Easter Bunny Murder (18 page)

“From your testimony, we might get the idea that you were simply helping your clients, the Allens, out of a sticky situation, but that's not exactly the truth, is it? The truth is that you advised the Allens to take control of Mrs. Van Vorst's affairs, didn't you? It was your idea.”

“Yes,” admitted Weatherby reluctantly. “I had the definite impression that Mrs. Van Vorst was no longer capable of managing her affairs and thought she should have responsible guardians, and the court agreed.”

Hearing this, Bob seemed to be struggling to stay in his seat and Lucy suspected he would have liked to wring Weatherby's neck.

“You went further than that, though, didn't you? You began managing the staff at Pine Point, eliminating numerous positions, didn't you?”

“As her fiduciary, I took steps that were fiscally responsible,” said Weatherby, his face growing very red.

“You arranged the sale of
Jelly Beans
to a Saudi billionaire, Abdullah bin Said, didn't you? Why did you do that? Mrs. Van Vorst had intended for that piece to go to the Museum of Fine Arts, didn't she?”

Weatherby bristled at that, and drew himself up in a defensive position. “
Jelly Beans
and other pieces of art were extremely valuable and I determined that Pine Point was not a secure location for them. In addition, the atmospheric conditions were not suitable for some of the older oils, especially the Corot and the Pissarro drawings.”

“You didn't answer my question. What happened to the money from the sale to Mr. Bin Said?”

“I would have to check my records,” said Weatherby.

“Well, don't bother. I have that information right here. The money, some two million dollars, went straight into your personal account.” Zuzick paced back and forth like a caged animal in the space below the judge's bench. “The Allens turned to you with a problem, looking for legal advice, and instead of looking for solutions that were within the bounds of the law, you instructed and encouraged them to break the law. Isn't that true?”

Weatherby glared at Zuzick, refusing to answer.

“Why can't you say it?” demanded Zuzick, shoving a sheaf of papers into his hands. “It's all here, in your confession.”

“I think we all know that confessions are not always accurate. Sometimes people are pressured to admit things. . . .”

“That's not exactly true in your case,” said Zuzick. “You were not subjected to any sort of third degree, were you? The truth is that you volunteered this confession, you wrote it up and brought it to the prosecution on your own initiative. Nobody pressured you. So once again, I'm going to ask you, did you encourage and instruct your clients, the Allens, to break the law?”

“I did,” mumbled Weatherby, breaking down and pulling a large white handkerchief from his pocket and covering his face.

Judge Featherstone checked his watch and came to a decision. “We will adjourn for lunch. Court will resume at two o'clock.” A quick bang of the gavel and everyone jumped to their feet, the judge disappeared into his chambers, and everybody else began stretching and gathering up their things and rushing for the doors.

Outside, the air was hot and humid and still, beneath a white sky. The TV reporters began filming their reports, some of the women standing on little step stools in order to get a shot that included the courthouse. Other reporters and courtroom observers were streaming across the road to the nearby coffee shops and restaurants and Lucy realized that Deb was right, they would never get served in time to make the afternoon session. Her car was parked too far away for Pizza'n'More to be a practical alternative.

“I think you were smart to bring that food—what have you got?” asked Lucy.

“Nothing fancy. I just grabbed what was around,” said Deb, opening her enormous tote bag and giving Lucy a glimpse of a jar of peanut butter, half a loaf of bread, and a couple of bananas. They settled themselves on the grassy lawn in front of the courthouse, beneath the statue of a Civil War soldier, and made sandwiches.

“It's muggy,” said Lucy, her mouth full of peanut butter and banana. “What did you think of Weatherby?”

“I think he's a creep.” Deb twisted the cap off a bottle of iced tea and handed it to Lucy. “Sorry, it's warm.”

“It's delicious,” said Lucy, taking a long swallow. She was watching a bee fly from one little white clover flower to another, gathering pollen. “Maxine called them the Three Pigs,” she said. “Vicky, Henry, and Weatherby.”

