Inheritance (31 page)

"See you later," he said, and Laura went through the high door, pausing to touch Clay affectionately on the shoulder on her way to the table in the front of the room where Rollins already sat.

The courtroom had barely settled down when Rollins called Elwin Paiidnson to the stand. He took the oath in a flat, nasal mumble and sat, folding his hands in his lap. A small twitch at the comer of his nose was the only sign of tension in his impeccably pressed figure.

Rollins, relaxed and sure, led Paridnson through a description of his long association with Owen Salinger and his fam-« ily, including the drafting of Owen's first will, five years earlier, and £en Owen's demand that a codicil be added. Rollins took a step back and leaned against a table. "Did Mr. Salinger know exactly what he wanted in the codicil?"

Judith Michael

"He did."

"He told you specifically what it should say?**

*That is correct.*'

"And you took notes as he dictated it.**

*That is correct.**

"And the next day you prepared the codicil in your office for his signature.**

"I did. I deeply regret it. I did not serve my client well. I know now that he was not competent, that he was under great pressure, and I should not have— "

"Your honor, I want that stricken!** Rollins shouted. He had shot up from his relaxed position. "I want that stricken from the record!"

*This is your witoess, Mr. Rollins,** the judge said gravely.

"A hostUe witness! Mr. Paridnson has just contradicted his testimony in deposition. I want that deposition made a part of the reconi.**

"It will be done, Mr. RoUins.**

"You are excused,** Rollins said to Paridnson.

"Cross-examine,** said Carver Cheyne.

"Your honor,** Rollins said angrily, "we*ve had no time to prepare for a change in testimony. I request a recess.**

There was a brief pause. "I think we should hear Mr. Parkinson's testimony,** said the judge. "Mr. Cheyne, you may cross-examine.*'

"Exception,** Rollins snapped.

'•Noted,'* the judge responded.

Cheyne let a small smile curve his lips as Rollins returned to his chair beside Laura. His shoulders were sliunped. 'The son of a bitch sold out.**

Laura's face was white, her eyes alarmed. "He didn*t say that earlier. He said Owen was sure of himself. . . .**

"Ws*ll appeal. The son of a bitch . . . how much money did it take, I wonder.*'

"Money? He was bribed?'*

He shrugged. "It*s not something Vd say in public."

**Mr. Paridnson," Cheyne said smoothly. ¥h stood in the same position as Rollins had earlier, leaning against the table. "I'm sure this is difficult for you, but would you tell the jury more fully why you regret what you did?*

234

>»♦

Inheritance

Paikinson touched the small twitch by his nose. **I knew Mr. Salinger was gravely ill, and it seemed clear to me he was not in control of his emotions, but I also feared I might make his condition worse if I argued with him, and so I acceded to his wishes. I put it out of my mind until after I had given my deposition, but that started me thinking about it, worrying about the ramifications of what had happened and how they affected my responsibility to Mr. Salinger as a man and a cUent and an old friend. I sought the advice of several eminent medical doctors whom I know and trust. I told them of Mr. Salinger's behavior in his sickroom and even before; I searched my memory and recalled bizarre behavior that I might have dismissed too easily—actions that seemed to me, on reflection, to indicate . . . fear, I thought, and a kind of helplessness, as if he were doing what someone told him to—"

'^Objection!*' Rollins bellowed. His face was flushed. *This is—"

'^Counselor, this is becoming rather imaginative," the judge said to Cheyne. "Mr. Paikinson should speak only to what he actually saw."

Cheyne bowed his head. *Tou consulted some doctors, Mr. Parkinson. And what did they say?"

**Of course they had not attended Mr. Salinger, so they would not make a diagnosis, but as I described his rather strange behavior, they thought it was not inconsistent with a man who was not fiilly aware of what he was doing, who felt trapped, afraid of death, and completely dependent on other, stronger people."

No! Damn it, it*s a lie! All lies! And you know it! Laura was cold, the same icy cold she had felt in the smdy when Felix attacked her.

**In short, stressed and agitated, as the doctors put it. I realized then I had made a terrible mistake—^I had not realized what my eyes were seeing— I had failed my client."

