by Leslie Meier
Her fears were confirmed when she entered the stately building’s large lobby and found a line waiting at the door of the courtroom. She approached one of the court officers who was guarding the door, her press card in hand, but he shook his head. Fortunately, she saw Deb Hildreth pop up and wave to her, indicating she’d saved her a seat, and the officer let her enter.
“Thanks,” said Lucy, plunking herself down beside Deb, panting from the jog to the courthouse. “You’re a lifesaver. I had to park at the football field. It’s crazy out there.”
“I run every morning. My route takes me past the courthouse and when I saw the parking lot filling up, I went straight home to change and hurried back. I got here around seven and there were already a bunch of people ahead of me in line. I couldn’t believe it.”
Lucy was astonished. “You waited in line for three hours?”
“Two and a half. They opened the doors at nine-thirty. It was like a land rush in a Western movie.”
“Let me buy you lunch,” said Lucy.
“I figured the lunch places would be jammed so I grabbed some food, too,” said Deb.
Lucy was impressed by Deb’s foresight. “Well, tomorrow I’ll do the early shift.”
There was a little stir in the courtroom when Juliette arrived, and the news photographers lining the walls jostled for position, competing to get the best shot of the model. She was once again accompanied by Andrew Duff and Peter Reilly, but Little Viv had apparently stayed home. Spotting Bob Goodman, Lucy gave him a little wave, which he acknowledged with a nod. There was another flurry of activity when Vicky and Henry arrived, along with Zuzick, who made a point of greeting reporters he recognized from previous trials. It was a smart strategic move, thought Lucy, but even more likely was just an expression of the attorney’s ebullient and friendly personality.
“I wonder why Zuzick agreed to take this case,” mused Lucy aloud. “The Allens are so despicable—he’s bound to lose.”
“Money, my dear,” said Deb. “Mucho money.”
Lucy chewed her lip. “He must have found something positive about them. He must have something to build a defense on, don’t you think?”
“Actually, no,” said Deb, as the judge entered the room and they all stood up. “But they’ve got to have a lawyer, that’s the way the system works, and he probably figured it might as well be him.”
Judge Featherstone, as was his habit, got straight to business and Aucoin called his star witness, George Weatherby.
As he approached the witness stand, Weatherby was the very picture of a model attorney. His gray hair was clipped short and neatly combed, his complexion had the ruddy tone of a man who enjoys a glass of Scotch or two before dinner. He was wearing a neat gray suit, white shirt, and green and white striped tie. His sturdy black brogues were highly polished and, if you didn’t know that this was a man who had conspired to defraud a frail old woman and had now turned on his co-conspirators, gave an impression of solidity and responsibility. Lucy, who had always considered a man’s shoes a reliable indicator of his character, was insulted by his choice; in her view, he ought to have been wearing pointed-toe lizard mocs. From now on, she thought, perhaps she should only trust men like Bill, who wore white socks and tan work boots with thick Vibram soles.
Weatherby raised his arm and took the oath, then sat down and prepared himself for questioning by shooting his starched white cuffs. Lucy almost groaned out loud; it was a gesture she associated with arrogance and a show of power and which she detested. So, apparently, did Deb, who rolled her eyes.
After establishing that Weatherby was a graduate of Boston University School of Law who was a member of the bar in Maine and had practiced for more than thirty years, Aucoin moved on to his relationship with the Allens.
“Mr. Allen came to my office in Portland approximately two years ago, asking for my assistance in recovering money he had invested with Porter Stasko.”
There was a little stir in the courtroom when he pronounced the name of Stasko, known to everyone as the originator of a massive Ponzi scheme.
“Mr. Allen said he was virtually impoverished having invested his entire assets with Stasko. He was especially distressed because he had also invested his wife’s trust fund and that had also been lost.”
“What did you advise him to do?”
“I looked into the matter, but found there was no realistic likelihood of recovering the lost assets. In fact, the Allens had actually profited originally from the scheme—using the so-called profits to buy an apartment in New York City—and there was a definite possibility that the court would require them to sell the apartment and return that money to the court to repay others who had been swindled.” He paused. “I told Mr. Allen I was terribly sorry but I could see no legal remedy to his problems.”
“What was his reaction?”
“He was very upset. He said creditors were pressing him and, in fact, he didn’t see how he was going to meet his next mortgage and health insurance payments. He actually broke down and cried, saying he didn’t know how he was going to explain all this to his wife. He said it had all come at a terrible time. She had just become a board member of the New England Ballet and had promised to make a major donation, as is customary. It would be a terrible embarrassment, a social disaster, if she couldn’t fulfill her pledge.”
