Chaneysville Incident (30 page)

Once on the bench, he had shown himself to be more than just another country lawyer. His decisions were rarely questioned, and never overturned on points of law. His opinions were cogently expressed, written in the kind of language that had once distinguished the writing of law as a genre of literature. He had more than once been mentioned for a seat on the Supreme Court. But he had had no love for Richard Nixon, had given what support he could to Nelson Rockefeller. By the time that could be rewarded, it was too late for him. Still, even without the final achievement, the Judge’s career was something people write books about, certainly something that was repeated, time and time again, in Sunday schools and in elementary school rooms, albeit in a slightly edited version.

The man I saw before me seemed likewise an edited version. He had always been a thin man, but one of solid, imposing physical presence. Now he was an old man. Frail. Slight. With watery blue eyes and limp hair so white it was nearly blue, and liver-spotted skin drawn tight over thin bones. He wore a venerable three-piece suit of black wool gone shiny and a little green, a white shirt with a narrow collar, a faintly clocked four-in-hand. The only things about him that could have been called a hint of color were those watery eyes and the gleaming gold of the watch chain that drooped over his nonexistent belly, supporting an old half hunter and the Phi Beta Kappa key.

He saw me and rose; Scott moved to help him. But the Judge was not as frail as he looked—at any rate, he was too agile and quick for Scott, and was around the desk and holding my hand in a firm grip and my eyes with clear gaze before Scott could clamp the protective and restraining hand on his elbow. “Dad,” Scott said, “this is Dr.—”

“I know who he is, Randall,” the Judge snapped, without taking his eyes from mine. He looked at me hard, pumped my hand hard, released it, and stepped away. The effort made him puff a little, and his breath came to me, carrying the sweet smell of bourbon. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said. “Will you sit?”

“Dad, John and I—”

“Will you sit, sir?” the Judge repeated.

“Thank you,” I said.

The Judge indicated one of two high-backed leather chairs that sat before the desk, then returned to his own chair, with Scott, a hand still clutching his elbow, trying to keep up. The Judge paid no attention until Scott caught his thigh on the corner of the desk and gasped in pain. “Be careful, Randall,” the Judge said mildly. Scott let go of the elbow and went to a chair in a corner, hobbling slightly.

The Judge looked at me, not saying anything for a few moments, letting his eyes rove over me. “You bear a great resemblance to your father,” he said. “Did you know that?”

“No,” I said.

“Well, you do. Consider that a judicial opinion.” He smiled slightly, but he did not really mean the joke—his eyes did not smile. “When he was young, of course; maybe thirty. And you’re about that…”

“I’m thirty-one,” I said.

“Yes. And your brother…”

“My brother would have been twenty-nine.”

“If he hadn’t been killed,” the Judge said.

I didn’t say anything.

“A sad thing.”

“A wonderful thing,” I said. “Greater love hath no man than he lay down his life for his friends. He was privileged not only to save his comrades, but to die in the service of his country, and in the cause of freedom.”

“That’s absolutely right,” Scott said.

“Don’t be an ass, Randall,” the Judge said. “He was quoting the speech you made at the boy’s funeral.” He looked at me. “You don’t feel that way at all, do you?”

“No,” I said.

He smiled slightly. “I thought not. You’re a historian, they tell me.” He looked at me, but I gave him no confirmation. “I’ve delved into history,” he said. “I never studied it, but I delved into it. Enough to know that it was not a subject that appealed to me. There were too many differences of opinion, too many gaps, too many hidden motivations, too many coincidences. And no rules. I found it frustrating. Don’t you?”

“At times,” I said.

“But you keep on.”

“Yes.”

“Searching for truth?”

“Trying to find out where the lies are.”

The judge smiled, for real this time. “A worthy ambition,” he said. “I imagine you’ve found this region a treasure trove of material. The history of this County alone…”

“I don’t do regional history,” I said.

He looked at me sharply.

“I specialize in the study of atrocities.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“History is just one long string of atrocities,” I said. “You could say history is atrocious. The best way to find out what they did is to find out where they hid the bodies.”

He didn’t say anything.