'*Mr. Paikinson, in making this admission, do you believe you are jeopardizing your career as an attorney?**

"I do. But the trufli is more important. I made an error of judgment, and I owe it to the memory of Owen Salinger, and to his family, to do eveiything in my power to rectify it. As

Judith Michael

long as I know that my client, old, paralyzed, not competent, was badgered into changing his will— *'

**Objection!" Rollins roared again. "Witness doesn't *know* anything of the sort; these are wild fantasies!"

"Sustained," the judge said. 'The jury will disregard the witness's last statement."

"You thought he seemed . . ." Cheyne prompted.

"Badgered," Parkinson said. "I concluded—and the doctors told me they saw this often in patients who had been powerful businessmen—that Mr. Salinger, a man accustomed to being in control, was confused because he didn't know what to do about his loss of control. He was old and helpless and sick, vulnerable to anyone who abused him or made him comfortable. Miss Fairchild did both, and in the end he was like a baby who learns to obey in order to be kept warm and comfortable— seemed," he added hastily as he saw Rollins about to object again. "I didn't realize any of that—^I thought he was afraid of dying—who wouldn't be?—but I now know — believe — there was far more to it, far more. I believe he was not given a moment's peace—not allowed to die in peace—and I cannot tell you how deeply I regret my failure in not seeing it soon enough to spare him and his family untold grief. . . ."

Parkinson had not looked at Laura; now he swung his glare on her like a spotlight. Behind Laura, Felix rigidly looked the other way. Allison was crying. Leni closed her eyes and sat swaying slightly, as if she might fall. The air conditioning in the courtroom hissed; the outside temperature was close to a hundred degrees, and Laura shivered.

"Fucking bastard," Rollins muttered, losing the last of his Bostonian control. 'They must have paid him enough to retire a dozen times over, to make him risk his career. . . . Admitting he wrote a document for a man he thought incompetent . . . cause for disbarment unless they believe his story . . . Bastard. Fucking, greedy bastard."

By the time Laura testified, she was sure they had lost. She sat rigidly in the witness chair and told again about the love she and Owen had found with each other. Her fists were clenched to stop her trembling, but she did not cry. The jury was waiting, everyone was waiting, for her to cry, but she

Inheritance

could not. She looked small and vulnerable, and deep inside she was twisted with tears and pain, but her face was like stone. She's cold, the jurors thought. No feelings.

"Miss Fairchild," Rollins said after they had gone through the story of her years with Owen, "did you at any time intend to defraud or harm Owen Salinger in any way?"

"No!" she cried. "I loved him! I didn't even think about him leaving me anything in his will because I didn't want to think of hum dying. I didn't want to think about it! And he wasn't a baby, he didn't act like a baby, he acted like a loving man who loved me and cared about me even when he was dying! He caied about me! And I cared about him! And no one has a right to try to destroy what he was!" She stared at the family. "And the way all of us remember him!"

When Cheyne began his cross-examination, his voice was very soft. "N^ss Fairchild, you were convicted of theft some years ago."

"Yes."

"You were a thief."

"We were poor and I was very young and I stole some-tunes, but I didn't like it; I—"

"Just answer the questions. Miss Fairchild— '*

"I didn't want to be a thief! I wanted to change, and go to college and make something of my—^"

"Miss Fairchild!"

"I'm sorry. But you make it sound—^"

The judge leaned over. "I must warn you. Miss Fairchild, to confine yourself to answering counsel's questions."

Laura looked at him in contempt. He didn't care about the truth; he didn't care about her. "Yes," she said coldly.

"Now, Miss Fairchild," Cheyne said, as softly as before, "I believe you once knew a bookseller named Cal Hendy."

Small events of the past, the acts of a lifetime, done unthinkingly, without regard to tomorrow or next year—and long after we forget them, they appear like green shoots pushing through the earth, to change our lives.

Laura answered all the questions in a level voice, telling everything she had told Rollins. Cheyne never asked about Ben; she had been sure he would not. There was no mention of him in her records. Even in her high school files, she had

Judith Michael

listed a neighbor as her guardian because Ben thought, as he did later when she was arrested, that the city wouldn't let an unmarried young man be guardian for his brother and sister. And the building they had lived in had been torn down and the landlord had gone off, no one knew where. New Yoiic had a way of swallowing people up; it had swallowed Ben Gardner and no one knew of his existence.

