The Twelfth Child (33 page)

“I’ve lost count,” Elliott grumbled.

“How many times in the year prior to her death?”

“I can’t remember.”

“It appears,” Charles said, turning to the jury, “that Mister Emerson has a somewhat selective case of amnesia.” 

Hoggman immediately jumped to his feet, “I object!” he shouted, but by then several jurors had already taken to snickering.

Charles said, “I apologize, Your Honor,” before Hoggman had a chance to pursue the issue any further.  He turned back to Elliott and resumed his questioning.  “Mister Emerson, may I remind you that in the interrogatories you stated that you had visited Abigail Lannigan’s home only six or eight times and on each occasion it was for the purpose of obtaining money.  Was that a true statement?”

Elliott sensing the weight of his words swinging back to punish him, mumbled, “I suppose so, as best I can remember.”

“And isn’t it true that Miss Fairchild never once interfered with those visits?”

“That is not true!” Elliott shouted.  “Last time I was there she knocked me over the coffee table and almost broke my back.”

“Why did she attack you on that occasion, when she’d never before interfered?”

“Maybe I caught her on a bad day.”

“Could it have been,” Charles asked, “because you said the news of Abigail Lannigan’s death was what you had been waiting for?  And, didn’t you also refer to your aunt as the old witch who prevented you from getting what was rightfully yours?”

“I never said that!”

“What if I told you the defendant has a recording of this very incident?”

“Well, I might have said the words, but I didn’t mean it the way you’re making it sound.”  Elliott’s face was as hot and puffed as a boiled dumpling.

At that point, Charles told Judge Kensington that he was finished for now, but would like to reserve the right to recall the witness for additional cross.

As they left the courthouse for the day, Destiny looked at Charles with a bewildered expression, “It’s true that Elliott said those things about Miss Abigail,” she confided, “but I never had a recording of it.”

He smiled sheepishly.  “Oh, no?  Well then, I must have been mistaken.”

T
he second day Hoggman called Albert Friedlander, the chief accountant for Malloy Brothers Development.  “In nineteen-seventy-nine,” he asked, “did your firm purchase a parcel of land in Chestnut Ridge, Virginia, from William Lannigan?”

Albert Friedlander, a timid man with frightened eyes peering from beneath an overhang of grey brows, answered, “Yes, sir.”

“What was the purchase price?”

“One million, three hundred thousand and eighty dollars, sir.”

“That was the amount of the check that William Lannigan received?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was any part of the purchase price designated as the payout for an outstanding mortgage on Mister Lannigan’s property?”

“No, sir.”

“So,” Hoggman took a deep breath and hiked his shoulders up another inch, “far as you knew, William Lannigan was entitled to keep every cent of the money.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Friedlander apologized, “But, I can’t honestly say.  I’ve only been with Malloy Brothers Development for three years.  What a person did with the money we paid for a property is not something that would be written in our books.”

Hoggman gave the man a disgusted grunt then turned him over to Charles for cross.

“No questions,” Charles said, and Albert Friedlander hurried from the courtroom.

Hoggman’s next witness was Martin Kroeger, the Branch Manager at Middleboro Savings and Loan.  He showed up carrying an armful of file folders and testified that he was indeed familiar with Abigail Lannigan’s accounts and knew Destiny Fairchild.  “Miss Lannigan added Miss Fairchild’s name to her accounts three years prior to her death.  She submitted this request.”  He pulled a slip of paper from the topmost folder and handed it to Hoggman.  “See, it directs the bank to add Miss Fairchild’s name to both of the accounts and restructure them so that either party could write checks or withdraw funds.”

“An old woman suddenly signing her accounts over to someone who was in no way related, didn’t that make you suspicious?”

“I didn’t handle the transaction; I’ve only been at this branch for two years.”  

“Since the conversion almost every check drawn on the account was written by Destiny Fairchild, are you suspicious now?”

“Objection!” Charles declared.  “Whatever suspicions Mister Kroeger may or may not have, has no bearing on the facts of this case.”

Judge Kensington rapped his gavel once. “Sustained.”

“Let me then ask,” Hoggman huffed, “who wrote the majority of checks on this account?”