“The best part,” I said, “is that I don’t have to worry about finding material. Bodies are always turning up.”

The Judge sighed heavily. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose they are.” He paused. “Well, it’s not like that in this County. We mark our graves with great care. It’s the skeletons we try to hide.”

“Dad…” Scott said.

“What? Yes, of course. Randall, I know you’re busy. If you need to get back to something, you just go ahead.”

“Thanks, Dad. John and I were discussing paying for John Crawley’s funeral; there are a few more arrangement to be made.”

“Well, fine, Randall. John… May I call you John?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Fine. You’ll want us to spare no ex—”

“
Dad
, we’ve already straightened all of this out.”

“Then go take care of it, Randall. You can make the arrangements. That’s what you’re paid for. But there’s more to it, and it’s past time we attended to it.”

“Dad…” Scott stood up and looked at me uneasily, while he shifted nervously from foot to foot, looking for all the world like a little boy who has to go to the bathroom but is embarrassed to say so. “Dad…I think we’d better talk about this.”

“We shall, Randall,” the Judge said. He reached out with one liver-spotted hand and picked up his phone. “Mrs. Washington? Yes. Would you step in here, please?” He put the phone down, looked up at Scott. “What
is
it, Randall?”

Scott looked at me, closed his eyes, and sat down again. “Nothing,” he said.

We waited a moment in silence, Scott seeming to shrink into himself, the Judge looking stern, while I tried desperately to figure out what was happening. In a moment the door opened and my mother came in, moving briskly and efficiently. She held a steno book in one hand and three perfectly sharpened pencils in the other. She came quickly across the room, slipped gracefully onto a straight-backed chair at the corner of the Judge’s desk, crossed her legs, opened her book, and waited. Her eyes were on the Judge; she did not even glance at Scott. And she had not seen me.

“It’s time we made the final disposition of your husband’s will,” the Judge said.

I could not see her face, but I saw her back stiffen, saw her head turn ever so slightly as she gave Scott a quick glance.

“Dad—” Scott began again.

The Judge raised his hand. “I know, Randall, I know; under the terms of the will the trusteeship can be passed on. But I’m the executor. And I don’t know how long I’m going to last. And…circumstances have affected a good many of the provisions. The younger son is dead. Jack Crawley is dead, And John”—he nodded at me—“is here.”

She turned then, and saw me. The expression on her face shocked me. I had never seen my mother look guilty or ashamed or afraid. And now she looked all three at once. “John,” she said.

“Good afternoon,” I said. It sounded stupid. But it was all I could think of to say. Things were beyond anything that I understood. Scott was desperately uneasy and my mother was guilty and ashamed and the Judge seemed…unerring.

“We are all here now, at last,” the Judge said. His voice was low, clear but somehow rhythmic, almost as if he were reading some ritualized form from a judicial bench. I looked at him. His eyes were clear and bright. He, at least, seemed at ease, seemed to know what was happening.

“In the last Will of Moses Washington, deceased, the power was given to the executor of the estate to relinquish his control of all trusts and settle them on the parties designated in the document in the manner therein prescribed. The executor, who is I, was charged with following a particular form in exercising that option. One condition of that form was that all parties concerned be either present or deceased. A second condition was that those present be under no duress. If either of you wishes to leave, you may do so.” He paused, looked at me, then at my mother.

“I want to leave,” Scott said. “This is wrong, the time isn’t—”

“Be quiet, Randall,” the Judge said. “You are not a principal.” He looked at the two of us once again. “I take it you choose to remain.”

“Yvette,” Scott said.

The Judge glanced at him, then looked at my mother. “Mrs. Washington,” he said, “will you stay?”

“What the hell is going on here?” I said.

“Will you stay, Mrs. Washington?” the Judge said.

Her head was down. “Yes,” she said, mumbling. Then she brought her head up. “Yes.” Clear this time. Almost harsh. She looked at Scott. “Yes.” She twisted in her chair and looked at me. “I’m sorry, Johnny,” she said. And then she turned back and opened her steno book. She raised a pencil and began to move it across the page in staccato jerks, taking dictation although not a word was being said. Eventually she stopped, looked at the Judge expectantly.