At last Carver Cheyne gave his final summation. Standing close to the jury, he reviewed all the pieces with which he built his case of theft and deception, and then he lowered his voice until it sounded like a rumble of fate. 'Think of your parents. Each of you: think of your parents as they are or were. Old, tired, wanting only comfort—the comfort they deserve!—as they lie helpless in bed. They have lived a long life—a hard, noble life—and now it is drawing to a close. They have a right to a peaceful end. You have a right to give them a peaceful end. but think! Think of them in the clutches of a clever, ruthless, conniving thief who wears a pretty mask of love and innocence—who comes into your home and steals your parents from you! This woman was a thief who came to steal—and stole! Stole a man from his family—stole his love —broke into the bonds of kinship—and robbed this close-knit family of a sacred tradition! Our society believes that a man works all His life, diligently and lovingly, to build an empire and leave it to his beloved family whole and intact. This is a family's rightful legacy— unless it is stolen! Ladies and gentlemen, a thief sits before you—not only a thief who breaks into the precious sanctity of our homes and makes off with those possessions we lovingly collect over die years, but a thief who robbed the Salinger family of its father when he was too helpless to fight for his loved ones' rights!"

The jury was out for three hours. When they returned, none of the twelve men and women would look at Laura. Rollins put his hand on her arm and she listened to the foreman's loud voice as he read in staccato syllables. "We the jury find for the plaintiff ..."

Rollins let out his breath in a grunt of defeat. Laura sat very stiU.

"Pursuant to the jury's findings," the judge said in a matter-of-fact voice, "the codicil to the will of Owen Salinger is set aside."

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In a flurry, the Salingers left the courtroom. At their head was Felix, the victor, on his way to take possession of his house on Beacon Hill and Owen Salinger's four hotels. Laura watched them, barely aware that the reporter, Yank Bosworth, had cut his way through the crowd and was at her side. *'—a few more questions, okay?"

"Later," she said. She was watching the backs of the Salingers. "Just a few minutes . . ."

He perched on the edge of the table, unwilling to let her get away. "Listen." He waited until she turned to him, her eyes blank. "After this is over, if you ever need me, you know where to find me. You got a raw deal."

She nodded. It seemed so unimportant. She turned again to watch as Leni and Allison disappeared through the door. Rol-hns was watching, too. "We'll appeal," he said to Laura. "We have a good chance. Fm sure of it."

She shook her head. "I won't go through it again."

"Come now, you've done it once; you can do it again. You're not going to tell me you're willing to walk away from here with not a shied of what Owen Salinger left you."

"But I have a great deal that Owen left me." She looked at Rollins, her gaze level and clear. "I've had it all along: his love and what he taught me. And that's all I need to start again and get back the rest of my inheritance."

Chapter 14

EVERY room in the Amsterdam Salinger was full. The hotel swirled with visitors who spoke a dozen languages but shared the paraphernalia of tourists the world over: cameras, maps, guide books, dark glasses, crepe-soled shoes, a nervousness with unfamiliar currency, and running commentaries comparing everything with the way things are back home.

It was the end of August: the height of the season. The Kalverstraat was so crowded that people were carried along, rather than walking, from shop to shop; the daily flower market on the Singel was packed; people stood in line to visit Rembrandt's house; and everything from Shakespeare to striptease in the Leidseplein drew full houses and curtain calls.

"It is what they call in America a madhouse," the concierge told Allison and Patricia, beaming because he had everything under control—and it was his unbelievably good fortune that the daughters of Felix and Asa Salinger had, on the spur of the moment, chosen this busiest of all times to visit the hotel. They would, of course, report to their fathers on all the hotels where they had stayed on their trip through Europe, and the concierge had perfect confidence that the Amsterdam Salinger would get the highest marks of all. 'The rooms are full, the restaurant is full ... but for the Misses Salinger, of course, we have the royal suite.*'

"'And if a king shows up?*' Allison asked.

MO