Suspicion of Guilt (4 page)

Now the wills were spreading out to cover Gail's desk.

"She thought she could control me with her money, like I was fourteen years old and too big to spank. I said 'Aunt Althie, stop. I don't give a damn about the money.' But she didn't stop."

Patrick flipped the next-to-last will onto the rest of them. "The woman was incredible. When she was happy with me, she'd write me into her will big time. If not—well, you saw. A joke. But a quarter million? Way too sane for Aunt Althie. She thought she was always going to be around to make another joke. Aunt Althie never considered anything like a heart attack or lightning, much less falling down her stairs. Never. Trust me, I knew this woman." He sank into his chair. "It's a forgery. A brilliant, elaborately executed forgery."

"Where's the prior will? The one leaving you fifty dollars for the ACLU?"

"Who knows? Burned, probably. That's what she usually did."

"All right, let's assume you're right, and the judge throws out the August will. And assume no prior original will can be found. That means Mrs. Tillett died intestate. A copy doesn't count. If there's no will, everything goes to her children. A nephew would inherit nothing. You remember enough probate law to know that."

Patrick gave her a blank look. "What children? Rudy and Monica? They aren't Althie's kids. They were her late husband's children. I'm all she had."

"But you called them your cousins."

"Yes, but they aren't. They're ... what? Stepcousins."

It took a few seconds for Gail's mind to switch tracks. "You're her only heir?"

"Correct."

"How much is her estate worth?"

"I don't know exactly. Ten million? At least that."

"Lord." Gail picked up the copy of the latest will and looked at what was printed in small type at the bottom of each page: the name of a law firm on Miami Beach. "Weissman, Woods, Merrill and Sontag," she murmured. "I know Lauren Sontag. She's running for circuit court judge in November."

"Good for her. Her partner Alan Weissman was Aunt Althie's attorney. I'd like to know what he got for doing this."

Gail gave a short laugh. "Alan Weissman? He's a past president of me Florida Bar. He's in the Miami Beach Chamber of Commerce."

"Well, golly gee. I guess that makes him honest."

"Most attorneys aren't into professional suicide, Patrick. Is Weissman handling the probate? Do you know?"

"According to Monica, he is. The estate was filed about a week ago."

Gail went back to the will, scanning the list of beneficiaries. The housekeeper. A gardener. The Miami Shores Presbyterian Church. The Miami City Ballet. The list went on. She was relieved not to see her mother's name. That would be another problem in advising Patrick, and there were already plenty.

"Where are Rudy and Monica in here?"

"Page four. They got the house and art collection."

"That's it?"

"It would have been too obvious if they'd given themselves everything. They got what they wanted. They have a gallery on Lincoln Road for the art. The house was in their family from way back, but R.W. had Aunt Althie's name put on the deed, so it went straight to her when he died. He left Rudy and Monica some money—a lot of it—but they've probably gone through that."

"Didn't your aunt make any provision for them in her other wills?"

"Yes, the collectibles and paintings that used to be their mother's. Kitsch and sofa art, to be honest about it. That was her way of getting back at them. When she married R.W., Rudy and Monica made her life hell. Mine too, when I came to live with them. Then after R.W. died, they started sucking up to her, afraid she would cut them out"

Gail paged through the prior will. "Here she leaves her collection to the Bass Museum of Art on Miami Beach."

"That's how she usually did it. She and R.W. traveled a good deal together—Europe, the Orient, Egypt. She would never have given it all to Rudy and Monica."

Gail returned to the August will, curious to know who would get the leftovers—whatever property had not been specifically listed. She found it: another charity. No surprise.

"What is this Easton Charitable Trust? Are they local?"

Patrick shrugged. "I don't know. It's in all the wills as the residuary beneficiary. Rudy and Monica didn't change that either."

Bouncing her pen on her still-empty legal pad, she asked, "What did they have to say about the new will? I assume you asked them."

"Sure. Monica asked me what I was bitching about, since I got a quarter of a million dollars. I finally got in touch with Rudy." Patrick's mustache lifted over a smile. "He told me to fuck off."