“Miss Fairchild.”  Kroeger handed a thick folder to Hoggman, “Here’s a master printout and a copy of every check.  Miss Fairchild wrote almost every check, but there were a few written by Miss Lannigan.”

“And to whom were the checks written by Miss Lannigan, made payable?”

“Mostly, Miss Fairchild.”

“Ah,” Hoggman said with the greatest of pleasure, “So, Miss Fairchild was taking the money out with both hands.”

“Objection!” Charles shouted.

Judge Kensington instructed the jury to disregard the statement, then turned to Hoggman and told him to watch himself.

The admonished Hoggman turned back to his witness, “Please tell the court,” he said, “what is currently the remaining balance in Abigail Lannigan’s accounts.”

“Both accounts, checking and savings, total one-hundred and fourteen thousand dollars and seventy-six cents.”

“Have you any idea what happened to the one million dollars that is presently unaccounted for?”

“Me?”  Kroeger’s eye started to twitch. 

“Yes.  Six years ago, Abigail Lannigan inherited her brother’s estate, which according to all indications should have been worth substantially over a million dollars and now you are telling the court that the total of her accounts is a mere one hundred and fourteen thousand.  Can you explain that?”

“Not me.” Kroeger said nervously.  “I’ve only been at the bank for two years, and there’s no record of such an amount ever being in Miss Lannigan’s account.  I’ve got all the files, and there’s no record of anything close to that amount.”

“Is it possible that Miss Fairchild got it away from Miss Lannigan before she had a chance to deposit it?”

“Objection!” Charles shouted, “Your Honor –”

“Sustained.”  Judge Kensington rapped his gavel twice.  “Mister Hoggman,” he said, “persist in this line of questioning and I’ll find you in contempt of court.”

“I’m finished with this witness,” Hoggman said and sat down.

Charles stood and approached Kroeger, who by now was blinking like a firefly.  “Mister Kroeger,” he said, “You’ve obviously come here well-prepared.”

Kroeger nodded and the blinking slowed a bit.

“I see on this master printout,” Charles said, opening the folder which Hoggman had introduced into evidence, “that you have recapped the checks, not only by date, but also by the payee to whom the check was issued.  Quite thorough.”

Kroeger smiled and nodded again.

“For the court’s edification, please read off the names of the payees who were the most frequent recipients for the checks written by Miss Fairchild.”

Kroeger took the folder and read down the list.  “City Gas; Public Utility Electric; Bell Telephone; Bountiful Basket Market; Hartford Insurance Company; Doctor Allen Birnbaum; Drug Emporium;  want me to continue?”

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Charles said.  “Judging by this list, would you say the checks written by Miss Fairchild were basically standard household expenses?”

“That’s pretty much what it appears to be.”  By now Kroeger wasn’t blinking at all.  “Except,” he said for the checks made out to Elliott Emerson and Destiny Fairchild.”

“Tell us about those.”

“Emerson got one for two-thousand dollars, signed by Miss Lannigan and he got six for five hundred, signed by Miss Fairchild.  She got a monthly check for one-hundred but those were mostly signed by Miss Lannigan.  Of course, they were written before Miss Lannigan’s death.”

“Since Miss Lannigan’s demise, has there been a drastic difference in the nature of checks drawn against the account?”

“Not a whole lot,” Kroeger answered.  “Miss Fairchild did issue a check to the Panderelli Funeral Home for twenty-eight thousand and another one to Loony Louie’s Automobile Dealership for thirty-two thousand; then there were a dozen or so to various department stores, those were for much smaller amounts, other than that, it was pretty much the same as always.”

“Thank you, Mister Kroeger,” Charles said, and sat down.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Hoggman introduced a string of character witnesses, who paraded in and out of the courtroom without testifying to much more than the fact that they knew Elliott Emerson.  By ten minutes after three, Hoggman had run through his list of witnesses and informed the Judge that he was ready to rest.  “Very well,” Judge Kensington said, “we’ll adjourn for the day.  The defense can start their presentation tomorrow morning at ten.”

W
hen Destiny left the courtroom, she looked frazzled as a person who’d stuck a finger in a live light bulb socket; Charles on the other hand had the grin of a man without a care.  There they were, her with her forehead wrinkled as a washboard and him whistling a tune.  At first, I thought he was being awfully callous about the whole thing, then I realized what he was up to and the smile on my face could have set the sun to shinning if it wasn’t already.

