Karolina's Twins (20 page)

“Surprise. Surprise,” Judge Peterson said in his low gravelly voice.

From the back of the courtroom, Liam's grin stretched from ear to ear. “That's my girl,” he whispered to the attorney sitting next to him. “Ass-kicker to the stars.”

“Just a moment, if you please,” Shirley said. “Mrs. Woodward suffers from dementia, and her condition declines and deteriorates with every passing minute. Will this court take no notice of her grievous condition? Will the record show that this court has done nothing to protect this defenseless woman from her financial predators? What will be left to preserve
sometime in the fall
?”

“Spare me the oratory, Mr. Shirley. There's no jury here.”

“But, Your Honor, this is an emergency and this court is obliged to convene an interim hearing to protect the interests of the petitioner's mother. I'm not asking for your discretionary approval. The statute gives us an absolute right. She is at least entitled to the appointment of an impartial attorney.”

“She has an attorney,” Catherine said.

“Oh my lord,” Shirley said with exaggerated hand movements. “Let's put the fox in charge of the henhouse.”

Judge Peterson slammed his wooden gavel. “I demand civility in my courtroom, Mr. Shirley. You will not insult a respected member of the bar. What possible basis would you have for such a censorious comment, and it better be good.”

“Most respectfully, Your Honor, the petitioner seeks to protect his mother from the fees and costs of a farcical, quixotic adventure promoted and supported by the respondent's very own attorney, the eminent Ms. Lockhart. Ms. Lockhart and her husband are the very individuals who pose the financial threat. They are the ones who abuse their fiduciary duty to Mrs. Woodward and exert undue influence over her for their financial gain.”

Catherine rolled her eyes and wished at that moment that Forrester's social services report and findings were publicly available and not confidential by statute.

Judge Peterson sat back and thought about the charges he was hearing. “These are wild charges, Mr. Shirley, and if true would require Ms. Lockhart's disbarment. If they're not true, I will have you brought up before the disciplinary commission.”

“Do you think I haven't considered that, Your Honor? Do you think I would level such an accusation if I didn't have the factual support? I have a client to represent here, and even though it might be quite inconvenient for Ms. Lockhart's career, I am obliged to address this matter. Ms. Lockhart is churning fees from Mrs. Lena Woodward, a woman so beset with senile dementia that she doesn't know what's going on and cannot defend herself.”

The judge pursed his lips and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Ms. Lockhart, are you representing this woman in another matter?”

“Yes, I am.”

“This other matter, explain it to me.”

“I cannot, Your Honor. It's confidential. I am bound by the attorney-client privilege.”

“I didn't ask you what she said or you said. I only want to know what this other matter is about. Why is the subject itself confidential?”

“Because at this stage it consists entirely of confidential communications and secrets disclosed to me within the confines of my representation. Nothing has been filed or disclosed publicly.”

The judge shook his head somberly. “I can order you to divulge the nature of the matter. This woman's welfare has been placed before the court.”

“Respectfully, I will not obey that order. What my client has said to me and the subject matter of our communications is strictly confidential.”

“Nonsense,” shouted Shirley. “She's exploiting my client's mother and draining her financial resources. And you have the power to stop her. This court must order Ms. Lockhart to fully disclose all of the details of her legal relationship with Lena Woodward, including all fees billed and paid.”

“Mr. Shirley knows that such an order is improper. Your Honor would not issue such an order and if you did, I would be forced to disregard it.”

The judge paused to ponder the quandary into which Shirley had maneuvered him. “Have you notes of these private conversations?”

Catherine nodded. “I do.”

“I can order you to produce the notes.”

“I will not obey that order. My notes of Lena's remarks are privileged.”

Judge Peterson began to raise his voice. His judicial temperament, unfriendly to begin with, took a stern tone. “The privilege belongs to your client, Ms. Lockhart. Not. To. You.”

Catherine remained calm. “She has not waived the privilege, nor has she authorized me to divulge any of her confidences.”

