The Will

by Reed Arvin

  “Yes.”

  Henry leaned forward, focused on her answer. “What was that change, Ms. Gaudet?”

  “Mr. Crandall told me he didn’t like Raymond,” she said simply. “He said that being around Raymond made him uncomfortable.”

  “Uncomfortable? Tyler Crandall?” Henry smiled. “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Objection, your honor.”

  “Sustained.”

  “What made Mr. Crandall so uncomfortable, Ms. Gaudet?”

  “Just that Raymond was starting to get unstable. Mr. Crandall didn’t like that in a banker, I suppose.”

  “Very reasonable. But we’re still not getting at what made Mr. Boyd’s attitude change so suddenly. His decline in job performance occurred over a very short period of time, didn’t it?”

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  “But when you think about it, we could say his job performance was never that good, couldn’t we, Ms. Gaudet?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, he approved a very sizable loan for Mr. Crandall when the truth was Tyler couldn’t afford that loan, isn’t that right, Ms. Gaudet?”

  “I object, your honor,” Hesston broke in. “The witness can’t testify to what Tyler Crandall could or couldn’t afford.”

  “On the contrary, your honor,” Henry said, “the witness personally opened Mr. Crandall’s account with the bank. She was aware of his assets to the penny.”

  “That true, Ms. Gaudet?” Brackman asked.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “All right,” Brackman said, waving Hesston down. “The witness will answer the question.”

  “Ms. Gaudet? How much money did Mr. Crandall initially deposit with the bank?”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Does the figure thirteen hundred dollars ring any bells?” Henry walked to his desk and picked up some papers. “I’ll enter this into evidence, your honor.” Brackman nodded. “So Raymond Boyd approved a substantial loan to a returning veteran with very little money and no collateral other than the land itself. I’d say that his job performance at that moment was extremely suspect, Ms. Gaudet. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t paid to second-guess Mr. Boyd’s decisions.”

  Henry walked back to his table. He was doing his best to make points, but in the end, his expertise was left with nowhere to land. Ellen was, unsurprisingly, unflappable. Her cold exterior made her a perfect witness for Hesston. He continued to try to rattle her for several minutes, but she resisted him with the perfect calmness of a stone. Unless someone somewhere let something slip, all Henry could do was circle and throw out innuendos. But a cross-examination that had been at worst ineffectual became truly damaging when Hesston got his chance to redirect; he kept Ellen on the stand, where she flatly stated that not only had Crandall not spoken to Boyd in over twenty-five years to her knowledge, but that she had personally heard Crandall refer to Roger on many occasions as “the one I want to take over when I’m gone.”

  Henry sat through a parade of witnesses that afternoon, hearing them all testify that they had never seen Crandall and Boyd together, and worse, that they had always understood Roger as the heir apparent in Crandall’s mind. The only good news was that the sheer repetitiveness of the testimony gave it a numbing, undramatic character, and Henry was hopeful that he could unload some bombshell to shake up the court. But as though Hesston were reading his mind, he delivered another, unexpected blow; late in the afternoon, Hesston called Margaret to the stand. She stood with very real fragility, and the frightened stare in her face was so authentic that Henry had been moved himself, in spite of his position. What her presence was doing to the gallery and Brackman, he could easily guess.

  Hesston walked to her and gently took her hand. “I’m deeply sorry that you have to be disturbed in such a painful, difficult time,” he said. “It’s a tragic situation that I would have given everything to have avoided.” He paused. “Mrs. Crandall, I only have one question for you, and after that you may go, if Counsel has nothing for you. My question is very simple. Margaret, did your husband ever talk to you about his affairs? About what he wanted for you after his death?”

  Henry watched with the same fascination as everyone else in the courtroom; as far as he knew, no one had heard Margaret say a word since Ty’s death. When she spoke, her voice was a low, trembling vibration that barely cleared the witness box. “My husband told me that he would take care of me,” she said softly. “He said that everything he had worked for was for me and for his family.”

  Hesston looked at her silently, his face awash in sympathy. He let her voice sink to silence, and finally said quietly, “I have no doubt he did. No doubt whatsoever. Your witness.”

  The thought that it would be appropriate to engage Margaret Crandall in a cross-examination never entered Henry’s mind. “No questions,” he answered.

  Brackman roused himself from the bench. “The witness may stand down,” he said gently, “with the court’s deepest condolences.”

  Margaret nodded blankly at Brackman. Hesston, rather than the bailiff, helped her down. Roger came and took her through the gate to the gallery, but she didn’t sit down. Instead, he led her slowly past the rows of people and out the door.

  Brackman watched her leave. “I believe that’s all we need for today,” he said, when the door closed behind her. “I think we can all use a break. Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.” He smacked his gavel down on a wooden block, the sharp sound jarring Henry from his thoughts.

  He stood and turned to see Amanda coming through the crowd toward him, and her face showed she had heard Margaret’s testimony and had been moved by it.

  “It’s all right,” he said, releasing her. “Caring about her doesn’t make you disloyal to me. I hate it, too. I’d like to crawl in a hole and vanish right now.”