"Nice." Gail kicked off a shoe and curled one leg under herself. She compared the signatures of Althea Norris Tillett on three of the wills, a bold, flowing hand. She studied the latest version. Mrs. Tillett's signature was followed by those of two witnesses, then a notary's acknowledgment, swearing that the testatrix and the witnesses had signed in her presence and the presence of each other. The copy machine had picked up the faint shadow of the notary seal of one Carla Napoli-tano. Then Gail must have let out a sound, because Patrick stopped rubbing his fingers across his forehead.

She held the will up so he could see it. "Do you know these people who signed as witnesses?"

He read. "Jessica Simms and Irving Adler. No."

"I do. She's the president of Friends of the Opera. And Adler—I think he was once the mayor of Miami Beach." She waited for Patrick to respond.

He sat silently for a moment, then pointed. "Check the list of beneficiaries. The opera's mentioned."

She paged backward through the will. "So it is. Fifty thousand dollars to the Greater Miami Opera. I can see the headlines now. 'Elderly Miami Beach Socialites Charged in Forgery Conspiracy.' Not likely." She turned the will so he could see it. "Look at these charities."

"What about them?'

"Try to imagine a judge ruling against the University of Miami or Big Brothers and Sisters of Dade County." She raised her brows. "We still elect judges in this state, remember? And tell a judge that one of Miami's most respected probate attorneys took part in this."

Arms skyward, Patrick abruptly stood. "Our American legal system. Oh, ain't it just grand?"

"Come on, Patrick. The judge will look for facts to fit his opinion. We all do."

"Then give him the truth." He leaned his fists on her desk. "We can get a handwriting expert!"

"So can they! For ten million dollars, experts lined up from here to the county line."

"Take depositions! Hire an investigator, I don't know. You're the lawyer."

Gail looked at him.

Patrick slumped, head bowed. "Sorry. I am sorry. This has got me so ... wired." He took a breath. "Gail. I need your help. I can't let those bastards get away with it."

"Bastards get away with things all the time."

"No. Not always. Not always." Then he came behind her desk and sat on its edge, taking her hand in both of his. "Know what I'm going to do with the money?"

Gail shook her head.

"Guess."

"Guess?"

"Sure. What did I always want to do? You remember. I talked to you about it. Said wouldn't it be nice if ..."

She laughed. "You didn't exactly talk to me yesterday, Patrick."

"I know that. Come on. Guess."

"Well." She swiveled her chair. "I doubt you'd buy a yacht and sail to the Riviera."

"Way off." His eyes danced.

As she continued to look up at him, it began to come back to her. "You were going to ... something about building a new community in the inner city. Oh, lord. Patrick, you've got to be kidding." But he was still smiling. "What? You're going to drop ten million dollars into Overtown?" She pulled her hand away.

"Not exactly. Anyway, there wouldn't be that much after the IRS took its bite. I'm thinking a bit farther north, up around Sixty-second Street west of Biscayne, where I work. There are some vacant lots, mostly overgrown with weeds, and some buildings that were burned out in the '89 riots. I've got some friends up there, and we talk about it. What if. What if we could clean it all out and start over. Put in some trees and a park. Build a community center, a medical clinic. Even a legal clinic. There are ten thousand attorneys in Dade County. If one out of a hundred donated a day a month pro bono—"

"Patrick. You are out of your mind."

"Do you think so? Really?"

She considered. "No. It's exactly what I would expect from you."

He walked back around the desk. "How much are you charging me for this, anyway?" "Assuming I would take the case."

"Let's say you did."

"And assuming you even have a case."

"Which you won't know unless you look into it."

She said, "No way this firm would do it pro bono."

"I didn't think so."

Gail flipped the pen back and forth between her fingers. "We'd probably ask you to sign a note against the amount you have coming under the will, as security. Two-fifty an hour office time, three hundred in court, if it got that far. Say a cost deposit of ... ten thousand dollars."

Patrick pulled down the handle of an imaginary cash register. "Ca-ching!"

She shot him a look, then doodled on her legal pad. A long spiral. "I could recommend some other firms."

"No." Patrick sat back down, studying his interlaced fingers. "I want Hartwell Black and Robineau for two reasons. One is you. And second—this firm has the clout to go up against the establishment."

Gail smiled. "Patrick. I don't think you get it. We are the establishment."