“I’m really nervous about testifying tomorrow,” Destiny said.

“Don’t be,” Charles told her, “just tell the jury what you’ve told me.”

“But Mister Hoggman –”

“He’s a tub of hot air.”

“Maybe so, but he’ll make it look like I’m lying.”

“He’ll try, probably.  But, trying and doing are two different things.  Hoggman’s arrogant, pushy – if he leans on you too hard, the jury will see him as a bully.”     

“I’m still nervous.”

“Don’t be,” Charles repeated.  “The only thing this trial can decide is whether or not you get to keep Abigail Lannigan’s estate.  If you don’t, you don’t.”  He traced two fingers across her forehead.  “Get rid of that frown,” he laughed and began talking about how they were going to the fanciest restaurant in town for dinner.

T
he PalaceGarden was the sort of place where husbands took wives to celebrate special anniversaries or to make amends for some unforgivable thing they’d done.  The room was lit only by candlelight and tuxedoed waiters swished in and out so discretely that people would sometimes wonder how a piece of cake or glass of wine had come to be in front of them.  “Ah yes,
Mister McCallum
,” the maitre de said knowingly, and then he led the way to a table nestled in the corner, a table where a scarlet rose was artfully angled across one plate.  “Please,” he said, and slid the chair out for Destiny.

“Oh my,” she sighed, apparently forgetting her concern over the trial.   

 Charles sat, then stretched his arm across the table and twined his fingers through hers.  “The luckiest day of my life,” he said, “was the day you walked into my office.”

“I’m the lucky one,” she answered. 

I do believe a circus monkey could’ve started dancing a jig in the middle of the table and they’d never have taken notice, they were just too wrapped up in each other.  Charles began talking about how he was thinking of taking a trip to visit his folks in Atlanta and asked Destiny if maybe she could come along to meet them.   Hearing that did my heart good, because an ill-intentioned man such as John Langley never mentions meeting his family, he mostly talks about how hungry he is for your kisses.  Looking back, such a thing is easy to see, but at the time I was so crazy in love, I wouldn’t have believed The Lord God Himself, if He’d told me I was headed for a lifetime of heartache.

Over the years, I cried a million tears for my lost baby girl and, wrong as it might have been, I loved John ‘till the day I died, which I suppose was my punishment for having loved him in the first place.  Pastor Broody used to say the Lord was a forgiving God and I believe that’s the truth; although I did a lot of suffering, He sent me Destiny who was as close to a daughter as I might ever wish for.  John was never mine to be had, and nothing on earth would have changed that, but seeing Charles so much in love with Destiny gave my heart the happiness I’d missed out on. 
Thank You, Lord,
I whispered, knowing the words would find their way into God’s ear.

After dinner, Charles asked if Destiny had given any thought to what she might do after the trial was over.  “It’s hard to say,” she laughed, “if I lose my house and the Thunderbird, I’ll be riding the bus and trying to find an apartment.”

“I don’t mean right after the trial,” Charles said nervously, “I’m talking about the rest of your life.  Have you given
that
any thought?”

“Rest of my life?”

“Oh hell,” Charles moaned as he fumbled to open the box in his pocket, “I’m trying to propose, but obviously doing a terrible job of it.”  He clumsily pried the ring from the box and reached out for her hand.  “Destiny, I love you with all my heart,” he said, “It would make me the happiest man on earth if you’d marry me.”

“Oh Charles,” she sighed, looking down at the ring but not offering her finger.  “I love you too – more than words can say – but this isn’t the right time.  I think when the jury sees Miss Abigail’s will, they’ll believe I’m telling the truth, but what if they don’t?  What if they decide Elliott should get everything?  He’s claiming I’ve got a million dollars hidden away – that’s more money than I can ever hope to repay.  I can’t say I’ll marry you with the threat of that hanging over my head.”

“Marriage is for better or worse,” he answered, “whatever happens, happens.  It’s important that we talk about this now, because I don’t want to ever question whether or not your answer was predicated on the outcome of the trial – and, even more importantly, I don’t want you to ever wonder whether I wanted you or Abigail Lannigan’s money.”