by MJ Rodgers
A.J. exhaled audibly. “Yes, I was afraid of that. Okay. What do you want me to do?”
“If I’m to safeguard this money and see to it that it gets to the beneficiaries stipulated in her will, I’m going to have to find out more about her and how she came to possess this stock that now comprises her estate.”
“Fax me a copy of Patrice’s real birth certificate, and I’ll get right on it. How soon will you have a record of the individual stock-certificate numbers?”
From his position Adam could see through the glass door to the safe-deposit box room. Whitney was bending over the stock certificates. She had begun the task of recording each one. She was obviously used to doing everything herself at her small law practice. And competently, too, he would wager.
“My first call was to the office to request a stenographer be sent over here to record the numbers from the stock certificates,” he said to A.J. “When that’s finished, I’ll have the list faxed to you. For the time being I’m returning the originals to the safe-deposit box.”
“When I get your fax, I’ll get Piper Lane to work with Gavin Yeagher to trace the stock purchases. Piper’s my best investigator when it comes to digging out that kind of stuff. And just so we know who all the players are, I’ll run a background check on this Whitney West, too. With luck I should have a preliminary report on your desk late today.”
“Thanks, A.J.”
“Please don’t thank me, Adam. I’m doing what you ask, but I very much doubt I’m doing you a favor.”
As soon as Adam disconnected the line to A.J., his cell phone immediately rang. He answered it.
“It’s Octavia. I just wanted to call back to let you know that I’ve sent a security guard along with the stenographer. I figured with that much money at stake, it might be a prudent move.”
“Thanks, Octavia. I should have thought of it myself.”
“I don’t know how you can think at all. This is numbing news. Do the police know yet about Patrice’s real name or the extent of the estate she’s left?”
“They may suspect something. I was tailed from the cemetery this morning.”
“The police are following you? Adam, I don’t like this.”
“I’m not thrilled with it myself.”
“Could that lawyer, Whitney West, have tipped them off about Patrice’s real identity and the extent of her estate?”
“It’s difficult to suspect her. She looked genuinely shocked to learn Patrice had lied to me about who she was. She was positively floored at the enormous estate Patrice left.”
“’Enormous’ is right. How are you going to handle it?”
“As soon as the stenographer and the security guard arrive, I’m going over to the courthouse to file the necessary documents and officially start the probate process. I’m taking Ms. West with me as my witness to what I’ve found in Patrice’s safe-deposit box. Afterward I’ll fax the details about Patrice and her estate to Sergeant Ryson.”
“Adam, you realize Ryson is not going to believe you didn’t know Patrice’s real name until now. They told you they’re investigating. Let them find it out on their own. Legally you don’t have to volunteer it.”
“But ethically it’s the right thing to do.”
“You and your lamentable brand of ethics, Adam Justice. I don’t know who is worse, you or Brett.”
Adam almost smiled. “When are you two getting married?”
“It’s still up for debate, quite a bit of debate lately, as a matter of fact. I like the idea of living in sin, as he calls it.”
“Probably because it makes Brett uncomfortable.”
Octavia laughed. “I can’t help it. There is a delectable formality about Brett that just begs to be mussed. You’d best be careful, Adam. You have that quality, too. And one of these days you’re going to meet the woman who will not rest until she’s mussed it.”
“Once is more than enough, Octavia,” Adam said, his somberness fully returned.
“For your sake I hope you’re wrong. Adam, why don’t you let me go to the police as your attorney? That way it will seem more official when I give them the facts you’ve learned about Patrice and her will.”
“I appreciate the strategy, but I must do this myself.”
“You realize that during this past week the police have interviewed all Justice Inc. staff at their homes, despite the fact that none of them was even with us seven years ago.”
“Yes. The police are wasting their time. You and I are the only two who even knew Patrice.”
“If anyone really knew her. I’m beginning to have my doubts about that. I always thought it strange that someone as beautiful as Patrice was so camera shy. You had to browbeat her into having even that one picture taken. Maybe there’s something there. You’ve put A.J. to work on her background?”
“Just got off the line with her.”
“Good. She’ll come through. Something is making the police think the deaths weren’t an accident, Adam. What could it be?”
“You know as much as I do, Octavia.”
“And it’s not enough. I should be able to find a spy over at the sheriff’s office who can let us know what Sergeant Ryson has—or thinks he has. I’ll work on it.”
“The stenographer and the security guard just entered the bank and are heading this way, Octavia. I’d best go. I’ll keep in touch.”
“Adam?”
“Yes?”
“It wasn’t your fault, Adam.”
“Octavia—”
“Adam, please listen to me. Until the day you accept that, this will never be over.”
WHITNEY HAD PREPARED lots of wills in her nine years as a practicing attorney, but she had never had to see an estate through probate. Still, she knew the basics and was not surprised when Adam filed the appropriate forms with the office of the clerk of the court on the sixth floor of the King County Courthouse and received a twelve-digit estate number.
