“I performed a thorough accounting. I’ll make you a copy of the Inventory and Appraisal filed with the Probate Court twenty-five years ago.”
“I’ll demand another search of that house he lived in. You didn’t know about this theory. We ought to search the chimney and under the house. And check if Christina or Alex grabbed anything they shouldn’t have before you did your inventory.”
“That’s assuming you have a claim.”
“Isn’t there a claim here?” Gabe said, looking the lawyer right in the eye. “I’ve been doing some reading. Our mother’s agreement with Constantin Zhukovsky doesn’t mention me and it doesn’t mention my brother.” He motioned toward the file Turk clung to so fondly. “Go ahead. Review away.”
“That isn’t necessary. You’re right. The agreement doesn’t mention you or your brother.”
“When people write wills, they are often advised by their lawyers to use a kind of general bequest-like, ‘I leave my estate to my children,’ unstated meaning, all of them, born or unborn, named or unnamed, right? But my father’s will didn’t mention us at all, did it?”
“The only heirs are specified. He was adamant.”
Protecting himself from any accusation that he did a piss-poor job, Gabe thought. A lawyer worth his salt would plan for the chance a child could be born or adopted after the will was written. “Therefore…” He was playing a little game, waiting to see if the lawyer was just testing him. Maybe he thought Gabe was dragging things out but knew nothing. “Come on. Help me out here.”
“You want to know if you and your brother have a right to some of the money your half-siblings inherited under your father’s will.”
“I wouldn’t have said it quite like that,” Gabe said. “No, I would have used the term ‘pretermitted heirs.’”
Turk stared down at the file as if reading something on its blank surface. When exactly was it that the pleasant, affable fellow who had greeted him at the door to his office just a short while ago turned so homely? Gabe decided he was one of those sorry men who looked best when smiling. Unfortunately, in his business, he probably didn’t smile all that much.
“You’ve been doing your research,” Turk said.
“Right.” Gabe folded his arms. Now it was his turn to be smug. “So, tell me, Mr. Turk. What’s our position?”
“You’re right. There is a California statute that protects pretermitted heirs, that is, children who have been left out of a testator’s will. It’s conventional thinking that a testator would have made provision for his or her children if he had given it some thought, which is the reason so many wills do leave a ‘class gift,’ including all heirs, named or unnamed. Obviously, Mr. Zhukovsky didn’t do that.”
A “class gift” had a ring to it. “He didn’t leave us out intentionally, right?”
“You know, Mr. Wyatt, it’s my belief, after talking with you and your mother, and remembering his insistence on the wording of his will, that he did, in fact, leave you out intentionally. I don’t know why.”
“But what I mean is, he didn’t say so in the will, did he? He didn’t say, ‘I’m leaving Gabe and Stefan and any other future kids out because I’m a dumb-ass.’ He didn’t leave us ten bucks or his Lionel train collection so he could get out of leaving us money.”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t I have this right? The law assumes it was an oversight, his not mentioning us. So, we can make a claim against the estate.”
“Mr. Wyatt…”
“Why not?”
“You don’t have a case.”
“Why not?”
“The will was executed and probated many years ago, over twenty years ago. A judge has already ordered the assets distributed. The paperwork’s done, signed and sealed. If your father had died without a will, your claim might be stronger.”
Gabe shook his head. What was with this guy? Didn’t all lawyers love meaty money cases? Where was the greedy glitter in his eye?
Turk was still talking. “An objection might be made that your mother had an obligation at that time to secure or protect your rights.”
“If,” Gabe said, striving for patience, “we had been old enough to figure out what was going on when the man died, or if our mother had the sense of a finch and had consulted a lawyer at the time and staked a claim, then what would have been our share?”
“There’s a formula. Quite simple really. You take the amount of the estate left to any children, and divide it by the total number of children.”
“A million each, in 1970s money.”
“Actually, probate was concluded in 1980.”
“Still. In those days, I’ll bet a house in Monterey could be had for fifty grand. And in these days, what with interest and all, what with accounting for inflation… it would be significant, wouldn’t it? Way more than a million. Double that, maybe. Or more.”
There it was, a gleam emanating from the lawyer’s brown, reliable eyes, focused directly on him. “Not exactly. It’s very complicated. You’re determined to pursue this?” he asked.
“Do you need a retainer for something like this, or is it a contingency deal?”
Turk smiled, but it wasn’t a warm one. Probably still pissed about failing to put a class-gift clause into the will in the first place, which would have saved them both a lot of trouble.
“This firm can’t represent you.”
“Why the hell not?” Gabe had just been getting used to the plush office with its black-shaded lamps.
“Even if there was something to dispute, there’s a possible conflict of interest. I handled the probate. I distributed the money. I attended the man’s funeral. In a sense, I represented the named heirs. Their interests are in direct conflict with yours. Therefore, it is my feeling that it would be unethical for me to handle your case.”
“Then why did you let me tell you the whole thing? You were curious?”
“It’s all pretty curious, but don’t worry. This conversation is privileged. I will never discuss it without your authorization, even if I am called into court.”
