The Will

by Reed Arvin

  Henry made a third list, and headed it “unknowns.” At the top was the cause of what Dr. Harris called Raymond’s decompensation, the truth behind what had started him on his decline into madness; the trial was his best chance to uncover what had caused it, and it was impossible to predict if the truth would help or be a devastating blow. Ellen knew the answer, and if it was possible, Henry had decided to focus his attention on her. That was, he realized, his weak link; she was tough, and it was impossible to predict if he could pull anything of substance from her.

  At one-thirty Henry packed up and walked across the square to the courthouse. The crowd had increased, and now nearly a hundred people milled about the courthouse steps, spilling out into the square. Henry circled around behind, avoiding any contact, and came in the back door with little fuss. But once he entered the building, it was impossible to avoid throngs of interested bystanders. He heard his name whispered but kept moving, pushing his way through the swinging doors of the courtroom.

  The courtroom of Judge Howard Brackman was ringed by tall windows, and in the afternoon the sun beat through them, making the room uncomfortably warm. There was no air-conditioning; instead, three ceiling fans slowly spun their enormous wings, doing little but disturbing the warm air high in the room. Behind the judge’s seat black-and-white photographs hung, portraits of previous occupants of the chair. They were stern, mostly, with the exception of one crazed-looking man with startling, disheveled white hair and preternaturally wide eyes. Behind the litigants was seating for about a hundred on long, wooden benches. At the end of each bench was a stack of hand fans. Henry glanced at one as he passed by; emblazoned on the front was a stark drawing of the scales of justice, with the words COURTESY OF JUDGE HOWARD BRACKMAN below it.

  Henry made his way through the crowd to his seat, dropping his briefcase on the table before him. He looked to his right; Hesston was there, looking at him with an inscrutable smile. Henry walked over and stuck out his hand. “Henry Mathews.”

  “Frank Hesston. Welcome home.”

  Henry decided to peg the bullshit meter and see what happened. “Thanks,” he answered. “Don’t be too hard on me, okay?”

  Hesston shrugged. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Henry nodded and turned back to his table; in spite of Hesston’s obvious caution, they both knew Henry wasn’t an experienced litigant. Thus far, he had done more corporate dissection than courtroom work. But he didn’t have time to think about his weaknesses; at that moment Roger pushed his way into the courtroom, his mother in tow. Electricity shot through the packed room, even as it fell eerily silent. Roger had his mother on his arm, and she followed him obediently, like a dog on a leash. Sarah, conspicuous by her absence, wasn’t with them. Hesston walked toward them immediately and kissed Margaret on the cheek. She stared straight ahead, as still as death. Hesston shook Roger’s hand, and together they seated Margaret to the lawyer’s left. Roger noisily took a seat on the other side of his attorney, and Henry studiously avoided looking at them, unwilling to provide a theater in which Roger could publicly show his contempt with any expressions of disgust.

  Henry was opening his briefcase when the bailiff announced Judge Brackman. The roomful of people stood, a door opened, and Brackman entered. He was a short man, robed in black, with thick gray hair and eyebrows. He was smart—Henry could see that immediately—but in the cagey, down-home way that made some country lawyers particularly dangerous. Brackman took his seat and ran through the formalities, opening the case with a perfunctory, practiced ease. To Henry’s chagrin, he addressed Hesston as though they had known each other for fifteen years, been political allies, and gone fishing together on more than one occasion. Henry was acknowledged with nothing more than a nod and the word “Counselor.” Brackman leaned back in his chair. “All right,” he said, “everybody knows why we’re here. But before we get started I need to get somethin’ clear.” He nodded to Roger. “Son, you understand this in terrorem business? You straight on the fact that you’re riskin’ what you got to initiate this action?”

  Roger nodded. “I understand.”

  “You understand that if I rule against you, you’re excluded from this estate forever.”

  “I do.”

