“It seems awfully deceitful.”
“Perhaps, but there are reasons for it. And, sadly, there are plenty of laws that appear to be deceitful but are really necessary.”
“If you say so, Simon. I’m trusting you.”
Simon was desperately needed in court. Not to represent a client and certainly not to help grind the wheels of justice, but to just be there because most of the bar would be there out of curiosity. He knew the lawyers, the courthouse regulars who hung around hoping to pick up a stray client here and there, and while they waited they never hesitated to pass along the latest gossip. In eighteen years, Simon had never heard of anything so sensational — the beating of a lawyer in his own office.
Some twenty years earlier, when Simon was in law school, a well-known divorce lawyer had been caught having sex with a female client on the sofa in his office, his “fee couch.” Things spiraled when other women came forth. He lost his license, left town in a hurry, and was last heard of living the good life as a fishing guide in Montana. Simon thought of the guy often, especially during the dreary days when the highlight was another appearance in bankruptcy court.
He could think of no other office drama, though he was sure he would hear of something when he stopped by the courtroom. He had to be there. He had to know if anyone had linked the attacker, Clyde Korsak, to Wally’s wealthy client, Eleanor Barnett. Plus, he was curious about Wally’s injuries. How badly had he been beaten?
It seemed as though his injuries were not that serious. By the nine-thirty docket call for first appearances in criminal cases, something Simon never attended, the word was out that Wally had been released after an overnight stay in the hospital. Broken nose, some cuts and bruises, slight concussion. “No additional brain damage” was the humorous assessment among his loyal brethren in the bar. The real humor came from the various accounts of Fran grabbing the pistol and firing a shot into the ceiling. One of the assistant prosecutors was spreading the story that the cops heard the shot as they approached Wally’s office, and caught the attacker when he stumbled off the porch, drunk as a skunk.
Simon hung around for an hour, long enough to be satisfied that the gossip had not connected Eleanor Barnett to Clyde Korsak. He remained in jail and finally stopped calling his stepmother.
Two days later, Simon was back in the courtroom, milling around as usual, swapping jokes with the bailiffs and clerks, when Clyde was hauled in for his first appearance. Three nights in jail had done nothing to improve his looks, though the orange county jumpsuit was probably cleaner than the clothes he’d worn into the jail. He was unshaven, unclean, unrepentant. He scowled at the judge as if he’d slap her if given the chance, and conveyed an air of being thoroughly unbothered by the jail and the legal proceedings. His young, green public defender stood by his side, but not that close, and told the judge that Mr. Korsak was unemployed, had no money with which to either hire a lawyer or make his bond, and had no real assets, other than his car that had been impounded by the police. His bond was excessive and should be reduced substantially.
“Does he have an address?” the judge asked.
“Your Honor, my client is currently staying with a friend in the Baltimore area.”
“That’s vague enough. I see he has a criminal record.”
“Yes, Your Honor, but that was for a nonviolent crime many years ago. And, it was supposed to have been expunged.”
“Well, whatever the case, it has not been expunged.”
Clyde decided to help with “The lawyer dropped the ball, Judge. He was a crook.”
“I see. The bond will not be reduced at this time. Mr. Korsak, I remand you to the custody of the police.”
“Thanks for nothing,” Clyde mumbled as the bailiffs led him away. Simon was close enough to realize he wanted no part of the defendant. He had beaten Wally senseless and would enjoy drawing blood from another lawyer.
Eleanor was calling several times a day, always on Simon’s private cell phone, and so far he’d been able to keep the conversations away from Matilda, whose radar was on high alert. Eleanor was agitated and frightened and convinced Clyde would soon get out of jail and show up for more trouble. His last voicemails were harsh and threatening.
Simon saw the opportunity to make himself indispensable. He was also worried about Wally. There was little doubt he would reach out to Eleanor and discuss the trouble, and in doing so have another chat about her will. She assured Simon that she and Wally had not spoken in months.
The idea was to get Eleanor out of town for a few days, not far, but to some pleasant location where she would be safely tucked away. Simon knew just the spot. There was a lovely lake in the Blue Ridge Mountains, half an hour from Braxton, near the Maryland state line. Two small hotels hugged Lake Murray and were popular weekend getaways for older couples. The restaurants were okay, as were the spas. It was the perfect place to relax and get lost for a few days. Eleanor loved the idea but was afraid to reserve a room in her name. Clyde might somehow track her down. So Simon used his secret credit card to secure a room at $400 a night.
After lunch in a taco hut, he followed her home, which was an adventure in itself. Netty had no business behind the wheel of a car, but he was not sure how to broach the subject. She rarely took her foot off the brake and never used a signal light. Stop signs were either unnoticed, ignored outright, or taken as mere suggestions. Twice during the ten-minute drive she drew angry horn blasts from some really pissed-off drivers, but seemed not to hear them. When she finally stopped in her driveway and turned off the engine, Simon was able to start breathing again.
Her house was virtually identical to every other one on the street, and the next street, and the next five. Two thousand square feet of cookie-cutter suburban sprawl headed east toward D.C. She instructed him to wait by the lamppost near the front sidewalk as she went inside, determined to keep him out of her house. He found her behavior odd. What was she hiding in there? Given her car, her wardrobe, and now her home, it was obvious Eleanor Barnett had never spent money and perhaps did not know how. Had she and old Harry pinched pennies so long they knew nothing else?
Or, as he’d asked himself before, was it all a charade to keep the money hidden? One thing was certain: If she lived the life she could truly afford, she wouldn’t last long in these parts. Staring at the endless rows of identical houses, Simon had to admit he rather admired Eleanor for living such an unassuming life.
Chapter 16
Simon loaded her suitcase into the trunk of his car and they drove away. Glancing at the rows of identical houses, he said, “And you and Harry moved here ten years ago?”
“Something like that. I’m not good with dates and such. The house was brand-new and we had just settled in when he suddenly passed. It was just awful.”
“I’m so sorry. And you moved here from Atlanta.”
“That’s right. I never liked Atlanta, too big, too much traffic.” Over their series of lunches he had learned that she was from a small town near Nashville and met Harry while vacationing with some friends near Destin. They settled in Atlanta.
“Why’d you move here?” Simon asked.
“Good question. Harry had just retired and we were looking to change scenery. We liked the mountains and a nicer climate. Houses were cheap, or at least a lot cheaper than the other places we looked at.”
Cheap. A word she used frequently. Ten years ago when Harry died he was around the age of sixty-nine and had spent a long career working for Coke, where, as her story went, he had secured all the shares of stock available to him and socked them away. Add the Wal-Mart stock. So, as the guessing went, at the time of his death he had substantial net worth. Why, then, would they have been so hung up on buying a cheaper house?