He stood. “Just for your information, I think it’s too late after a quarter of a century to reopen the probate. That’s not a legal opinion. I can’t advise you. I’d just hate to see you waste all your money on a court case that’s destined to go nowhere.”
“Well,” Gabe had said. “Thanks anyway.”
Gabe asked for a glass of water. Salas called an afternoon break, and then they resumed. The jurors showed no sign of the usual afternoon yawns.
“What did you do after seeing Mr. Turk, with regard to Christina Zhukovsky?” Nina asked him.
“A couple days later, I went back to Christina’s apartment on Eighth Street. We had made an appointment, and when I came back, I brought along a few motion-detecting lights, that kind of thing. Told her I didn’t have the gun, but I could bring it on Friday.”
“And when was this?”
“Thursday.”
“Why didn’t you just tell her the truth?”
“That I was her half-brother? I wanted to have another lawyer lined up and know exactly how we were going to proceed. I wasn’t ready.”
Nina shook her head. “What did she say when you told her about the gun?”
“She was impatient. She wanted it right away. We agreed I’d bring it over that Friday.”
“The eleventh of April, the night she died. And did you bring her a gun that night?” Nina asked, praying to herself, please, no interruptions, let him go where he’s going now…
“Yes.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“About ten. She opened the door right away. Dumb move. I could have been anybody.”
“You say, about ten?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“You had brought a gun?”
“I borrowed one from a friend of mine. It was just to get in and try again to look around. The first time she had watched me like a hawk.” Again that bitter smile. “I didn’t care a
bout her stories. I didn’t care if she was stark raving mad. What I cared about was her money. Her and Alex’s money. But I decided to use the story to get to her. I wanted-I’ll be honest-I wanted to get into her place and look for documents.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to find out exactly how much money she had.”
The atmosphere of the courtroom closed around them, a mixture of sweat and too much stale air. Although it was nearly four o’clock, there was none of the usual coffee-deprived shuffling. It was a good jury.
Nina said, “What did happen?”
“She offered me a glass of brandy. I said sure, and she went into the kitchen. When she came back, I was looking in her desk drawer. My timing was off.”
“You say you touched her desk drawer?”
“It was a cold night. I was wearing gloves.”
“How long were you there before she came back in?”
“Coupla minutes.”
There seemed to be no limit to his cooperation. He was digging a grave like Stefan, only it was his own. Had Salas cautioned him properly about his rights? She hoped so. But Gabe barreled on, throwing the memories out as if he were projectile vomiting. He had a queer expression of distaste on his face now.
“She caught you?”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?” Nina asked, looking directly at the jury, not at Gabe.
“You know what? Her brother Alex was right. She was nuts. She way overreacted, got mad and, I think, scared. She didn’t ask what I was doing, but went back into the kitchen. It was as if she’d known all the time I wasn’t really there to help. I followed her. She threw a glass of brandy at me, connecting with my scalp. It was some thin little glass, so it hurt and shattered. Couldn’t have been worse. I put my hand up and I was bleeding. The situation was out of control. She screamed at me to get out before she called nine-one-one. I was so surprised that when she yelled at me to get out, you know what I did?”
“No,” Nina said. “What did you do, Mr. Wyatt?”
He seemed unaware of the impact of his words on the courtroom. Even the court reporter waited hungrily.
“I left. I just went like a kid obeying his mom. She slammed the door behind me.”
What, no murder? No hands around her neck? No struggle? All the air seeped out of the bloated balloon of anticipation in the courtroom.
“Your testimony is that you immediately left?”
Gabe spread his hands. “I swear it.”
“Did you then return?” Nina asked.
“No. I was bleeding. I went home and took care of myself. I gave my friend his gun back the next day.”
“You didn’t return later that night?”
“No.”
“You didn’t sweep up the glass?”
“What? No.”
“Mr. Wyatt, why did you run when we approached you in the hallway a few minutes ago?”
“I had a damn good reason. You people put my brother in jail on blood evidence. I knew my blood was there, too. I thought maybe you had found it finally, and would put me in jail, even though I had nothing to do with hurting that woman.”
“You’re trying to tell us,” Nina said, “that you were alone with Christina Zhukovsky late at night on the night of her murder. By chance, you were wearing gloves. The situation became violent. You were injured by her. You were jealous of her and searching through her private papers, but you didn’t kill her? Is that what you claim?”
“I don’t claim anything,” Gabe said. He nodded. “I didn’t kill her. It was my blood on that glass, that I admit, but I never touched her. She was alive and hopping mad when I left, but when I heard she had been killed, I knew how it would look. I broke down. I sat down at my house, waiting for the police. But they didn’t come. They arrested Stefan instead. They said he left blood there, too. I couldn’t figure out what was going on.”
Nina felt dizzy. The intensity of the last hour had drained her. Too much information bombarded her, too fast. Did they have enough from this brother who appeared willing to say anything except the ultimate thing, that he was guilty, guilty, guilty?
The blood! The most important thing! Confess or don’t confess, pal, she told Wyatt in her mind. You’re going to clear your brother. She turned briefly toward Stefan at the counsel table. Their eyes met and she tried to keep from giving him an encouraging nod.