But when they arrived in room W285 for the next step of the process, Whitney was surprised at the large number of people waiting to be called. As Whitney stood in line with Adam to turn in their papers, she noticed that those attorneys who had handed in their papers were asked to take a seat on the wooden church-pew-like seats. And wait some more.
Finally it was Whitney and Adam’s turn to approach the bored-looking clerk behind the long bench. His name tag said he was Dwight Errent. Adam handed him the forms.
“Estate of Feldon,” Adam said. “No bond.”
When the clerk’s eyes skipped over the “Petition for Probate of Will” to the “Petition for Order of Solvency,” his eyes shot off the page to Adam’s face. He flew to his feet and bent toward Adam, lowering his voice to an excited whisper. “You’re estimating Patrice Feldon’s total estate assets at thirty million dollars?” he asked, his voice rattling excitedly on every syllable.
“It’s a conservative estimate,” Adam assured in his ultraformal tone.
The clerk turned and bolted toward the door behind him with the label of Courtroom B above it, the papers clenched in his hand.
“Wait here,” Errent called over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought.
“What’s he doing?” Whitney asked.
“I believe he’s gone to talk to a court commissioner.”
“They don’t use judges in the Seattle probate court, do they?”
“I take it this is your first time?”
“Yes. The only client who died after I prepared her will didn’t have an estate over the magical thirty-thousand-dollar mark, so it never got probated. How many probates have you handled?”
“I’ve been the executor in twelve.”
“Twelve? Adam, are you telling me twelve people made you executor of their estates and then died?”
“You say it as though that makes me a serial killer.”
“What other explanation could there be?”
For just a moment there Whitney thought he might smile. But the moment passed, and the smile didn’t materialize. She was rathe
r disappointed it hadn’t. She was beginning to wonder what the stoic Adam Justice would look like in a smile.
“Ten of the twelve were executives in a major corporation, one of my firm’s clients,” Adam explained. “Preparing their wills was all part of the comprehensive legal service Justice Inc. provides to firms we handle.”
“So what happened? Did they show up to the boardroom one day with six-shooters strapped to their waists and blow each other away?”
“You appear to possess a distinct criminal bent to your mind, Ms. West.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know. Are you going to tell me what happened to those executives?”
“They were killed when their private jet crashed.”
“That must have been rough on their families and the firm. You didn’t service the plane for them beforehand, by any chance?”
“The FAA attributed the crash to pilot error.”
“I guess that lets you off the hook. So you’ve handled twelve of these probates, with number thirteen coming up. Are you superstitious, Adam? No, of course you’re not. Superstition is illogical, and that’s not even a word in your vocabulary.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment, Adam.”
“I know.”
Whitney was chuckling delightedly when Dwight Errent, the court clerk, reappeared and gestured to them.
“Mr. Justice, Ms. West, the commissioner will see you now. This way, please.”
The eyebrows of a half-dozen attorneys rose. All of them had arrived before Whitney and Adam and had been waiting for a while. Whitney felt as though she had just cut into the front of a long line at a supermarket.
“I thought these were handled on a first-come, first-served basis,” she whispered to Adam as they followed the clerk.
“That’s the normal procedure,” Adam said.
“Are we getting the royal treatment?”
“We’re not. But a thirty-million-dollar estate is.”
The clerk stopped in front of Courtroom B, rapping lightly on the glass. The nameplate just outside said Taylor Snowe, Court Commissioner.
“Come in.”
The voice was strong and female. When they stepped inside, the woman behind the high bench in the left corner gestured to the two chairs in front of it without lifting her eyes from the papers in her hands.
“Mr. Justice, Ms. West, make yourselves comfortable while I read over the rest of this filing.”
Whitney and Adam took the offered chairs in the very small room while Dwight Errent left, quietly closing the door behind him.
Whitney studied the court commissioner. She was in her middle thirties with silver blond hair drawn back into a tight bun, revealing every bone in her slim face. Her skin was so pale, it looked translucent against her black robe. She wore no makeup. She should have. Were she standing next to a white wall, Whitney imagined everything from her neck up might have faded right into it.
Taylor Snowe looked up suddenly, and Whitney was surprised to find she possessed both warm and intelligent gray eyes.
“Thank you for waiting.” She favored Whitney with a quick glance and then addressed her comments to Adam. “Mr. Justice, is this the will of your wife I’m holding?”
“She was not my wife, Your Honor.”
“She identifies herself as Patrice Justice in it, as well as Patrice Feldon,” Taylor Snowe said in a tone that pulled no punches. “I watch the TV news, Mr. Justice. I know your wife’s body and that of her lover were recently found.”
Whitney looked at Adam. Commissioner Snowe’s bluntness had registered not at all on his cool, collected countenance. Whitney was not surprised. She was coming to realize that nothing and no one ever disturbed Adam Justice’s calm demeanor.