“Hmm. I see. Well, let me tell you what I will do. I will give you forty-eight hours to provide me with a full description of everything you are doing on behalf of Mrs. Woodward and to produce your notes for my in-camera inspection. If you fail or refuse, I will hold you in contempt. To the extent you believe waiver is an issue, I suggest that you consult with your client and determine whether or not she will waive the privilege before you invoke it again.”

“Ah,” Shirley said. “In most cases that would be proper. But here, her son has alleged that Mrs. Woodward is incompetent by reason of her weakened mental state brought about by her advanced age. She suffers from an all-consuming obsession to find imaginary children from a bygone era halfway around the world. And this poor woman is now encouraged to pursue this folly by the undue influence of her attorney and her investigator. They are the ones that are enriching themselves with this fanciful odyssey. She does not have the mental capacity to go against her lawyer and waive the privilege.”

The judge nodded. “Perhaps. And maybe I will appoint a guardian ad litem. I will consider it all next Thursday at ten
A.M.
This matter is adjourned.”

*   *   *

“W
HAT'S THE HARM IN
having a guardian ad litem appointed as additional counsel to represent Lena in the probate proceeding?” Liam said from the far end of Catherine's conference table. “He'll talk to Lena and confirm that she's sound in body and mind.”

“An appointed lawyer is not my choice,” Lena answered. “This is just what Arthur wants, to whittle away at my independence. The choice of an attorney to represent me should be mine and mine alone.”

“I think Judge Peterson may appoint an attorney anyway,” Catherine said. “He has that authority. He'll want an independent voice to protect the record, but you have the right to decide what, if anything, you say to an appointed attorney. Shirley was clever to raise the issue of undue influence, so there may even be a motion to disqualify me as your attorney.”

“What about waiving the privilege?” Liam said. “What are you going to do Thursday morning?”

“I cannot disclose what a client says to me in private. I will give Judge Peterson a legal memorandum on lawyer-client communication, summarizing all of the recent Illinois cases, but I think he's well aware of them. Everything that Peterson has requested is confidential, and I will continue to assert the attorney-client privilege.”

“What happens if the judge finds you in contempt?” Lena said.

“He has broad powers. He can fine me or he can incarcerate me until I purge myself of the contempt.”

Lena looked at Catherine and put her hand on Catherine's arm. “I don't want you to get in trouble with the judge. If you need to tell him what I've said or what we're doing, you have my permission.”

“Stop!” Catherine said. “The issue is whether or not you
knowingly
and
voluntarily
approve of disclosing the content of our confidential meetings of your own free will, not under the compulsion of an illegal threat to your lawyer. And not because you want to protect me. That's not how justice works. Do you want Arthur to know everything you've said or will say in our meetings?”

Lena shook her head. “Can't we just give him a general summary, or just tell him the part where I was working in the Shop?”

“No. Once the door is open, you'll have to give full disclosure. Everything. He'll have the right to ask you anything about any of your disclosures to me. Do you want him to know everything?”

Lena shook her head. “There are some things I do not want him to know under any circumstances. Ever.”

“Then this discussion is over,” Catherine said. “Let's get back to Chrzanów, Poland. Tell me about your secret assignments.”

“Cat,” Liam interrupted. “You can't go to jail. Not even for a day. You're five months pregnant and you've got a risky pregnancy. The doctor said to keep an eye on your condition. Tell Peterson.”

“I won't play the pregnancy card. He has no right to order me to divulge client confidences. Period. That's all.”

“Catherine,” Lena said, “I will not let you go to jail.”

“This is my call. I'm in the right and Peterson knows it.”

“Cat…” Liam said.

“Stop! This conversation is over!”

Liam stood. His face was red. “Now you listen to me. If you're going to proceed with this insane hearing, I can't stop you, but you need to be represented. You need to hire a lawyer. You cannot represent yourself.”

Catherine nodded. “I'll think about it. You're probably right. Now can we get on with Lena's story?”