The case against Stefan was starting to fall messily apart. But Stefan blinked at his brother’s testimony, trying to take it all in, frightened. He didn’t want it to be his brother.
“All right. Let’s get back to that blood you left in Christina’s home. Are you aware of Dr. Hirabayashi’s testimony earlier in this courtroom?”
“No.”
The judge allowed a brief explanation, which Gabe followed with amazement.
“I heard his blood was found at the scene, and there was nothing said about my blood. I assumed he went there after me that night. I couldn’t understand-”
“You suffered from leukemia when you were young. You were the recipient of a bone-marrow transplant?”
“Yes. It cured me.”
“Who donated the bone marrow that cured you?”
“Stefan was the donor.”
“Isn’t it true that you knew your brother, the defendant, shared the same blood as you?”
“Wait a minute, I had no idea. How could we still have the same blood? The transplant was so many years ago, I assumed by now I had my own blood, you know, that it came back.”
“That’s not how it works, Mr. Wyatt,” Nina said.
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Strike that last statement by counsel.”
Nina walked back to the counsel table and picked up her notes. The courtroom was waiting, on her side. Salas actually rubbed his hands together, a sign that he was excited. She knew exactly what question to ask now, what the answer had to be.
“How did Christina Zhukovsky come to have your brother’s name and phone number?”
“She asked me at one point if I knew anyone who could help her with odd jobs. I was trying to get close to her. I wish to God I hadn’t done it.”
Bingo! And Christina passed Stefan to Alex! A huge hole in Stefan’s story was filled in.
“How helpful of you. Isn’t it-”
“Objection!”
“Sustained. Counsel, do not comment on witness testimony. The jury will disregard the comment.”
Nina knew that she was too excited. Moving away from Gabe Wyatt, she got as close to the jury as she dared, hyped up, angry, outraged at what he had put Stefan through. She made sure her voice carried to the back rows as she asked, “Isn’t it true that you planned to kill Christina Zhukovsky and set your brother up as her killer?”
“No!” His voice softened. “I’m embarrassed to admit, I really thought Stef must have done it. He’s always been the one who screwed up. This time, I thought, he must have gone in way too deep. I never wanted to be the one who connected my brother directly to Christina. I tried to protect him.”
“But all along, it was your blood on the glass, Mr. Wyatt. You killed her, didn’t you? And then you told lies to protect yourself. This is your chance to make things right for your brother. Tell this jury the truth.”
“I am making things right. I’m telling the truth. I didn’t kill her.”
“You spied on Christina. You were at the scene of her murder in the time frame of her murder. You admit to a violent confrontation. Your jealousy and hatred of this woman, who had grown up with your father’s love and been given his money, got the better of you that night, didn’t it, Gabe?” Nina said.
“No! Somebody came there after me! If it wasn’t Stef, then-I-”
Nina turned to the jury.
“Expect us to believe that?” she said softly.
“Objection!” Jaime roared.
“Withdrawn. I am finished with this witness, Your Honor.”
28
Monday 9/29
SA
LAS ADJOURNED IMMEDIATELY AFTER GABE WYATT’S DIRECT examination. What a hell of an endless day. They all needed to go to their offices and homes to cogitate and reflect.
Jaime could reflect on how he was losing his murder case. Another lawyer might care deeply about that and try to bring the case under control, at the expense of the truth. Jaime couldn’t help himself. He wanted the truth, too. Sitting in her little office in the Pohlmann Building after hours that night, Nina thought, He’s gonna end up on the defense side. He has a bad character flaw for a prosecutor; he hears both sides.
Nina drew pictures on the pizza box on her desk: a big young man falling off a giant fishhook, Stefan a Christlike figure with his arms out. Most of the pizza reposed in her stomach right now, along with a healthy infusion of red wine. She looked at her watch.
Almost ten P.M. Bob was home alone at their house in Pacific Grove; Paul had left a message that he’d be back very late; Klaus, feeling better, according to his wife, rested in his bed in the big house on Peter Pan Way in Carmel Highlands; Sandy packed up suitcases in Big Sur.
A massive deconstruction was going on.
Meantime, Stefan was innocent, she was positive of that now. There were still problems. What seemed clear to her wasn’t necessarily clear to the jury. Ginger’s testimony had flashed by like a telecommunications satellite, too high to grasp except as a bright moving point in a sky of confusion.
And Gabe hadn’t sounded guilty enough. Nina could hear it now. At least one jury member was going to use the word flimflam.
She tried not to think about the evidence, but instead to concentrate on the people. Stefan, a young man in love and in jail, wanting only to marry and create the happy family he had never had. Christina, a shy woman who transformed herself to live a life she finally found purposeful, pursuing a dream.
Father Giorgi, hearing all his prayers for the old Russia come true when Christina came to him, and watching them fade when she died.
Sergey Krilov, Christina’s lover, still something of a mystery, but likely another hopeful wanting to cash in on Christina’s potential.
And Gabe, forever aggrieved, seeking his share of whatever it was that his father had given to Alex and Christina, but never able to attain the love he so desperately wanted.
Unlucky in Law Page 35