Balance of Power

    "A letter from the ATF, asking us to retain all trace requests for P-2s used in crimes. After the murders, Reiner asked me to destroy it."

    "Remarkably thorough, wasn't he," Nolan observed in caustic tones. "Did you report all this malfeasance to anyone at Lexington?"

    Gazing down, Conn flexed the fingers of his hands; perhaps, Sarah thought, to repress their renewed tremor. "No."

    "Not even Mr. Callister?"

    "No."

    "And yet you were appalled by Mr. Reiner's supposed orders. Didn't you owe it to the company who'd employed you for twenty years to let them in on your little secret?"

    Almost imperceptibly, Conn leaned closer to his lawyer. "At first, I was worried about my job. After the murders, when I knew how bad it was, I didn't know where to turn."

    "And so you chose Ms. Dash, a total stranger."

    It was this implausibility, Sarah recognized, that suggested hidden motives. Conn stiffened in his chair, defensive, heightening her fear that Nolan already knew what those motives were. "For one hundred fifty years," he answered in a rising voice, "Lexington was a proud part of our nation's history. We armed Americans in two World Wars, and in Korea and Vietnam. Our standards were exacting, our guns impeccable, and our customers people who deserved the best—soldiers, cops, or lawabiding sportsmen . . ."

    However deeply felt, Sarah thought, the speech was worrisome in its irrelevance, offering a hint of instability. But now the lid was off what seemed to be a cauldron of emotions. "The P-2," Conn went on with palpable loathing, "is cheaply made, an effort to compete with the sleazy companies in Southern California who make junk guns for criminals. It's what Mike Reiner would be if God had made him a handgun . . ." As if hearing himself, Conn paused abruptly, lowering his voice. "The P-2 was Mike's idea, and it's where we sold our soul. Because we knew who we were selling it to—people like John Bowden." With a trembling hand, Conn snatched a multipage document from among the others. "That's why Reiner asked me to destroy this."

    Nolan summoned a look of wariness and pity. "And what is that?"

    "Conn Exhibit Thirty-five," Conn answered with a defiant pride. "The testing data for the Eagle's Claw bullet. We filled life-size plastic dummies with gelatin, and then blew them full of holes. It was a proud moment, Mr. Nolan. We proved that our holes were bigger than for any other organ-shredding projectile on the market. More than good enough to slaughter a six-year-old.

    "You asked me why I went to Ms. Dash. Because Mike Reiner had turned Lexington Arms from the paragon of our industry into the armsmaker of choice for a cold-blooded killer."

    To Sarah's relief, Schwab looked at his watch, his mask of serenity suggesting that nothing remarkable had happened. "We've been going for some time now," he said to Nolan. "Why don't we take ten minutes?"

    Please, Sarah thought. But Conn reached for a glass of water. "I'm not tired," he insisted. "I want to finish this."

    The degree to which he personalized the deposition unsettled Sarah, summoning a disturbing vision of how Conn might bear up at trial. But it seemed she might find out right away—for Sarah to plead for a break, however plausible her excuse, might add to Conn's agitation.

    "When," Nolan asked abruptly, "were you last promoted?"

    Crossing his legs, the witness shifted his weight. "Twelve years ago."

    "Since then, have you sought promotion within Lexington?"

    "Yes."

"How often?"

    To Sarah, Conn's smile of resentment embodied his psychic scars. "Several times."

    "And each time, you were refused."

    "Yes."

    "By whom?"

    "Mike Reiner."

    "Isn't it also true that you complained about Reiner to Mr. Callister's predecessor?"

    Conn hesitated. "Yes."

    This time it was Nolan who smiled. "Regarding what? His disregard for quality? His neglect of Lexington's proud history? His penchant for destroying documents? Or was it something else?"

    "I told Mr. Cross that Reiner was prejudiced against me."

    "On what basis, if I might ask. The denial of promotions?"

    "The repeated denial of promotions."

    "Perhaps—repeatedly—Mr. Reiner thought you less than qualified."

    "I do my job," the witness answered stubbornly. "I take pride in my work and cut no corners."

    Nolan looked at him askance. "Was one of Mr. Reiner's complaints that you refuse to follow instructions?"

    "He claims that."

    "And that you have a problem with authority?"

    Conn raised his chin, eyes narrowing in dislike. In that moment, Sarah felt certain that Nolan had hit his mark. "I have a problem with stupidity," he answered.

    Inwardly, Sarah winced. But Nolan's expression was one of condescending kindness. "While at Lexington, have you ever taken disability leave?"

    Abruptly, Conn hunched in his chair, seeming to deflate in front of Sarah's eyes. "Yes."

    "For what?"

    "Post-traumatic stress disorder. From Vietnam."

    "And how did that affect you?"

    "It affected my concentration."

    "And your emotional equilibrium?"

    "How do you mean?"