  Brackman looked down at his papers. “The decedent’s spouse is named on this suit as well,” he said. He looked over Roger’s head. “Margaret, dear? You understand what you’re doin’ here, is that right?”

  Hesston stood. “This is a family unit,” he said. “Both of the plaintiffs are in agreement.”

  “I’d just like to hear that from her, Frank.”

  Hesston sat and turned to Margaret. She looked at him blankly, then nodded her head, robotlike, without speaking. Brackman watched her a moment, then said, “There’s a daughter in this will too. I don’t see her name on this. Don’t see her in the courtroom either.”

  “The daughter is not seeking redress, your honor,” Hesston said.

  “I see.” Brackman leaned back in his chair. “All right. I just want to make sure everybody understands what’s goin’ on here.” He cleared his throat. “All right, Frank, whatever you got in mind for an opening statement, you go on ahead.”

  Hesston rose, his face full of deep concern. “Your honor, it’s not what I have in mind, it’s what Tyler Crandall had in mind.” He put his hand on Roger’s shoulder and nodded toward Ty’s widow. “He had people in mind, your honor, real people who are going through a painful, terrible loss. He had a bereaved family in mind. A family. Is there anything more important in this world, your honor? Anybody who knew Tyler Crandall understands there was nothing more important to him. He worked for his family every day of his life. Your honor, I’m prepared to introduce evidence that Tyler Crandall continuously, consistently, and publicly declared that his desire was to leave his possessions exclusively to his family, and that control of the Crandall businesses was to come to his son, Roger. This sentiment never wavered over the twenty-six years of marriage between husband and wife, and it stretches any reasonable credulity that he would have written a will with the opposite instructions.”

  Henry settled in, taking the measure of his opponent. Over the next ten minutes, Hesston skillfully portrayed the Crandall family as the victims of a horrible fraud, the centerpiece of which was an utterly specious and inauthentic will. Although he had recently been spending his time lobbying at the state capitol, it was clear Hesston hadn’t lost his touch in a courtroom. The precise management of his tone—the ebb and flow between crushed surprise and righteous indignation—transfixed the gallery. Hesston drew his comments to a close by holding up a copy of the will and saying, “Your honor, I intend to show that this will in no way represented the true wishes of Tyler Crandall. I intend to show that Tyler Crandall would have been angered and saddened by what is contained here, and would do everything in his power to see that it never saw the light of day. I personally believe that if he were here, he would light these papers and burn them before our very eyes.” Hesston sat down, the impact of his superb oratorical skill settling dangerously on the crowd. The judge nodded to Henry. “All right, son,” he said, “you’re up. What you got on your mind?”

  Henry stood, right hand in his pants pocket, his eyes on Hesston. He paused a moment with a puzzled smile. “The ability of counsel to read minds is what I’m thinking of at the moment, your honor. Mr. Hesston’s power to tell us what Tyler William Crandall was thinking at the time he wrote his will is truly spectacular. But apparently his supernatural powers go even further. His claim to know what Mr. Crandall would say and do if he were to walk reconstituted and alive into this courtroom is even more impressive.” He shook his head. “In my time in the third circuit court of Illinois I’ve been fortunate to represent some of the most powerful and accomplished people in the world, your honor. Millionaires a hundred times over, most of them. And none of these captains of industry has this extraordinary ability that Mr. Hesston possesses. Competing on the global stage in the most competitive
industries on earth, they would covet such a talent, I’m sure.” He paused. “But I’m doubtful that it would have occurred to even the most ambitious of them to attempt such a feat on someone sleeping peacefully in a cemetery. Mr. Hesston’s ability to read the mind even of the deceased is something that has pushed all else from my brain. Although, given his extraordinary powers, he obviously is aware of that fact already.”

  There was some muted laughter in the courtroom, and Henry was satisfied that he had, in a single statement, reminded Brackman that his courtroom was the low-rent district, and shown Hesston that he was prepared to turn anything he said into a weapon on his own behalf.