Lena looked at Liam and shrugged. “Okay. Back to Chrzanów and my first assignment as a courier. I was in David's apartment and I put on my new shoes and my coat. David took me to the loading dock and put a dozen coats onto a four-wheel cart. I gave a sharp nod to him, he hugged me, and I ventured out into the night. My house was eight or nine blocks away, but I had to cross a couple of busy intersections. I had only gone halfway when two SS officers in their long leather coats stopped me. One of them eyed my armband. ‘
Documente, Bitte.
'

“I showed him my ID and my Shop permit. He asked me where I was going. I gave him the address.

“‘Why do you take coats to a residence?'

“‘Because I was told to.'

“In a split second, his right hand shot out and backhanded my face. ‘Do not answer me with a dismissal. I asked
why
you take these coats.'

“‘Sorry,' I said, reeling from the slap. ‘I have an authorization.' I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a delivery document, like a bill of lading, evidencing the delivery of twelve overcoats to Colonel Müller for further transfer at his direction. The SS officer read the paper and gave it back to me. Then he grabbed my cheeks between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed so hard I thought his fingers would push a hole through my flesh. ‘Next time a German officer asks you a question, don't make him ask twice.'

“‘No, sir.'

“He straightened the bill of his cap, brushed his hands along his coat, as though he had touched a goat, and walked away. I continued walking until I saw the lights of my house.”

Lena stopped and closed her eyes. “I paused on the corner and stared at my house. For just a moment, I was thirteen. I was coming home from school. My mother and father were waiting for me. Milosz was playing with his cars in the middle of the living room. Magda was making dinner and the scent of roast beef added to the memory. I could walk right in the door and the last three years would be nothing but a dreadful nightmare and everything would be just as it was before. I closed my eyes and wished hard. I willed time to reverse itself, but the sound of a car horn brought me to my senses. It was 1942 and I was a Jew in Nazi Germany. I pushed the cart forward.

“I knocked on the door and a young girl with a shy smile opened it. Warm, well fed, safe and secure in
my
house. Is this the new Lena, I thought? Has she been chosen to take my place in the life of the girl who lives at 1403 Kościuszko? Are these just new cast members hired by the studio to play the roles of the family who lives happily at 1403 Kościuszko?

“‘I'm here to see Colonel Müller,' I said to her in German. ‘Just a minute,' she said and disappeared into the house. A moment later, a beautiful woman appeared at the door. She had blond hair with styled curls, red lips, a rouged face and long eyelashes. She wore a calf-length dress with padded shoulders and a deep neckline garnished with an exquisite string of pearls. She looked at me like I was trash. ‘What do you want?'

“‘I'm sorry to disturb, madam, but I have a delivery for Colonel Müller.'

“‘Leave it on the stoop and be gone.'

“I didn't move. ‘I can't. My instructions are to see him personally.'

“‘Fine, then wait. He's not here.' She turned around and slammed the door. I took a seat on the concrete stoop and hoped that the colonel would get home before another SS officer came by to hassle me.

“It was dark, it was February, and I was cold. I moved around to keep warm. An hour or so later, two German soldiers, brown shirts, came walking by in animated conversation. Laughing, telling tales of conquests on a winter night. They stopped. One pointed at me.
Oh no,
I thought,
here we go again
. But they laughed again and resumed their walk. Shortly after that, a black Mercedes pulled up beside the curb, the colonel got out, locked his car and approached the door.

“‘Well, if it isn't the little hitchhiker. Good evening, Miss Scheinman.' He tapped the bill of his cap and chuckled. ‘So you are my new deliveryman? Very well, then, come this way.'

“He unlocked the front door, grabbed the bundle of coats from my cart and walked inside, beckoning me to follow with a tilt of his head. I stepped into the foyer and froze. Gone was the classic Polish decor so favored by my parents, with rich polished wood and traditional Polish hues of carmine, blue and gold. Gone were the soft, plush sofas in subtle woven fabrics and the stately wingback chairs. Gone were the blues and greens of the Impressionist oil paintings framed in gold leaf which had adorned the wall over the breakfront.