Chapter 13 - The Man Beside the Truck
Samuel Pike came to Savannah with his daughter and a canvas bag he refused to set on the floor.
We met in our attorney's conference room. Tobias sat beside me, leaving the chair nearest the door for Samuel. Nobody blocked his way out.
“Your mother promised she wouldn't put my name in a complaint without asking,” he said.
“We haven't,” I answered.
His daughter rested a hand on his sleeve. Only then did he open the bag.
Inside were pay envelopes, a pocket diary, and a disposable camera sealed in a plastic sandwich box. He had kept them through three moves and a divorce, unsure whether they were protection or a reason for someone to come looking.
“I drove the trucks,” he said. “They told me the drums held wash water. Then one split at the loading yard. A man burned his hand through his glove.”
He had started copying vehicle numbers after that. When a supervisor caught him asking questions, his shifts disappeared. Mother had offered to help him report what he had seen.
“After the crash, a stranger visited my apartment. Knew my daughter's school. Told me Mrs. Sullivan couldn't help anyone anymore.”
Beside me, Tobias's hands tightened beneath the table.
Our attorney asked whether Samuel would give a formal statement with independent counsel present. He nodded, but his eyes remained on me.
“I should have spoken when Arthur went on trial.”
For one sharp instant, I wanted to demand why he hadn't. Then I looked at his daughter, who had been a child when the threats began.
“You're speaking now,” I said. “Tell it accurately. We'll start there.”
The diary contained dates matching Dan's maintenance book. More importantly, Samuel had recorded where the trucks collected their loads: a treatment facility owned at the time by a Thorne subsidiary.
Bellwether had supplied the drivers and paperwork.
That afternoon, our attorneys forwarded the material to investigators. We arranged for the camera to be handled by a specialist rather than risk destroying film that had waited so many years.
Samuel and his daughter left through the front entrance together. I watched them cross the street in the ordinary sunlight, astonished by how much courage an ordinary walk could require.
When I returned upstairs, the receptionist handed me a courier envelope.
Bellwether had withdrawn its proposal. Attached was a lawyer's letter warning that Sullivan Maritime might bear substantial cleanup costs as the current property owner.
Tobias read it over my shoulder.
“They want us frightened.”
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“I am frightened,” I said. “We have five hundred people depending on this yard.”
Then I carried the letter into the room where our finance director was waiting.