  Henry stepped from behind his table. “Your honor,” he said, “a will is a sacred trust. Not far from here are burial grounds in which the Pawnee Indians laid their loved ones to rest. The government of this country, which has in many ways behaved abominably toward that ancient people, has at least regarded one thing to be inviolate and protected, no matter what the cost. That thing, your honor, is that their dead be left to rest in peace. It is, in fact, the only promise this country kept to that race, and its significance cannot be overstated. The last wish of the Pawnee to be undisturbed is something which all people everywhere understand. No person may build upon that land for any reason. Nothing must be done to disrupt the wish of those people to rest undisturbed.”

  Henry picked up his copy of the will. “Tyler Crandall had a last wish, your honor, as sacred as any represented by those burial grounds. He wrote down that wish with the assistance of a lawyer, so that there would be absolute clarity. He insisted that a powerful conscript called the in terrorem be applied, because he anticipated that there might be those who, for reasons of their own, would want to overturn that wish.” He turned slightly, partially facing the gallery. “A will is a trust between those who leave and those who remain. Every person in this room will one day depend upon that trust being upheld. If we violate it, no person anywhere can depend upon the law to protect them when they can no longer speak for themselves. In spite of Mr. Hesston’s claimed mind-reading ability, Tyler Crandall can’t walk in this courtroom and demand that his promise to Raymond Boyd be kept. He is depending on this court to keep his promise for him.” He turned back to the judge. “In the end, every person here is depending on it.”

  Henry glanced at Hesston as he walked back to his chair. He looked him in the eye for only an instant, but he knew Hesston received his message: Don’t fuck with me.

  Brackman cleared his throat. “All right, Frank, call your first witness.”

  Hesston stood. “I call Roger Crandall, your honor.”

  Hesston, smart enough to understand Roger’s emotional nature, kept his questions simple. And he had clearly prepped Roger well; the questions were answered in short, clipped responses. Yes, my daddy told me I would take over. The last time was four days before he died. No, he never spoke about Raymond Boyd. Yes, he spent hours going over how he wanted things handled. No, he didn’t expect to die. He just wanted me prepared. Yes, those were his exact words.

  Henry wasn’t surprised by the patently false image of the father-son relationship Roger described. But it felt early in the process to try to goad him into admitting his real feelings about Tyler. There was some natural sympathy for the family, especially with Margaret’s presence in the courtroom. To go on the attack immediately risked alienating both Brackman and the gallery. If it came to that, he could call Sarah, whose honesty would compel her to reveal the truth. But it would cause her embarrassment and pain, and he wanted to avoid that if possible. However, if it proved necessary, he was willing to do it. For now, all that was needed was to lay some groundwork, and reserve the right to redirect. When Hesston finished Henry stood and walked to the witness box, Roger radiating loathing as he approached. Henry looked at him, letting Roger feel vulnerable for a while. After several seconds he asked, “Roger, do you remember calling me at my Chicago office the day after your father’s death?”

  Roger’s voice was brittle. “Yeah.”

  “At that time you told me your father had left you a list of instructions, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Those instructions directed you to call me, because I had your father’s will in my possession.”

  “I guess.”

  “Is that what you told me?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the will in my possession was the will your father believed was his real will.”

  Hesston was on his feet. “Your honor, the witness can’t testify to the state of mind of the deceased.”

  Henry turned. “I can’t see why not. Mr. Hesston did so in his opening statement.”

  Hesston turned and glared, and Brackman interrupted. “All right, all right,” he said, “you made your point, son. We tend to give a little latitude in opening statements. But this is testimony. The witness is to disregard the question.”

  Henry smiled. “No further questions, your honor.”

  The rest of the afternoon went similarly; a short parade of witnesses testified that they had heard Tyler refer to Roger as son and heir, Henry doing his best to diminish their effectiveness. If, in the end, the case boiled down to a “he said, she said,” Henry couldn’t be sure what would happen. But when, at nearly four-thirty, Hesston called Ellen Gaudet, Henry knew the first real moment of truth in the trial had arrived. She stood and walked to the stand, hips gently swinging, in a skirt two inches too short and heels an inch too high. Hesston treated her as though she were a demure mother of three.

