The Will

by Reed Arvin

  “And?”

  “And if I bring it up in court it will destroy her life.”

  “You know that for a fact.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the case about?”

  “A will is being contested.”

  “So this is about money.”

  “No.” Henry surprised himself with his instant response. “Look, of course it’s about that. But it’s also about the truth. It’s about getting someone’s life back. He—my client—got his stolen from him.”

  “And this woman knows how.”

  “Yes, but it’s covered up in lies. And this part is bizarre—I think she really wants to tell the truth.”

  “Of course she wants to tell the truth.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “Everyone wants to tell the truth, Henry. Lying is like an eating cancer. You think you can withstand small amounts. But your body knows how dangerous it is. Your soul knows it. That’s where all the deathbed confessions come from.”

  “I can feel that when I talk to her. The weight of knowing and never revealing it has been slowly killing her inside. But whatever keeps her quiet is strong. She won’t be easy to crack.”

  “Was she a part of what took away your client’s life?”

  “I believe she was a part. I can’t prove that yet.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “No. But if I can break her somehow—get her to tell what she knows— it might save my client.”

  Baxter paused. “Since when did you get into the saving business, Henry?”

  Henry grimaced. “All right,” he said, “I accept the irony. So maybe I want to redeem myself here, on some level. But I didn’t think it would happen this way. I’m not comfortable playing God.”

  “Very wise.”

  “So you’re saying don’t go forward.”

  “I’m not going to say one way or another. I’m just willing to talk about it.” Baxter paused. “Is there any other way to do this thing?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  There was a long silence, nearly a full minute. Eventually, Baxter said, “You know I can’t tell you what to do, Henry. If I did, I would be playing God myself, and that scares me as much as it does you. All I can do is remind you of some first principles. They’re mine, and you have to decide if they’re yours. One. Truth sets people free. Always, in every way. Never doubt that. Two. Deep truth almost always comes with pain. Even for Christ Himself. The truth of His mission—of who He was—hurt even Him. Remember Gethsemane, Henry. The Lord Himself sweat drops of blood to get out of facing that truth about Himself, that He was supposed to save the world. Why should we be any different? Three. Cheating the truth has real consequences, even with grace and forgiveness. Everybody wants to pretend that what’s in the past doesn’t exist, not just this woman. But it does exist. The past is tremendously powerful. It wants out. It’s like a time bomb. We feel our sin pushing outward on our inner walls, and we think that if it comes out it will destroy us. Some of us spend our whole lives building thicker and thicker barriers between us and those explosions. But what we don’t know is that it’s not the coming out that destroys us. It’s the keeping inside.”

  “You’re telling me it’s all right to go ahead.”

  “I’m not telling you that. You keep looking for me to give you an answer. I won’t. Principles aren’t people. You have to decide if this is right for you and right for now—for this moment in time.”

  “It’s the last chance for everyone in this story. And everybody knows it. I can see it in their faces. If the truth stays buried through this trial, it’s never coming to light.”

  “So you’ve decided. You knew what you were going to do from the beginning. You just called me for affirmation.”

  “Maybe. Is that wrong?”

  “No. Can you live with it if you ruin this woman and get nothing?”

  Henry looked up from his desk. He could see his reflection in the window and looked at himself for a moment, holding the phone. He was surprised by how tired he looked. “I believe I can.”

  “I pray my God to help you if you’re wrong.”

  Henry slept for a few hours. He awoke feeling numb, and flipped on the TV to find that the circus of Judge Brackman’s courtroom had grown. On the screen he saw a Kansas City station covering the case with, to his repugnance, a reporter on-site at the courthouse. She was a smartly dressed woman, very young, with short hair and a flat, slightly nasal accent. “Jeff,” she was saying, “the little town of Council Grove has been rocked by one of the most bizarre cases in its history. The town’s most prominent citizen has recently died and apparently left the bulk of his estate to a homeless man here, a man who by all accounts is mentally unstable. It’s quite a bit of money, I understand. A couple of million dollars.”