  Amanda kissed his cheek and left right after court adjourned, unwilling to let the day end without at least checking in at her office. Henry regretted seeing her go; with the day going so badly in court, he felt that his only ally was leaving. Within minutes he discovered he missed her, which forced him to admit that Harris might be right: maybe they were going through some kind of ritual, the conclusion of which was becoming more and more foregone. She was breaking through his cynicism at just the right moment, when he was already thinking through his life in every way imaginable. If they had met in Chicago, with Henry secure in his position, the connection would have been more difficult. Her optimism, so valuable and attractive to him now, would have seemed naive. And he had to assume that his own calculating rise up the career ladder would have struck her as hackneyed and materialistic.

  Here, in Council Grove, things were different. What he wanted in his own life was undergoing a tectonic shift, and it was reasonable that what he wanted in a woman would change with it. The merely impressive, once so magnetic and appealing, suddenly and surprisingly paled next to the real, the flawed, the human. Only in one way were Amanda and Elaine the same: they both expected the best from him. But their expectations reflected their own priorities. Elaine, looking for a counterpart, demanded brilliance and career success; Amanda pressed him toward enlarging his soul. In other words, he let himself dare to think, she actually wanted his happiness. The difference was overwhelming.

  But he was relieved that nothing had happened yet that couldn’t be denied. Elaine’s shadow, semipermeable, was still between them, their eighteen months together making him question his timing. It wasn’t that he doubted his desire; it was more an innate sense of propriety that made moving so soon toward Amanda seem rushed. He had never been able to disconnect coupling and love the way most of the young lawyers at the firm had done, even the women. The debauchery had started at law school. Casual, almost aimless fucking was the ultimate stress reliever for mostly law-abiding twenty-somethings who didn’t want to sabotage a law career with a misdemeanor drug offense. But he had never played the ga
me in earnest. It might have been, he had sometimes let himself think, that he was merely decent.

  But he had to admit that he and Amanda were circling, coming closer, like skaters describing arcs that draw ever nearer. And if neither of them stopped it, they would intersect. And what then? To connect, to really touch; that was far different from just getting into bed. They weren’t teenagers, and he couldn’t imagine Amanda reducing sex to the merely recreational. She simply wasn’t the type. Her heart was too big, too available for that. Sleeping with her meant life changes. There was the distance, for one thing. And neither of them, he had to admit, was very secure in their work at the moment. But his body was craving her, even if his mind was playing tricks on him to get him to go slowly.

  He worked until dark, and again and again she intruded on his thoughts. He didn’t regard missing her so much as entirely a good thing; to have known her such a short time and already feel the lack of her—that was the stuff of a crush, not a real relationship. But he kept thinking about her slight but unmistakable figure, and at last he indulged himself with a fantasy, letting his thoughts run unfettered.

  “I’m back.”

  Henry looked up and saw Amanda standing in the doorway, smiling, with a bag of what looked like groceries in her arms. Considering what he had just been thinking, he was worried his face would flush with the sight of her. “What happened?”

  “Let’s say I wasn’t needed,” she said with a small, melancholy smile.

  “Sorry. Kind of. I mean I’m sure that’s hard.”

  “I felt it as soon as I walked in the place. It was twelve degrees in there.”

  “If that’s how they feel, I can’t believe they haven’t fired you.”

  “That would take an act of God,” she answered ruefully. “You know how it is with the government. So they just freeze you instead.” She handed him the bag.

  “What’s this?”

  “Dinner,” she said. “I left the office, went home, and pulled a couple of things together. I hate being useless. Anyway, you can’t eat at the restaurant all the time.”

  “Thanks. What you got in there, sprouts?”

  “Hardly,” she said, smiling. “Take this and I’ll be back in a second.”

  Henry laid out the contents of the bag; there were a couple of cheeses, some good, solid bread—hard-crusted, the way he liked it—and a pasta concoction of tortellini, tomatoes, and vegetables that looked wonderful. Best of all, there was a nice merlot he recognized—not expensive, but very drinkable. He was admiring the bottle when Amanda came in the door lugging a good-sized CD player. “What’s that for?” he asked.

  She set the player on a table near an outlet, handed him a CD, and said, “Push the big button on the front to get it going. I’ll get dinner.”

  “Nat King Cole,” Henry said, looking at the CD cover.

  “You’ve been too busy destroying companies the past few years to get any culture, Henry. Somebody has to do something about that.”

  Henry put the CD on; the sound of a small rhythm section flowed into the room, and Cole’s rich tenor began singing “Route 66.”

  Amanda dished out portions on paper plates. She handed him a corkscrew, and he opened the wine, breathing in the scent. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” he said, pouring her a glass. He sampled the pasta and asked, “You make this?”

  “The secret is letting it sit overnight, which this hasn’t. It’ll be better tomorrow.”

  “It’s good now,” he said, taking another bite. “You shall be rewarded. Richly.”

  They sat eating across his desk from each other, avoiding serious topics, feeling the novelty of being together in a quiet place. He enjoyed it; she was good company, even when they weren’t working together or trying to figure out the case. After they finished, Amanda started the CD over; he looked at her inquisitively, and she smiled. “You said I get a reward.”