Adam proceeded to tell Commissioner Snowe in his deep and even voice about the items in the envelope Whitney had brought to him, and about their subsequent visit to the safe-deposit box. He handed over copies of Patrice’s letters and the Feldon birth certificate. He managed the explanation with an admirable economy of words.
The court commissioner studied the documents in her hands for several moments before speaking. When she looked up, her eyes reflected her concern. “Did you know Patrice Feldon had that safe-deposit box, Mr. Justice?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“How were the fees for the safe-deposit box paid these last seven years?”
“The bank clerk advised me that Patrice had arranged for the fees to be automatically withdrawn from a small savings account she kept with the institution,” Adam said.
“Did you know Patrice Feldon had these stocks?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Is it your intent to find out how she obtained them?”
“I have an investigator already working on it.”
“This woman who called herself your wife seems to have suffered from a deplorable lack of honesty and loyalty to you. I realize the attorney’s fees for handling an estate this size will be substantial, but do you really think you can put aside your personal feelings in this matter to be a proper advocate for the deceased?”
“I am prepared to do so.”
Whitney watched Commissioner Snowe study Adam. Snowe looked concerned that she could read neither his rock-set features nor his equally fixed tone. Snowe tapped the pen in her hand against the documents lying on her desk.
“You’ve never appeared before me, Mr. Justice. You’d best understand I feel personally responsible for every estate that passes through my hands. I don’t care whether it’s thirty thousand or thirty million. What I do care about is that the will is properly prepared and executed. That the deceased was not under undue influence during its preparation. That she or he now has a competent and dedicated advocate. That blood relatives are properly represented. That creditors have their say. In short, that I end up sending the money where it’s supposed to go. That’s what I care about. What do you care about?”
“Representing the deceased’s wishes as she has stated them in her will.”
“That’s all? No hidden agenda to circumvent the deceased’s wishes because of her treatment of you?”
“None, Your Honor.”
“Do you know these beneficiaries she has listed?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“You’ve never even heard of them?”
“That’s correct.”
Commissioner Snowe tapped her pen some more. “I tell you candidly, Mr. Justice, I’m uncomfortable with this. If it weren’t for your reputation of outstanding ethical behavior, I would not grant your petition to serve as the personal representative on this estate. And your reputation notwithstanding, be assured that I will be watching your actions carefully.”
Commissioner Snowe turned to Whitney. “Ms. West, you held Patrice Feldon’s will and these other documents for Mr. Justice at Patrice Feldon’s request?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Did you prepare this will for Patrice Feldon?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Do you know who did?”
“Mr. Justice told me earlier that he believes Patrice copied a standard will he had prepared for use in his practice.”
Commissioner Snowe’s eyes immediately went to Adam’s face. “Is the format the same on this will and the sample you prepared, Mr. Justice?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“So you believe Patrice Feldon typed up this will herself?”
“That would be my judgment call,” Adam said.
“Well, there is no law against that. The will appears valid on its face. The language is correct. The witnessing affidavits are all to form.”
Commissioner Snowe turned back to Whitney. “Was anyone with her at the time she gave you these documents?”
“No, Your Honor, and the envelope was sealed. Until Mr. Justice opened it this morning, I did not know what was inside.”
“This handwritten note from Patrice Feldon d
irected you to accompany Mr. Justice to the safe-deposit box in order that you be witness to what he found. Did Patrice Feldon tell you she was going to make this request of Mr. Justice?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Do you know Mr. Justice personally?”
“No.”
“Have you had any other business dealings with him before this matter?”
“None. We met this morning for the first time.”
“So you are a disinterested party and have come here only to give witness to having received the documents from Patrice Feldon and to having viewed the extent of the estate, is that correct?”
“I’m also here because I’d like to be appointed guardian ad litem for the unknown heirs, Your Honor.”
Whitney watched Commissioner Snowe’s gray eyes widen in surprise. “Ms. West, such an assignment is premature. The paperwork has only just been submitted on this probate.”
“I understand that, Your Honor, but if I don’t speak up now, you may appoint someone else. Patrice Feldon has stated she had no children, no family—other than Mr. Justice, whom we have learned she married under a false name. I know that the court must therefore appoint a guardian for the unknown heirs. Nemo est heires viventes—nobody dies without leaving heirs. I would like to perform the function of representing those heirs.”
Whitney watched Commissioner Snowe giving her a considerable once-over. She understood why.
It was unusual for a lawyer to make such a suggestion, particularly since most probate judges, or in Seattle’s case, commissioners, had their list of favorites to whom they automatically gave such choice assignments. And this would certainly be such an assignment, since the fees from a thirty-million-dollar estate were bound to be substantial.
But Whitney had the impression that Commissioner Taylor Snowe didn’t play that kind of political payback game with her pets at the big law firms. It was one of the reasons that Whitney had decided to take a chance and ask for the assignment.
“Ms. West, were I to appoint you to this position, you would have to make a concerted effort to find Patrice Feldon’s heirs, and if you were successful and they wished you to represent them, your job would be to show that this will is invalid or incomplete—otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to collect.”