Deb leaned back against a tree, her bottle of tea in her hand. “I know they were greedy and despicable, but, well, what difference does it make? They shifted some assets, they took some money, but it's not like they robbed a bank or cheated on their taxes. It's not my money, it's nothing to do with me. The way I see it, it's a whole lot of fuss about nothing. I'll never see money like that. I'm lucky to clear four hundred dollars a week after taxes and health insurance. What do I care if some rich people screw another rich person? Screw 'em all, that's what I say. Spread the wealth around.”

“I wonder if the jury will feel that way,” said Lucy, thinking it was quite possible. She wanted to see Vicky and Henry go to jail not only because of the way they mistreated VV, but because she was convinced they had murdered Van and Maxine. They weren't on trial for murder, however, and they weren't going to be because there wasn't enough evidence to convict them. In her mind, this trial was simply a make-do affair, a substitute for the murder trial that should be taking place.

When court resumed in the afternoon, George Weatherby was again on the stand, reminded by Judge Featherstone that he was still under oath. He nodded, signifying that he understood. He seemed to have lost the bravado he'd exhibited earlier that day. Lucy thought he actually seemed to have shrunk somehow. He looked like a beaten man.

Zuzick resumed his questioning, which was designed to portray Weatherby as the architect and prime mover of the scheme to defraud VV, and to show that he was a crooked lawyer who led his clients astray with bad advice.

“It was your idea to transfer ownership of Pine Point to the Allens, wasn't it?” he demanded.

“From a legal standpoint, it seemed advisable,” said Weatherby.

“Why was that? Why would you want to make Mrs. Van Vorst a squatter in her own home?”

A few people in the courtroom gasped, shocked at the idea.

“She was not a squatter,” protested Weatherby. “She had ownership for her lifetime, but the house was deeded to the Allens to avoid conflict with other family members who might have believed they had a claim to the property.” He cleared his throat. “There were also certain tax advantages.”

“But this was your idea, wasn't it? You presented it to the Allens and convinced them to go along, right?”

“It didn't take much convincing,” muttered Weatherby.

“No more questions,” said Zuzick, deciding to cut his losses. His strategy of discrediting Weatherby wasn't succeeding; it was only making his own clients look bad, too.

Weatherby was finally free to leave the courtroom, which he did without delay. Lucy knew that he was not facing charges himself, but he had been disbarred and would no longer be able to practice as an attorney.

Aucoin's next witness was Vicky Allen, but Judge Featherstone decided to postpone her testimony until the next morning in light of the stifling conditions in the packed courtroom. The aged air-conditioning system had failed, overwhelmed by the hot weather combined with the large number of people, and the temperature inside was over eighty degrees. Court was adjourned until the next day when, hopefully, the system would be up and running.

Lucy was in line next morning with her travel mug of coffee in hand at seven o'clock, and she wasn't alone. She counted fifteen people ahead of her, and the line behind was already snaking down the hall. She had gotten up at five-thirty and packed a picnic in a soft plastic cooler, cutting up the remains of last night's chicken dinner and making chicken salad. She'd also brought potato chips, fruit, and lemonade, all an improvement over yesterday's peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Not that she wasn't grateful for Deb's foresight.

By eight o'clock, Lucy had finished her coffee and her back was beginning to bother her so she slid down the wall and sat on the floor, opening the book she'd brought with her. She tried to interest herself in the plight of a French Jewish family as World War II approached, but her mind wandered instead to VV, living in lonely splendor at Pine Point.

By eight-thirty, she gave up on the doomed French family, closed the book, and got up to stretch. It was noisy in the crowded lobby and it was also growing warm.

At nine, one of the court officers opened the front doors, letting in some badly needed fresh air. It looked as if the air conditioning hadn't been fixed.

At nine-thirty, the doors to the courtroom opened and the stampede began; Lucy was able to snag a couple of seats in the third row. She put her lunch cooler on the second seat, which she was saving for Deb, and hoped nobody would challenge her. It wasn't long, however, before a heavyset woman with a lot of heavy gold jewelry on her neck and wrists demanded that Lucy remove the cooler and give her the seat. “I'm sorry,” said Lucy, showing her press card, “I'm saving it for a colleague.”

