“Barr’s a good guy. Not too bright but dogged and tough. I’ve had him on the stand a few times.” Raymond blew smoke as if he had eviscerated Barr and might want to talk about it later.
Simon said, “But Teddy Hammer hinted rather strongly that the death was not natural.”
“Hammer’s an asshole,” Raymond said, blowing more smoke.
I’m sure he’s a big fan of yours. Are we making progress by name-calling?
“He seemed quite sure of himself. I have not been accused of anything, Raymond, but I can feel the suspicion.”
“Suspicion? It’s a PR nightmare. Greedy lawyer discovers nice old lady has a secret fortune so he prepares a will that gives him control of her assets then convinces her, while she’s injured and drugged and in the hospital, to sign a power of attorney and advance directive that gives him even more power, including the right to pull the plug, which he does, conveniently on December thirtieth as the clock is running out, and she barely dies last year when there’s no estate tax, thus giving said greedy lawyer even more money to play with. Her death was suspicious and the greedy lawyer tries his damnedest to get her remains cremated, his idea not hers, before anybody can ask questions. Did you say suspicion?”
Simon had never felt so guilty.
Raymond had him bleeding and on the ropes and went for the kill. “Son, I get two hundred thousand bucks up front for a murder case, not a penny less.”
Simon was prepared to be shocked, or so he thought. He had no idea how much a noted trial lawyer would charge for a murder case, but his guess was somewhat lower. He said, “I don’t have that kind of money. And I’m not sure I’ll be charged with anything. It’s just that the cops are sniffing around and I don’t want to make the wrong move.”
“Smart guy. Look, consider this. I’ll cover for you now in the initial stages. When Barr comes back for more, tell him I represent you. Sometimes that scares the cops off, but not always. I’ll bully Barr and see how serious it is. And I’ll do it pro bono until there’s an indictment.”
“There won’t be an indictment because I’ve done nothing wrong. I just need someone to talk to.”
“Fine. Talk to me and follow my advice. If things get more serious, then we’ll have another chat.”
A blue cloud hung near the ceiling and the rich smell of fine tobacco permeated the room. Simon was frightened and didn’t want to leave. “If the offer is still there, I’ll have one of those cigars.”
Raymond smiled and said, “Help yourself. I’ll pour us another drink.”
Chapter 32
Friday morning, Simon finally mustered the courage to place a phone call he should have made months earlier. If Eleanor had had it her way, Wally would have been notified a long time ago.
He answered the phone with a warm “Well, good morning, Simon.”
After two minutes of the obligatory small talk, Wally said, “I saw the injunction and was told you were in charge of the burial. What’s going on?”
“Well, Wally, it’s a long story and I’ll be brief. Last March, Eleanor came to my office and wanted a new will. She said she was not happy with the one you drafted and wanted to make some changes. I did what she wanted. Her new one was signed two months after the one you prepared. So, your will is revoked, null, and void.”
“Sounds like a lawsuit, Latch.”
“I was expecting something like that. If I were you I wouldn’t get too trigger-happy. Your will is worthless and should be tossed. No one knows about it, Wally, and no one knows about the little cash bonus payable to you that’s buried in the fine print. If you try and probate that will, of course there will be a big fight. However, your immediate problem is the gift to you. Outright, payable upon probate, a naked grab for cash by the estate lawyer. From a nice little old lady who trusted you. If you try to probate your will, or object to mine, then I’ll file a complaint with the state bar association and send them your will.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“Cuss all you want, Wally, it doesn’t bother me.”
He cussed some more, then settled down. “When will you probate your will?”
“Not sure. I’ll have to check with Judge Pointer, she seems to be in charge of things.”
“I heard about the autopsy. Why bother? She was eighty-five years old.”
Simon said, “Wasn’t my idea. Looks like Clyde and his brother Jerry hired a big-shot lawyer to gum up the works. You remember Clyde, don’t you?”
“Funny, Latch. I guess he beat up the wrong lawyer.”
“You’ll take him in the rematch.”
“Funny. Mind if I take a look at the will you drafted?”
“Not until it’s probated.”
“Who gets the money?”
“A bunch of nonprofits, nothing to family and friends.”
“Did you find the money?”
“Sort of. Did you?”
Wally waited a long time before saying, “Not really. I made some calls to people she mentioned but I didn’t dig too deep.”
Simon waited just as long, and before he could speak Wally said, “Pretty shitty deal on your part, Latch. You should’ve told me.”
“And what would that have accomplished? Probably nothing more than a knee-jerk lawsuit of some sort.”
“You should’ve told me,” he said again, rather sadly, as if he’d just heard the news that a big pile of money had vanished, a fortune he was counting on.
Before he could stop himself, Simon blurted, “Eleanor didn’t want me to.” It was a terrible lie, but then she was dead and Wally would never know the difference.
Long after he ended the call, Simon still couldn’t believe he had lied so easily and convincingly.
Sitting at his desk after another unproductive hour, Simon could almost hear the walls closing in. His building had been built in 1904, so the wall studs and most of the plaster were a century old. They were moving, centimeter by centimeter, slowly toward the center where they would inevitably crunch violently together and slaughter him in the process. There was no way out, nowhere to run, and no one to talk to. Except Raymond, his new free lawyer who was already looking for a way to ditch him if things got hot. And talking to Raymond was a chore. No conversation was complete without at least two war stories about his old courtroom victories. He never said a word about his losses.
At times Simon could hear the floor squeak, the walls moan, the vents contract, the plaster chip, and his latest daydream would be shattered. He was daydreaming a lot because he was tired, fatigued from sleep deprivation. He had no appetite, not for food anyway, but he worried that he was drinking too much. Most mornings he woke up with a cobweb or two, nothing debilitating that would ruin his day, but some little aches in the brain that told him he needed to cut back. What was the old saying? “If you think you might be drinking too much, then you are.”
“The Last Will and Testament of Eleanor Barnett” was always somewhere within reach. He had typed it himself some ten months earlier, and was trying to convince himself that he would change nothing about it. Nor would he do anything different.
Why, then, was he losing sleep and weight and drinking too much?
His worst fears were played out in slow motion. Nine days after the autopsy, and with Eleanor still in the freezer, Raymond called with the troubling news that Detective Barr wanted to arrange a meeting to discuss the case. That was not too unexpected, according to Raymond, who’d been through it many times. Barr suggested the meeting take place in Simon’s office.
It was immediately obvious that the detective was uneasy around Raymond, probably because of his reputation. But Barr was the investigator and playing offense. He opened the meeting with “I just have a few questions for your client, Mr. Lassiter, and a few requests.”