'This law firm is, but not you. I know you, Gail." For a long moment his eyes gazed steadily into hers. Finally he nodded toward her legal pad. "Aren't you going to take some notes?"

She said, "This is the worst set of facts I've seen in years."

Patrick shrugged. "Check it out. If I'm wrong, I'll take whatever advice you give me." His hands lay stilled in his lap, all pale angles.

"No promises," she said.

"I know."

Gail tapped a rhythm with her pen, then began to write.

Chapter Three

In the rudderless days after her divorce, Gail learned to make checklists to keep herself from getting lost. The habit stuck.

Now, at 8:15 A.M., one of the younger associates was taking notes as she ticked off things for him to do: Review this crossclaim and draft an answer. Where's the research I asked for? File an objection to that motion to compel production and set it for hearing.

Eric J. Ramsay, a second-year associate, sat in a client chair with a legal pad. One of his knees was bouncing impatiently.

Gail went to get the heavy accordion file from her bookcase. "I've got the correspondence in here. See if you can find that letter they're talking about in the cross-claim." The file thudded onto her desk.

Eric scrawled
Locate Nov. 2 letter.
Gail saw that his tie had slipped below the back edge of his shirt collar. She wanted to poke it into place and fasten the little button, but didn't think he'd appreciate the gesture. At twenty-eight or so, he had the hard body of the linebacker he claimed to have been at Ohio State, but with a cowlick in his sandy hair. His rosy skin had probably freckled when he was a boy. He wore pinstriped trousers, suspenders, and wing tips, trying to fit in. He was a top-five-percent graduate of Michigan Law, one of the country's best law schools, but how he had sat still long enough to get a specialty in tax she couldn't imagine.

They said he had a Pentium chip in his brain. But they also said he had pissed off the senior partner in the department, a genius-level woman attorney, by pointing out her mistakes. A few weeks ago, when Gail had asked for a trial associate, they sent her Eric. Gail didn't need a tax attorney; she wanted a litigator. After they cleared up this one last case, she would bump him to somebody else.

Standing at her desk again, she flipped through a file, the pleadings attached with a binder at the top. "You're pretty good on computers, aren't you?"

Eric raised his pale green eyes from the legal pad. "Fair. I've done some programming. What do you need?"

"We've got about twenty boxes of documents coming in on Friday. I'd like you to get together with Miriam and work out a system for retrieval. She's going to do a computer index."

He seemed to smile. "You want me to work on document retrieval. One would think a paralegal could do this more efficiently, in terms of billing."

"Well... one might think that, if one were sure a paralegal were available who knew what the case required."

"What would be wrong with finding a paralegal and giving her the appropriate instructions?"

"You know, Eric—" Gail directed a smile at the papers in front of her. "When I came here, if a senior associate asked me to do something, I did it. I figured it would create a good working relationship. Do you understand what I'm saying?" The intercom line on her phone buzzed, but Gail concentrated on opening a paper clip with her thumbnail, wanting to pop him with it. Instead she attached a pleading to the file. "Just supervise, okay? Make sure the system fits our needs. I don't expect you to be the one with the numbering machine."

Eric ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek, then put his pen to the paper and made a note.

Gail picked up her telephone. "Yes, Miriam?"

"It's Karen's school. Something about no lunch?"

"She forgot
again!"

"That's what they told me."

"Damn. All right, put them on." She heard a click. "Hello."

"Mrs. Metzger?" It was the soft Southern voice of Karen's fourth-grade teacher.

Gail sat down, sighed. "This is Ms. Connor. Karen's mother." Several times she had told them her name—Connor. She had never used her ex-husband's name, but they couldn't seem to remember. The switchboard knew where to direct the calls.

'This is Mrs. Johnson. Did you know that Karen came to school again today without her lunch?"

As if Gail had done it on purpose. "No," she said. "I didn't." This morning Gail had left the house at seven, putting Karen's lunch box by the door so she would trip over it if she didn't pick it up. The bus came at seven-thirty. Gail scooted a stray, bent staple along a curve of wood grain in her desk. "You know, Karen has done this three times already since school started. Maybe it's better if she skips lunch this time. She might learn."