  Henry knew what Hesston’s first question would be. The first rule of trial litigation was to bring up bad news yourself, defusing its power. Hesston let Ellen get settled, and unloaded the bombshell with studied casualness.

  “Ms. Gaudet, at what point did Raymond Boyd come to work at the Cottonwood Valley Bank?” A ripple moved sharply through the crowd, as Henry knew it would. Brackman gaveled it down.

  “Let’s keep order,” he said, obviously as surprised as everyone else by Hesston’s question. “Go ahead, Ms. Gaudet.”

  “In 1973, I believe,” Ellen answered.

  “And for how long was he employed there?”

  “For about five months.”

  “I see. And under what circumstances did Mr. Boyd leave the bank?”

  “He was fired. Terminated, I guess you call it.”

  “Why was that, Ms. Gaudet?”

  There was a remote, controlled pain behind Ellen’s expression. “Because he went crazy,” she said. Henry started to rise, but Hesston quickly waved his hand. “Perhaps you’d better explain what you mean, Ms. Gaudet.”

  “He started going out to Custer’s Elm during the workday. After a while, he stopped coming in altogether. That’s when the bank people came down from Kansas City and let him go.”

  “And to your knowledge, Mr. Crandall and Mr. Boyd never had any communication from that time forward?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you aware of Mr. Crandall’s financial dealings with the bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “And to your knowledge was there any business or financial relationship between him and Raymond Boyd?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was that, Ms. Gaudet?”

  “Raymond was the bank manager, and he approved Tyler’s loan for some land.”

  “Were there any other dealings between them? Any further relationship after that point?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure about that? Nothing? No matter how insignificant?”

  “Nothing,” Ellen said. “Nothing at all.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Gaudet.”

  As Henry stood for his cross-examination Ellen looked at him with such a cold, dead expression that he lost his train of thought. My God, he thought, I’d give anything to know why this is costing you so much.

  “Ms. Gaudet, are you a psychiatrist?”

  “No,” she said.

  “I wonder because you were so willin
g to diagnose Mr. Boyd’s medical condition. I believe the technical term you used to describe it was . . . ‘crazy,’ wasn’t that it?”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “No, Ms. Gaudet, I don’t know. ‘Crazy’ is a very imprecise term. I’m ‘crazy’ about pizza, for example.” There was soft laughter in the room. “So perhaps we can leave the psychiatric analysis to the professionals, would that be all right with you?”

  Her answer was a low mutter. “Okay.”

  “I appreciate that. But just because you’re not a psychiatrist doesn’t mean you don’t have some vital information to share with this court. In fact, there are some things you’re superbly qualified to tell us.” He walked across the polished wooden floor and leaned back on his table. “For example, you can tell this court what was so upsetting to Raymond just before he was dismissed by the bank management.”

  Hesston was on his feet, objecting. “The question is both vague and irrelevant, your honor. Ms. Gaudet is here to testify about the short business relationship between Mr. Boyd and Mr. Crandall, not Mr. Boyd’s frame of mind. She’s done so.”

  Henry smiled; Hesston wasn’t, it turned out, infallible. He had taken the bait. “Your honor, you’ve already allowed testimony from this witness about Mr. Boyd’s mental condition. I didn’t bring it up. Counsel did.”

  Hesston very nearly barked his response, but caught himself. He gave a sideways glance at Henry, recalculating his opponent. When he spoke, his face was serene. “Your honor, the question is nevertheless vague.”

  “Objection sustained,” Brackman said. “I’ll allow the general area of inquiry, but give your question more definition, Counselor.”

  Henry nodded. “Ms. Gaudet, were you aware of any sudden change in the relationship between Tyler Crandall and Mr. Boyd during the time he worked at the bank?”