Chapter 15
The last she’d heard from Clyde, he was in Iraq working for the United Nations and trying to clean up the postwar mess over there.
He said he was in a real danger zone, heard gunfire every day, and just wanted to check in with Eleanor so she would know he was doing something important.
That had been years earlier. As usual, she didn’t believe a word of it.
A phone call from nowhere almost always led to another one in which he asked for money.
Two nights ago he had called, said he was passing through, and asked to sleep on the sofa.
Before she could say no or stall or do anything to avoid him, he was at the front door, banging away.
Their history was complicated, filled with tension and distrust, and completely centered on the fact that he was a con man who’d never had a real job, was constantly broke and usually one step ahead of the law, and for the past twenty years had been convinced that Harry, his father, had left behind a pile of money for his widow.
He was right about that, though Eleanor had never confirmed it.
Harry had been adamant that neither Clyde nor his brother, Jerry, receive a dime of his money.
She fixed him a bowl of tomato soup, which he drank, then two more.
As always, he ate like a pig and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
Eleanor told him he could not sleep on the sofa or anywhere else in the house, for that matter, and they argued.
She was physically afraid of him and thought about calling the police.
Instead, she retreated to her bedroom, locked the door, and spent a sleepless night peeking through the blinds to see if his car left the driveway.
It did not. When she ventured out early the next morning, Clyde had made himself at home in the kitchen with a pot of coffee and the morning paper.
They spoke and things were cordial but forced.
Then she realized she had forgotten to lock the door to her small study where she kept a desk and some file cabinets.
The door was partially open. There were two wills: the first prepared by Wally Thackerman and signed by Eleanor four months earlier, and the second prepared by Simon two months ago.
The second revoked and negated the first, though poor Wally had no clue.
Both were locked in a fireproof safe, along with the deed to her home, car title, burial policy, disability policy, life policy, and a few other papers that she thought were important.
The safe was hidden in the bottom of her closet.
On the desk in her study was a neat stack of current bills and a tray of letters and articles and other papers she had chosen not to throw away yet, though almost all would get tossed in a year or so.
In the center drawer was her checkbook, issued by Security Bank, and showing a balance of just over $3,100.
The drawer was unlocked and would have been an easy target for anyone nosy enough to be browsing.
She did not offer breakfast, though he mentioned at least twice that he was hungry.
She mustered the courage to tell him, rather bluntly, that he was overstaying his welcome and it was time to leave.
He asked to borrow $5,000 and she flatly refused.
He finally stormed out, and she immediately called the locksmith and changed every lock in the house, with the exception of her hidden safe.
On her desk, in the mail tray, under at least two inches of miscellaneous correspondence and other papers, the majority of which she could not remember why she was keeping, she found the problem.
It was a letter from the law offices of Walter J.
Thackerman, and it read, in part: “I called twice yesterday and once the day before. Let’s meet next Tuesday at three P.M. in my office to finalize your last will and testament. ”
At this point in her narrative, Simon could not help but interrupt. “Any stray letters from me lying around on your desk, Netty?”
“Oh no. I checked.”
He was relieved. He did not want to live the next few months with a pistol in his pocket or within reach.
She went on to explain the obvious: Clyde had searched through her desk during the night and found the letter.
After he left, she carefully went through every other piece of paper in her study and found nothing else that might cause problems. Then she threw it all away. “Just junk, stuff I didn’t need.
“What am I going to do, Simon?” she asked, pleading. “He’s sitting over there in jail and there’s no one to help him.”
“Let him sit, Netty. He’s been there before and he deserves it now. The man is dangerous. He carries a gun and he’s desperate.”
“Can he get his gun back?”
“I doubt it.”
“Will he go to jail?”
“More than likely. Judges take a dim view of thugs who attack lawyers in their own offices. Plus, he’s a felon with a firearm. He’ll serve some time.”
“Well, I guess that’s a good thing. He scares me.”
“Will his brother bail him out?”
“I don’t know. Jerry lives down in Florida somewhere and they’re not that close, or at least they were not way back then.”
Matilda had kicked off her heels and was tiptoeing around the building, listening in all the good places. However, Simon and Ms. Barnett were in a small conference room with thick carpet and vents in the floor. The voices didn’t carry.
Simon said, at low volume, “Don’t answer the phone, Netty, and don’t go anywhere near the jail. And please don’t talk to Wally, should he call.”
“Why would Wally call?”
“I don’t know, but he’s probably quite concerned with the will and the notoriety.
If word gets out that he got attacked because he prepared the last will for a client whose stepson is unhappy, then the will becomes an issue.
The last thing Wally wants is for anyone to know what’s in that will.
Don’t forget, Netty, that he provided for himself, to the tune of almost a half a million dollars in cash. ”
“I’m confused. That will is no longer valid, right?”
“It’s not valid, it’s not invalid. It’s just sitting there waiting for you to die.”
“Oh dear.”
“Sorry to be so blunt. A will is not valid until it is probated after death. The will I prepared for you expressly revokes the will Wally prepared, so his will becomes invalid. Of course, he doesn’t know that.”
“It seems only fair that we tell him. I mean, he just got beat up over nothing.”
“He just got beat up because Clyde is an idiot. No, the law does not require you or me or anyone to tell Wally that you have prepared a new will that revokes the one he prepared.”
“It seems awfully deceitful.”
“Perhaps, but there are reasons for it. And, sadly, there are plenty of laws that appear to be deceitful but are really necessary.”
“If you say so, Simon. I’m trusting you.”