  The anchor’s voice came on, and the reporter pressed an earpiece closer to her ear. “Beth,” the voice said, “where is this new millionaire? Can we get an interview?” Henry’s heart stopped; he stared frozen at the TV.

  “We’re trying to locate the man now,” the reporter said. “Apparently people around here call him the Birdman.”

  The anchorman laughed, a resonant, emotionless sound. “Why’s that?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure, but evidently he spends his time out in a local park here. We’re heading over there and hope to have some film for you on our noon report.”

  “Sounds like a great story, Beth. Looking forward to seeing how it develops.”

  Henry flicked off the TV, threw on his clothes, grabbed his briefcase, and left the room in a trot. He floored the accelerator on his car, shooting out onto Route 12 toward the park. He drove ridiculously fast, slamming on his brakes to make turns, tires squealing. But when he saw the park he knew he had arrived in time; Boyd was there, standing under a tree, looking calmly back toward him. Henry slowed, not wanting to make Boyd nervous; he pulled up near Boyd’s bench and stopped. He got out and motioned, and Boyd walked slowly toward him.

  “I need you to come with me, Raymond,” he said. “Right away.”

  Boyd tilted his head. “Junior Henry don’t look too good.”

  Henry steadied himself with tremendous effort; they would only have a matter of minutes before the truck found its way to the park. “You’re right, Raymond,” he said. “I’m not too good right now. So do me this favor, will you? Come with me. Right now, Raymond.”

  “Junior Henry got some kinda trouble, yessiree. Somethin’ goin’ on. Might be the mighty hand of the Lord come down.” He rocked back and forth, in no hurry to move.

  Don’t lie. He reads you like a book, anyway. “Raymond,” he said, “there are people in town who want to talk to you. These people don’t care what happens to you. They want to put you on television so they can show you to other people, like a sideshow.” Boyd kept rocking, but Henry could see he was listening. “I don’t want them to do that,” he said. “I want you to come with me so they can’t find you.”

  Boyd looked at him a moment, then began moving toward the car. Good, Raymond. Good for you. You trusted me.

  Raymond got in the passenger seat of Henry’s car, and Henry pulled out onto Owendale. As they turned, he could see a van in his rearview mirror drive up on the other side of the park. He eased his car out of sight, then went quickly back to the motel. He looked at his watch; he was expected in court in another thirty minutes. There wasn’t time to do anything else.

  They weren’t followed, to his relief. But he knew the reporter would keep looking. The story was too rich for her to miss, too ripe for the kind of ridicule that reduced human tragedy to a momentary, condescending smile. They pulled up to the Flinthills Motel, Henry looking for any observers. There weren’t any, and he led Raymond quickly from the car to his room. Raymond was growing more agitated and balked at entering the little space. Henry looked at him intently. “No one will bother you here,” he said. “You’ll be safe. You’ll be alone. The important thing is
to stay inside. Don’t open the door to anybody, Raymond. No one but me. Do it, Raymond. Please.”

  Raymond walked into the room tentatively, looking around. He walked to the other side of the bed, staring at the little picture on the wall.

  “All right, Raymond. I have to go to court now. Tell me you won’t move from this place.” Boyd continued staring, saying nothing. “Raymond?” Henry repeated. “You won’t move, okay? And don’t let anyone in.”

  Boyd turned and faced him. “Junior Henry in a hurry,” he said. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his dirty pants soiling the clean bedspread. Henry looked at him helplessly a moment, then shut the door. He put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob, and uttered his third prayer since coming back to Council Grove: Give me time. Just a chance to do what I have to do. Then you can let all hell break loose again.

  He was a block away from the courthouse when he saw the crowd. Even more people than the day before were milling around, and he saw that the television van had returned to the courthouse. When Henry got out of his car several people called out, and the young female reporter caught sight of him. He picked up his pace, but she intercepted him at the courthouse steps. A crowd closed magnetically around them, leaning in and trapping him. The reporter nodded to her cameraman and stuck a microphone in Henry’s face.