“You have all that, Mrs. Washington?” the Judge said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Excellent,” the Judge said. He cleared his throat. “The conditions of the form having been met, we may proceed with the reading of the Will.” He paused. “Off the record, please, Mrs. Washington. John, I think you should understand that wills are not usually ‘read.’ That’s the stuff of murder mysteries. But your father specified that his be read in the hearing of all heirs and principals at such time as the trusts were to be ended. Now, I have it in my mind that he didn’t know what he was letting you in for—letting everybody in for. Your father was the kind of man who said what he wanted done and expected it to be done, but he didn’t understand the complexities of the law. He didn’t hold with complexities. He was a Gordian knot man. I suspect he’d approve of what I’m going to suggest: you can have a copy of the Will and the trust instruments and read them when you want, and if you have any questions, I’ll be glad to answer them, and for now I’ll just give you the outline in laymen’s prose. But if you insist, I’ll read the damned thing.” He looked at me.

“What does the Will say?”

“That it’s to be read.”

There was no question in my mind that it should be done the way Moses Washington had wanted it done. But suddenly I was tired of him; tired of the man who never erred, whose foresight was right up there with that of God, Jeane Dixon, and Jimmy the Greek.

“Summarize it,” I said.

The Judge nodded. “In theory,” he said, “the matter is not complicated. About a month before his death Moses Washington came to me and asked me to set up several trusts. When he died, they were to be administered according to the instructions he left in his Will.” He paused for a moment, and I listened to the sounds of his breathing and the faint scratching as my mother’s hand moved across the steno pad. When the scratching stopped, the Judge continued. “There were four individual trusts, each supported by an endowment, and a simple fund, which is to be used to pay for funerals for Yvette Stanton Washington, William Washington, Peter John Crawley, and Joshua White. That fund will, of course, continue until your mother’s death.” He paused. “It always seemed odd to me that there was no provision made for your funeral, John. In fact, there is no mention in the document of the possibility of your death…. Well. Do you understand about the endowments?”

“No,” I said. I did, of course. But I needed time, because there was something else I didn’t understand: why I hadn’t known anything about any of this.

“Well, let me go on a bit, and perhaps it will make sense. The first endowment, in the amount of fifty thousand dollars, was to be held in trust for William Washington, until he reached the age of twenty-one, at which time it was to become his. Until that time, the interest, and if necessary the principal, was to be used to pay any taxes and assessments made against the real property that was also left to William Washington, if those expenses were not offset by rental income.

“The provision was made that, should William Washington die before reaching twenty-one, both the endowment and the real property were to become yours, subject to other provisions I’ll get to in a moment.” He paused. “This is hard to explain….”

“I’m with you,” I said.

“Fine,” he said. “The second endowment was set up in a slightly different way. The amount was the same, fifty thousand dollars, and it was to be held in trust for you, until you reached age eighteen. The difference was that before you could take possession of it, and of the real property associated with it, you had to agree also to accept certain other items. Which I’ll get to.” He looked at me.

“Get on with it,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “The third endowment was quite different. It was for one hundred thousand dollars, and it was to be used to pay taxes and assessments, insurance, and upkeep on a house on three lots on Vondersmith Avenue, which is, of course, the house your mother currently occupies. I might as well digress here and tell you that that is the only real participation your mother had in the will. Her income was provided for through insurance policies, which your father evidently purchased at the time of their marriage. According to the Will she was to have the use of the house, expense free, until either her death or remarriage, at which time the liquid funds were to be merged with the endowment held for you, and the real property was to be merged with that held in trust for your brother. Essentially, if she remarried, she could have continued to live in the house so long as William was under twenty-one, or agreed to allow her to do so. Now, that brings us to the real property….”

“Wait,” I said. My voice surprised me. I had expected it to be excited, or outraged, or incredulous. Instead it was calm, almost flat. As if it were doing nothing more than discussing the shopping list with Judith, deciding whether to buy asparagus or broccoli. “Wait,” I said again. “You’re telling me that…Moses Washington owned the Hill.”