Simon was desperately needed in court. Not to represent a client and certainly not to help grind the wheels of justice, but to just be there because most of the bar would be there out of curiosity.
He knew the lawyers, the courthouse regulars who hung around hoping to pick up a stray client here and there, and while they waited they never hesitated to pass along the latest gossip.
In eighteen years, Simon had never heard of anything so sensational—the beating of a lawyer in his own office.
Some twenty years earlier, when Simon was in law school, a well-known divorce lawyer had been caught having sex with a female client on the sofa in his office, his “fee couch.” Things spiraled when other women came forth.
He lost his license, left town in a hurry, and was last heard of living the good life as a fishing guide in Montana.
Simon thought of the guy often, especially during the dreary days when the highlight was another appearance in bankruptcy court.
He could think of no other office drama, though he was sure he would hear of something when he stopped by the courtroom.
He had to be there. He had to know if anyone had linked the attacker, Clyde Korsak, to Wally’s wealthy client, Eleanor Barnett.
Plus, he was curious about Wally’s injuries. How badly had he been beaten?
It seemed as though his injuries were not that serious.
By the nine-thirty docket call for first appearances in criminal cases, something Simon never attended, the word was out that Wally had been released after an overnight stay in the hospital.
Broken nose, some cuts and bruises, slight concussion.
“No additional brain damage” was the humorous assessment among his loyal brethren in the bar.
The real humor came from the various accounts of Fran grabbing the pistol and firing a shot into the ceiling.
One of the assistant prosecutors was spreading the story that the cops heard the shot as they approached Wally’s office, and caught the attacker when he stumbled off the porch, drunk as a skunk.
Simon hung around for an hour, long enough to be satisfied that the gossip had not connected Eleanor Barnett to Clyde Korsak. He remained in jail and finally stopped calling his stepmother.
Two days later, Simon was back in the courtroom, milling around as usual, swapping jokes with the bailiffs and clerks, when Clyde was hauled in for his first appearance.
Three nights in jail had done nothing to improve his looks, though the orange county jumpsuit was probably cleaner than the clothes he’d worn into the jail.
He was unshaven, unclean, unrepentant. He scowled at the judge as if he’d slap her if given the chance, and conveyed an air of being thoroughly unbothered by the jail and the legal proceedings.
His young, green public defender stood by his side, but not that close, and told the judge that Mr. Korsak was unemployed, had no money with which to either hire a lawyer or make his bond, and had no real assets, other than his car that had been impounded by the police.
His bond was excessive and should be reduced substantially.
“Does he have an address?” the judge asked.
“Your Honor, my client is currently staying with a friend in the Baltimore area.”
“That’s vague enough. I see he has a criminal record.”
“Yes, Your Honor, but that was for a nonviolent crime many years ago. And, it was supposed to have been expunged.”
“Well, whatever the case, it has not been expunged.”
Clyde decided to help with “The lawyer dropped the ball, Judge. He was a crook.”
“I see. The bond will not be reduced at this time. Mr. Korsak, I remand you to the custody of the police.”
“Thanks for nothing,” Clyde mumbled as the bailiffs led him away. Simon was close enough to realize he wanted no part of the defendant. He had beaten Wally senseless and would enjoy drawing blood from another lawyer.
Eleanor was calling several times a day, always on Simon’s private cell phone, and so far he’d been able to keep the conversations away from Matilda, whose radar was on high alert.
Eleanor was agitated and frightened and convinced Clyde would soon get out of jail and show up for more trouble.
His last voicemails were harsh and threatening.
Simon saw the opportunity to make himself indispensable. He was also worried about Wally. There was little doubt he would reach out to Eleanor and discuss the trouble, and in doing so have another chat about her will. She assured Simon that she and Wally had not spoken in months.
The idea was to get Eleanor out of town for a few days, not far, but to some pleasant location where she would be safely tucked away.
Simon knew just the spot. There was a lovely lake in the Blue Ridge Mountains, half an hour from Braxton, near the Maryland state line.
Two small hotels hugged Lake Murray and were popular weekend getaways for older couples.
The restaurants were okay, as were the spas.
It was the perfect place to relax and get lost for a few days.
Eleanor loved the idea but was afraid to reserve a room in her name.
Clyde might somehow track her down. So Simon used his secret credit card to secure a room at $400 a night.
After lunch in a taco hut, he followed her home, which was an adventure in itself.
Netty had no business behind the wheel of a car, but he was not sure how to broach the subject.
She rarely took her foot off the brake and never used a signal light.
Stop signs were either unnoticed, ignored outright, or taken as mere suggestions.
Twice during the ten-minute drive she drew angry horn blasts from some really pissed-off drivers, but seemed not to hear them.
When she finally stopped in her driveway and turned off the engine, Simon was able to start breathing again.
Her house was virtually identical to every other one on the street, and the next street, and the next five.
Two thousand square feet of cookie-cutter suburban sprawl headed east toward D.C.
She instructed him to wait by the lamppost near the front sidewalk as she went inside, determined to keep him out of her house.
He found her behavior odd. What was she hiding in there?
Given her car, her wardrobe, and now her home, it was obvious Eleanor Barnett had never spent money and perhaps did not know how.
Had she and old Harry pinched pennies so long they knew nothing else?
Or, as he’d asked himself before, was it all a charade to keep the money hidden?
One thing was certain: If she lived the life she could truly afford, she wouldn’t last long in these parts.
Staring at the endless rows of identical houses, Simon had to admit he rather admired Eleanor for living such an unassuming life.