  “I understand you’re representing the so-called Birdman,” she said with a grin that Henry found profoundly irritating. He attempted to continue up the stairs, but the crowd made moving difficult. A few people called him by name, and the reporter got between him and the next stair with a catlike move. “Mr. Mathews?” she asked. “What can you tell us about this Birdman? Is it true that he was named in the will of the richest man in this town?”

  Henry stopped, gave her a withering look, and said firmly, “I’m not going to comment on the case. In the meantime, my client has a name. That name is Raymond Boyd.”

  The reporter, clearly surprised to discover that her subject wasn’t delighted to be on television, momentarily lost her focus. Henry used the instant to escape, pushing past her and taking the stairs two at a time toward the door. She pursued, but the crowd was between them now, and he vanished into the courthouse.

  The inside of the courtroom was packed, and Henry kept his eyes straight ahead as he made his way to his table. Hesston was already seated, Roger beside him saying something in his ear; they turned and faced him—Hesston with a blank stare, Roger sending him his usual malevolent look. Henry looked left, and he saw his sacrificial lamb; Ellen stared at him as he walked by, and he forced his eyes away. His briefcase had just touched his table when the bailiff entered.

  “All rise,” the bailiff said. “The Honorable Judge Howard Brackman presiding.” The crowd stood automatically and Brackman walked in. Henry could see he hadn’t been oblivious to the media attention; unlike the day before, his hair was neatly in place, and his usaully rumpled robe had obviously been cleaned and pressed. So you’re the leak, Henry thought. You had the reporters called. Brackman took his seat importantly, letting the crowd settle in after him.

  “All right, gentlemen,” he said, “let’s get this show on the road. And, Counselors”—he waved his gavel vaguely in the direction of the attorneys— “let’s keep things on an even keel today, if we can. I don’t cotton to emotional outbursts in my courtroom.”

  The door opened again, and Henry turned to see the reporter squeezing into the room, a notebook and pen in hand. He turned back and saw Brackman smiling, an expression of pure, indulgent horseshit. He nodded to Henry and said, “Call your first witness, Counselor.”

  Henry looked at his legal pad. His throat was dry. He felt seconds ticking away, the eyes of everyone in the room on him. “I recall Ellen Gaudet, your honor.”

  Hesston rose, an elaborate, prolonged action. “Your honor,” he said, “Ms. Gaudet has already given testimony. I can’t see any reason to go through all that again.”

  Brackman looked at Henry with irritation. “Counsel’s got a point, son. I don’t want to go through any snipe hunt.”

  Hesston and Durand are too strong. If anyone is going to break, it’s her. “The further testimony of Ms. Gaudet is absolutely essential, your honor. New information has come to light. It’s imperative that she be recalled to the witness stand.”

  Hesston began to speak again. “Your honor . . .”

  Brackman gaveled him down. “All right, Frank,” he said, “gimme a chance to rule on this thing. Now, son, you’re tellin’ me you got somewhere to go on this thing, that right? Unlike yesterday.”

  “I do.”

  Brackman sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Tell you what. I’m gonna give you the rope to hang yourself, son. So if you got a point I recommend you get to it. We understand each other?”

  Henry allowed himself a tiny smile. You don’t really mind this thing stretching out, do you, Judge Brackman? Not with reporters around, and you can boss around a lawyer who makes more in an hour than you do in a day. “I call Ms. Ellen Gaudet to the stand,” Henry repeated. “She’s already been sworn in.”

  Ellen stood from halfway back. She looked relaxed, her expression distant, almost disinterested. She walked with her tiny steps past the rows of spectators to the gate, opened it, and stood in the witness box. She turned and faced Henry, and he almost doubted himself in that moment; her expression was so cold that she seemed impregnable. But it was too late; the die had been cast, and he reminded himself that he was fighting, in a way for her as well as for Raymond. The truth sets people free, always, in every way, Baxter had said. But looking at Ellen, Henry thought, Not everybody wants to be free. Some people would rather die in chains. Brackman’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  “The witness is reminded she’s still under oath,” Brackman said, nodding to Ellen. She sat demurely in the witness stand, crossed her legs, and smoothed her skirt. “All right, Counselor,” Brackman said. “Clock’s ticking.”