“Well, there's no saving seats. What do you think this is—a middle school lunchroom?”

Lucy was not about to give up the seat. “I waited in line for nearly three hours to get these seats, and my colleague will be here any minute.”

“Well, I waited in line, too,” said the woman.

“I'm sorry, there aren't enough seats for everyone,” said Lucy, relieved to see Deb approaching. She lifted the bag and slipped deftly into the seat, blocking off the intruder and thanking Lucy. They began to chat, pointedly ignoring the woman, and she finally drifted away.

“Whew, that was a struggle,” said Lucy, fanning herself with her reporter's notebook. “She really wanted your seat.”

“I wish I could let her have it—I can think of a lot better ways of spending a June day than sitting in this oven.”

“Here we go,” said Lucy as the judge entered the courtroom.

Like Deb, she was prepared for a long, hot morning but it was not to be. Zuzick was on his feet the moment the judge declared court was in session, saying that his clients wished to change their plea to guilty.

The announcement electrified the courtroom, which was perfectly still, except for the front row, where Juliette was sitting in her usual seat, along with Andrew Duff and Peter Reilly. The three clasped hands and seemed to let out a collective sigh, as if a long and arduous ordeal was finally over. As a member of the bar, Bob wasn't free to show emotion, but Lucy caught a brief, triumphant grin.

Even Judge Featherstone seemed shocked and quickly began questioning Vicky and Henry in turn. “Have you been pressured by anyone to make this change? Do you understand you are giving up the right of appeal? Do you realize the decision of the court is binding?”

They both answered the pro forma questions in the affirmative.

“I will take this under advisement,” said the judge, “and pronounce the sentence in a timely manner.” He banged the gavel. “Court dismissed.”

“This couldn't be better for me,” said Lucy. “I've got plenty of time to make my noon deadline.”

“Me, too,” said Deb.

The two followed the scrum of people rushing out of the courtroom and joined the group of reporters gathered around Phil Aucoin on the courthouse steps. Juliette and her two grandfathers stood behind him, looking pleased.

“What's your reaction to the Allens' guilty pleas?” someone was asking him.

“I guess the Allens saw the handwriting on the wall,” he said.

“Were you surprised?”

“Yes, I was.”

“What sentence will the judge give them?”

“The guidelines call for two to five years, so I assume it will be somewhere within those parameters.”

“Is two to five years enough? In your opinion, does the punishment fit the crime?”

Aucoin grinned. “I'm a prosecutor. I'd like to send those two away for life,” he declared.

Then he thanked them and broke away from the cluster of reporters and headed down the street to his office. The reporters immediately began peppering Juliette with questions, but she simply expressed gratitude to the DA's office for their hard work on her great-grandmother's behalf. Then Peter and Andrew whisked her away, tucking her into a chauffeur-driven car.

“Did you hear that?” asked Deb. “Aucoin said he wanted to put the Allens away for life. Isn't that a bit harsh?”

“Not really,” said Lucy. “Not if you think they should've been tried for murder. I'd say they're getting off easy.”

 

When Lucy got home that afternoon, she was surprised to see Bob and Bill standing together in the driveway, and figured that Bob was making good on his promise to talk to Bill about making a will.

“Hi!” she said, greeting them. She turned to Bob. “Great day in court!”

He grinned. “Sometimes justice really does prevail. Not always. But it's great when it does. It reaffirms your faith, you know?”

Lucy nodded. “Have you convinced Bill that we need to make wills?”

“No way,” said Bill with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I'm not going to die.”

“Good luck with that,” said Lucy.

“Well, think over what I told you,” said Bob with a smile. “Maybe you are immortal, but it's good to be prepared, just in case. The law is complicated and if you want to be sure your wishes will be carried out, you need to specify them in a will.”