"It's not my board," Calvert said. "Not that part."
"Yeah. Your grandfather's." Mick turned and looked at him for the first time. "So why didn't he say it? Your grandfather. If he had that book the whole time. If he wrote down my grandpa told them no. Why didn't he say it at the inquest? Why'd he let them—" He stopped. "Twenty-six years. My grandpa died thinking the whole town—" He stopped again.
Calvert had known this was the question, too. He had known it longer than he had known the one about the sources. He had known it since the night in February at the microfilm machine when he had found, in the inquest transcript, on page sixty-six, the testimony of the fire boss.
He opened the shoebox. He had not shown this to Mrs. Agard. He had not put it in the binder. It was a single sheet, a photocopy, folded in quarters and tucked under the Ziploc bag, and he unfolded it now with his cold fingers and handed it to Mick without a word.
Mick read it. Calvert knew it by heart. Q. Mr. Beckwith, on the morning of March ninth, did you conduct the pre-shift examination of the second level west workings? A. I did. Q. And did you find conditions that would prohibit the advance of the gangway? A. I found conditions within the limits. Q. Did you advise the section foreman against advancing? A. I don't recall that I did. Q. Did you overhear any communication between the section foreman and the surface prior to the advance? A. No sir. I was at the face.
"He lied," Mick said.
"Yes."
"Under oath. He sat there and he—" Mick's hand closed on the paper, crumpling the edge. "He was right there. He was in the book. He wrote it down that morning. And he sat there and said I don't recall."