Chapter 14
The following week, a rather belligerent gentleman, badly dressed and reeking of alcohol, made a noisy entrance into the reception area of the law office of Wally Thackerman, across Main Street from Simon’s building.
Fran, the secretary, who had years of experience handling riffraff from the street, sized him up quickly and asked, “May I help you?”
“I wanna see Wally Thackerman, the lawyer,” he demanded.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Aren’t you in charge of appointments? Sure you are, and if you were doing a half-ass job you’d know that I don’t have an appointment. And I’m not leaving either.”
“Okay. May I have your name and the nature of your business.”
“Name’s Clyde Korsak and my business ain’t none of your business.”
“Well, be that as it may, Mr. Thackerman is with a client right now. I’ll be happy to make an appointment for tomorrow, say around three P.M.”
“Oh how efficient. I’m not coming back tomorrow because I’m not leaving today. I’ll see the sonofabitch right now because I’m not going away.”
Wally happened to be in his firm’s library, which was closer to the front than his office, and when he heard a loud, aggressive voice he inched forward to investigate. “Everything okay, Fran?” He was peeking around from the hallway.
“You Thackerman?” the man snarled.
“Well, yes, I’m Walter Thackerman. And who are you, sir?”
“I’m Clyde Korsak, stepson of Eleanor Barnett, and we need to talk.”
Fran hurriedly made fresh coffee, not that Clyde wanted any, but it seemed necessary at the moment. Wally got him situated in the library, at the big table, and managed some small talk as they waited for the coffee.
The man was frightening. He had reluctantly entered his fifties but was still clinging to his thirties, with long, thick, oily, badly dyed dark hair that fell to his shoulders, much like a washed-up 1980s rocker still touring the small venues.
Gaudy tattoos covered both forearms, and some sort of green spider was crawling up his neck.
He had patches of wrinkles around his red, puffy eyes, and layers across his forehead.
Cheap trinkets hung around his wrists. Both ears were adorned with gold crosses.
An ancient black leather jacket. Biker’s boots.
Wally thought about calling the police before they sat down.
Clyde said, “Momma says you’re giving her advice on her will and such.”
Momma? When Wally counseled Eleanor Barnett he had certainly quizzed her about children, the usual questions. She had none. Wally could vaguely recall a reference to a child or two belonging to Harry Korsak, but there were no details.
Rattled, Wally said, “Well, I, uh, sir, I don’t recall Eleanor saying anything about having children. I’m certain she said she has none.”
“You’re a damned liar.”
“I am not. You said you are a stepson?”
“I am, me and my brother. Momma raised us, with Daddy’s help of course.” His red eyes glowed at Wally, who was becoming more unsettled.
Clyde said, “Momma says you been working on a will and testament for her. That right?”
Wally puffed up with ethical indignation and said, “Look, sir, I cannot discuss anything Ms. Barnett said to me. It’s confidential and privileged. She’s my client and I will not discuss her legal affairs.”
Clyde seemed ready to explode just as Fran walked in with a pot of coffee, two mugs, and a chirpy “Here, gentlemen. Fresh coffee.”
It was awkwardly poured and thoroughly ignored. She asked Wally, “Shall I take notes?”
Great idea. She had never taken notes during a client conference, but this one called for different rules of engagement. Wally might need a witness, or worse, an able body to call 911. Fran sat at the end of the table with her pen ready. Clyde paid no attention to her.
He demanded, “Did you write Momma a new will?”
“Sir, divulging client information is grounds for disbarment. I could lose my law license.”
Clyde laughed and sneered and said, “Well, aren’t you quite the little smart-ass? How about your teeth? Have you thought about losing some of your teeth? Coupla pints of blood.”
Wally managed to deflect the threat, or at least pretended to. “She can tell you but I cannot. Have you asked her?”
“Yeah, I did, but she don’t remember, says you put so much bullshit legal talk in the will that she’s not sure who gets what. I’m entitled to a chunk of that money because my Daddy made it. He had the brains, not that old bag.”
For a split second, Wally made eye contact with Fran and delivered the message: Call the police. Fran tapped a key. Help was on the way, supposedly.
From a pocket deep in his leather jacket, Clyde whipped out a pistol, a small, shiny black automatic, and he laid it on the table in front of him without commenting on it. No comments were needed. Wally looked at it and felt faint. Fran tapped the keys again and again.
Oddly enough, she would recall that her first thought was somewhat comforting if purely selfish: he would shoot Wally first, and in doing so might give her a second or two to flee. But, she was immediately embarrassed by such an awful thought and told no one about it.
Clyde said, “I want to see Momma’s will.”
As calmly as possible, Wally said, “Put the gun away, Mr. Korsak, unless you want to go to prison.”
“Ha! I’ve already been there. Prison ain’t no big deal.”
“Put the gun away, sir.”
“Daddy never told us how much money he made and he damned sure didn’t share it with us.”
“Please put the gun away.”
“Maybe I’m not finished with it. I want to see that will.”
“It’s not here. I keep my clients’ wills in a vault at the bank.”
“Oh, how clever. And now the banks are closed, right? So if I come back in the morning you will be happy to walk with me over to the bank and look at the will, right?”
“Sure, if I get permission from Eleanor.”
“Got an answer for everything don’t you?”
Clyde reached for one of the coffee mugs and seemed ready to take a sip when he suddenly flung the coffee at Wally.
The cup was full and the coffee was hot and it splashed across Wally’s white shirt and onto his face before he could react.