  “Name it.”

  She stood. “Let’s dance.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah, here.” She held out her hand, palm down, and he took it. She moved easily around the desk, coming close to him. He glanced outside; it was dark, and he was sure they would be visible from the outside.

  “Hang on,” he said, and he clicked off the overhead lights. The dim luminescence of the streetlamps came in through the windows, and in that dusk, the starkness of the office faded.

  “Mona Lisa” started, and in the indefinite light they danced slowly, moving together. She was a good dancer; light, but not passive. He dipped her once, laughing, and in that moment he wanted her, without doubt; the way she arched her back, the soft pressing of her hip into his crotch, every sense in him alive. He moved his hand, pulling her back up to him, feeling the always surprising intimacy of real touching with someone new, tracing the spine, the shoulder blades, the small of her back. He stared at her mouth, taking in the curve of her lips. Then his mouth was on hers, a soft kiss, but very much alive, exploring.

  Her hands came up his back together and with her touch he rose in earnest. Instinctively he moved to kiss her again, then stopped himself; all the reasons to go slowly pressed in on him. He allowed himself one total kiss, one great exploration of her mouth, sweet wetness and warmth. Then he turned her in his hands, feeling her backside coming against him, nestling into his hips.

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” he said. “Clock’s ticking.”

  She leaned back, letting him support her. “I know,” she whispered. But she turned back to him suddenly, putting one hand on his face and guiding it back to her, pressing her mouth on his and rocking him back momentarily with the pressure. Her tongue was in his mouth, and her fingers pressed into his back, pulling him against her. He blinked, ready to return the kiss, but she had already moved away, content to leave her mark on him, feeling her wake. She smiled at him from a few feet away—a smile suddenly demure—and then moved from the center of the room to his desk.

  Lit up from her kiss, he stared at her backside, knowing the game she had played and finding himself wanting to play it, wanting to be consumed in her narrow hips, her slender but shapely arms. But she was at a distance now, and he waited for several seconds, allowing his resolve to coalesce again with the separation.

  He moved toward the desk; now she was sitting in his chair, content for the moment in the power of her femininity. She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing with a habitual gesture an errant strand behind her ear. Watching her, he thought the pure loveliness of that motion would strangle him.

  She left him at ten, a silent, mutual understanding that, at least for that night, her presence made work more difficult. It was nearly eleven when Henry’s phone rang. It was Phillips, from the firm. “Got something, buddy,” the voice said.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s about that Ellen Gaudet.”

  “And?”

  “Let’s just say the lady’s got a history.”

  It was earlier this time when Henry dialed his old seminary professor. But one o’clock in the morning was still late enough to find Baxter in a deep sleep when he picked up the phone.

  “It’s Henry. I’m sorry.”

  Baxter came slowly to life. “This is becoming a habit,” he said thickly.

  “Sorry, sorry. It helped last time. I’m not choosing the timing.”

  “Let me wake up here a second.” There was a rustling, and Henry heard Baxter get up and carry the phone into another room. “All right.”

  “You sure this is okay?”

  “I said it was. Look, you’d get more chitchat if you called in the daylight.”

  “Sorry. I’ve got a problem. Ethical.”

  “That again? You’re not back with your old firm, are you?”

  “No, this is different. I’m still back home.”

  “Maybe you should have kept the job that paid all that money if you’re just going to go through the same things and be poor.”

  “That thought’s crossed my mind. At least this is my own p
roblem.”

  “All right. So tell me.”

  “I’m trying to save my client. He needs special handling. He’s . . . I want to say insane, but that doesn’t quite describe it. He’s just not equipped to be a part of his own defense. He’s completely dependent.”

  “So the decision is yours to make.”

  “I didn’t tell you I had a decision to make.”

  “Why else would you be calling me?”

  “Okay. To help my client I have to hurt someone. No, I’m avoiding there. The truth is I have to destroy someone.”

  “I see.”

  “There’s no guarantee. It’s possible I could put this person—it’s a woman, if that matters—through that destruction for nothing. It might not work.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “It’s my only chance. My client’s only chance.”

  Baxter hesitated. “And you want to know if it’s all right to destroy one person to save another.”

  “To possibly save another.”

  “I don’t see how anyone can answer that kind of question for anyone else.”

  “I understand that. I’m ready to take responsibility for what happens. I just want some advice.”

  More silence. At length Baxter said, “All right, we’ll talk about it. But I have to warn you that I may try to stop you, because if you destroy her and it doesn’t save your client, I don’t know if you could live with that.”

  “I don’t know either.”

  “First tell me how hurting this woman helps you.”

  Henry exhaled, organizing his thoughts. “This case is about secrets, some of them twenty-five years old. So many lies have been told to keep this stuff buried there’s no way to know where the truth begins. But the woman knows. She knows everything.”

  “And she won’t tell.”

  “That’s right. But one lie, one I never imagined before last night when I discovered it, I do know about. No one else knows it. Anyway, I don’t think they do.”