  Henry walked from behind his table. He held his first question in his mouth, tasting it, feeling its power, knowing that the simple act of speaking those words would change the life of the woman facing him forever. Once uttered, nothing in her private life would ever be secret again, and the thin veil of respectability she clung to would be ripped into pieces. That fiction, tattered and faded, was the pillow upon which she dreamed, the only thing in her world that made her able to walk down the street of that miserable little town and not feel like human excrement. It was what kept the fantasy alive, if only in an infinitesimal place in her brain, that she was a woman worth knowing. It was her air, her food, her inner life, and he was making her give it up to him on a cross. He thought of Raymond, looked up sharply at Ellen, and released his question like a depth charge. “Ms. Gaudet,” he said quietly, “when did you decide to change your name?”

  Brackman looked up, roused from his normal intentional expression of disinterest. There was a murmur through the crowd, and from out of the corner of his eye Henry saw Hesston set down his pen and turn to face him. Ellen stared back at Henry as though she hadn’t heard the question. Then her lips parted slightly; Henry, standing near, could hear her breathing suddenly grow deeper, more labored. He let her sit, allowing the tension of her silence to work in the room. Several seconds passed, and in each Henry could detect a subtle change in her eyes; she grew more remote, as though retreating from the courtroom.

  Henry repeated the question. “Your name, Ms. Gaudet. It used to be something else. I’m asking when you felt it necessary to change it.”

  When Ellen spoke her voice quavered slightly, a crack in her steel resolve. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  “Perhaps I’m not making myself clear,” Henry interrupted, allowing a precisely measured hint of condescension to creep into his voice, as though the woman before him was wasting his time. “Your last name at one time was Cox, isn’t that correct? Ellen Cox?”

  Ellen looked up at the judge as though there had been a mistake, as though a pleading lo
ok at Brackman would make what was happening stop. But Brackman had picked up on the tension that had filled the room the instant Henry had asked his question, and he knew better than to do anything to deflect it. Ellen turned back to Henry, and for the first time he saw in her eyes a silent, unmistakable plea: Don’t do this. Please for God’s sake don’t do this.

  The sight of her simple human vulnerability nearly ground him to a halt. He wavered, and very nearly looked down. The truth sets people free. Always, in every way. He managed to hold his stare, and heard himself saying, “Please direct the witness to answer the question, your honor.”

  “The witness will answer the question.”

  Ellen closed her eyes for several seconds. When she opened them, she was infinitely harder, a human diamond. Then she spoke, her voice quiet, a death rattle. “That’s right. It was Cox.”

  So it begins, Henry thought, and together we discover your capacity for pain.“When did you change it?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Henry walked to his table. He picked up a sheaf of papers, turned to her, and held them up. “I believe it was in the year 1973. Wouldn’t that be correct, Ms. Gaudet?”

  Ellen looked at the papers. For a moment, Henry looked privately at her and softened his expression, willing her to understand: I don’t want to do this. Let me stop. Give me what I need before it goes too far.

  “I guess that’s right.”

  “What was wrong with the name Cox, Ms. Gaudet? It’s perfectly normal. Why did you feel the need to change it?” Hesston now rose from his chair, looking confident, but Henry could see it in his eyes: He doesn’t know about this. He’s worried. He doesn’t understand what I want.

  “Your honor,” Hesston said, “I suppose this line of inquiry has some point, but as usual Mr. Mathews is keeping it a secret. I would ask the court to direct counsel to refer to matters that have to do with Tyler Crandall’s will, not the personal matters of other people almost thirty years old.”

  Brackman looked at Hesston, then past him to the gallery; every eye was leveled at him in rapt attention. Henry could feel him calculating, comparing risks. The judge’s face was unsure. “Counselor,” he asked, “exactly where are we headed here?”