He yelled “Oh shit!” and Clyde yelled “You little son of a bitch!” and Fran screamed “Stop that right now!” But Clyde lunged at Wally and slapped him hard across the nose with the back of his hand, knocking him out of his chair and onto the floor where he tried to scramble but Clyde was all over him flailing away.
Both men were in their fifties but Clyde had been in far more fistfights than Wally.
Clyde cursed and growled as he pummeled away and seemed determined to kill the lawyer with his bare hands when, suddenly, a shot rang out.
It sounded like a cannon and both men froze.
Fran had the pistol and was aiming at the ceiling, where the first bullet had gone.
“Get out of here,” she yelled at Clyde, who slowly got to his feet, gawking at the gun. Wally crawled under the table and surfaced on the other side. His nose was bleeding profusely.
“Get out of here,” she repeated and sort of waved the gun at the door.
“Gimme the gun,” Clyde said, but less forcefully.
“Oh, I’ll give it to you all right. You want one between your eyes or between your balls?”
Clyde flinched instinctively.
She said, “Leave now. I’ll give the gun to the police when they get here in just a minute. My son’s a cop.”
He was not but it sounded authentic. Maybe Clyde thought it was true, and perhaps her son had taught her how to shoot a pistol. At any rate, it was time to get out, with everything intact.
“I’ll be back,” he snarled like a bad actor and disappeared, slamming the front door behind him.
Simon was sleeping as usual at 5:30 A.M. when his cell phone rattled next to his cot.
It was Matilda, who had never, for any reason, called at such an hour.
She said, “You might want to take a look at the Gazette online. Seems your pal Wally Thackerman was assaulted in his office late yesterday afternoon. He’s still in the hospital but expected to be released. ”
“Go on.”
“Does the name Clyde Korsak ring a bell? Seems to, vaguely.”
“Yes, he’s Eleanor Barnett’s stepson. You remember her? Came a few months back, looking for a will.”
“Oh yeah. I thought we closed that file.”
Not quite. “Couldn’t make up her mind. Dementia. A widow with two stepsons who want some money.”
“Well, he’s in jail charged with the assault. Wonder why he beat up Wally?”
“Who knows? I guess it’s a dangerous profession.”
“Be careful. See you at eight-thirty.”
The Gazette was the town daily that was thick on shopping coupons and thin on news, not that there was much to report anyway, other than obituaries and football scores. The mauling of a local lawyer was too good to ignore and the headline screamed: “LAWYER ATTACKED IN OFFICE. ARREST MADE.”
The word “attacked” was far more sensational than “assaulted.” There was an old photo of the Honorable Walter Thackerman taken from a bar directory, but no mug shot of the attacker.
He was identified as Clyde Korsak; address, age, employment, all unknown.
He was charged with aggravated assault and various weapons violations, as well as public drunkenness and resisting arrest. His bond was $250,000, pretty steep for the alleged crimes, but then the victim was a lawyer and the profession had to protect itself.
The accused was scheduled to appear in court later in the day.
Simon put on his robe and went downstairs to the office kitchen where he made a pot of coffee and tried to digest the news. He had to talk to Eleanor but would wait until a decent hour. It was a shocking event that could spiral in many directions. Nothing good could come of the assault.
However, as he listened to the coffee maker hiss and drip, he managed to find some humor. Poor Wally had just had the shit beaten out of him for drafting a will that had now been quietly revoked, and neither he nor his “attacker” had a clue.
Then the humor passed. There would be so many complications.
He poured a cup, took it to his office, turned on his desktop, and began reading the comments to the story.
Jacknut: “I say we form a mob and attack all law offices. Take up arms, patriots! Gotta protect ourselves from the law and the lawyers!”
Ole Possum: “Why such an outrageous bond, for assault? Hell, murderers get less than that. Could it be another case of the legal system bending over to take care of its own?”
Katty Kate: “It’s about time somebody busted up that little twerp. Ten years ago he screwed my family out of some property in a bad land deal. He should’ve gone to prison a long time ago.”
Slasher: “Six years ago I was in a car wreck and made the mistake of hiring Wally Thackerman to sue the insurance company. He forgot about the case and allowed the statute of limitations to expire. We ultimately settled our dispute in a confidential manner that allowed him to keep his license. I wouldn’t hire this guy to sweep my floors. ”
Finally, Miss Preen wrote: “Knock it off you people. Wally is a real dear who’s been my lawyer for many years. I do hope his injuries are not serious.”
Three cups later, Simon finally called Eleanor, at precisely 8 A.M. By the fourth ring he was once again wondering what she was doing with her cell phone.
She struggled with it. Butt-dials were common.
It was not unusual to get cut off midsentence, and Simon was expected to redial immediately and apologize for the interruption.
She often forgot to wear her hearing aids and yelled into the phone while requiring him to practically yell back.
At least half of his calls to her went unanswered, and he had quickly learned to stay away from voicemails.
A weak “Hello” finally came across.
“Good morning, Eleanor, this is Simon. Are you okay?”
“Not really. Have you heard?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m calling. Have you seen Clyde?”
“Unfortunately, yes. We need to talk, Simon. I need some help. He’s already called three times this morning and wants money, twenty-five thousand, to get out of jail. And he’s very mean about it. I think he’s dangerous.”
Evidently.
He said, “Eleanor, I’m happy to drive over to your house right now and talk about this.”
“No. I’ll come to your office.” She seemed firm about this.
“Very well. Anytime this morning is fine with me. The sooner the better.”
“Okay. I’m dressed and ready. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“That’s fine. Matilda will be here so be careful what you say to her.”
“Who’s Matilda?”