap cabinet.

Esteban came out alone.

"I got eleven people home," he said.

"Yes."

He blinked.

"You can put that in your statement," I said. "Along with the other three."

"You always wanted what I had."

I looked back into the room. My released packet lay open beside the reporter's machine.

He'd called me a man with a safe bench. He'd counted on the ruined outpost taking my orders with it. I held the receiving station's complete record, including the part he'd cut from his own.

"I wanted my assignment described right," I said. "That's all this started with."

His lawyer opened the door and called him back.

After lunch, Esteban admitted he had written the rejection letters himself. He also admitted he hadn't contacted Laurel before declaring the second flight unnecessary in his donor booklet.

The session ended at 3:42.

I drove home without turning on the radio. At a red light near the Dome, I realized I'd been gripping the steering wheel with both hands.

June called before I reached my street.

"They've sent an offer," she said. "He'll dismiss his suit if you sign a permanent silence agreement."