“And what was your response to this?”
“I asked if there were any family members who could help and he kind of laughed. He said, ironically enough—those were his words, ironically enough—his wife was the granddaughter of one of the richest women in America, Vivian Van Vorst.”
“And I suppose you suggested he approach Mrs. Van Vorst for help.”
“Exactly,” agreed Weatherby, nodding and tenting his fingers. He wore a solid gold signet ring on his pinky, but no other jewelry except for a solid-looking gold watch with a simple leather band. “But he said that was no-go. His wife was the beneficiary of a trust fund, which Mrs. Van Vorst considered ample for her needs, and that was that. The old woman absolutely refused to discuss money with anyone but her attorney.
“I suggested we set up a meeting with Mrs. Van Vorst’s attorney, Bob Goodman, and also advised him to inform his wife, Victoria, of the situation as soon as possible. I arranged a bridge loan for the Allens, but it was purely a temporary solution. We met with Attorney Goodman and he agreed to approach Mrs. Van Vorst on the Allens’ behalf, which he did, but unfortunately the timing was bad. This was October 2008, when the stock market plunged. He reported that Mrs. Van Vorst was panicked and felt herself unable to give them the money they needed.”
Lucy glanced at Bob, who was seated in front of the bar, behind the prosecution’s table. His expression was grim.
“The Allens were very disappointed. Furthermore, the bank had called in the bridge loan. Things looked very bad indeed. It was after this meeting with Mr. Goodman when Mrs. Allen stated that she wondered if her grandmother was actually in her right mind. She said this panic was not characteristic and said perhaps her grandmother required a legal guardian.
“I saw that this might be a solution to their problem because a guardianship would give them control of Mrs. Van Vorst’s assets. And, furthermore, it seemed that it would be in Mrs. Van Vorst’s best interests to have a loving granddaughter managing her affairs, rather than a busy lawyer like Mr. Goodman, who had so many other demands on his time and attention. The court agreed and Mrs. Allen became Mrs. Van Vorst’s legal guardian early in 2009.”
Checking Bob’s reaction, Lucy saw his face had reddened; he was clearly displeased.
“And once they had control,” said Aucoin, “the Allens began to strip Mrs. Van Vorst of her assets, isn’t that right? And you helped them, didn’t you, by providing legal documents and forcing her to sign them?”
Weatherby hung his head. “I’m sorry to say that I did. The Allens’ demands were quite modest, at first, but as time went on, they were determined to take complete control. They wanted everythin
g. I resisted, reminding them that their immediate problems had been solved and it was only a matter of time before Mrs. Van Vorst would die and they would most likely receive a large inheritance. That did not satisfy Mrs. Allen, who felt she had been given short shrift by her grandmother and had not been able to live in the style to which she was entitled. She said I had better do as she wanted or she would report me to the bar and I would lose my license.”
All eyes were on Vicky, but she didn’t react; she didn’t blush or even squirm in her chair. She sat there, impassive as ever, her eyes fixed on a spot on the wall above the judge’s head.
“I presume you were rewarded financially for the work you did for the Allens,” said Aucoin. “How much did they pay you?”
For once, Weatherby’s composure faltered and he mumbled his reply.
“Could you please speak up, Mr. Weatherby?” ordered the judge.
He raised his head, knowing he had to respond and that it would do him no good. “Something in the neighborhood of five million.”
There was a collective gasp.
“Five million,” repeated Aucoin. “And how much did the Allens extract from Mrs. Van Vorst?”
“Something in the neighborhood of twenty-five million, not including real estate.”
The gasp grew to a murmur of disapproval.
“No further questions,” said Aucoin, effectively throwing his star witness to the sharks.
Zuzick was on his feet, bouncing on his toes, eager to get his first bite.
“From your testimony, we might get the idea that you were simply helping your clients, the Allens, out of a sticky situation, but that’s not exactly the truth, is it? The truth is that you advised the Allens to take control of Mrs. Van Vorst’s affairs, didn’t you? It was your idea.”
“Yes,” admitted Weatherby reluctantly. “I had the definite impression that Mrs. Van Vorst was no longer capable of managing her affairs and thought she should have responsible guardians, and the court agreed.”
Hearing this, Bob seemed to be struggling to stay in his seat and Lucy suspected he would have liked to wring Weatherby’s neck.
“You went further than that, though, didn’t you? You began managing the staff at Pine Point, eliminating numerous positions, didn’t you?”
“As her fiduciary, I took steps that were fiscally responsible,” said Weatherby, his face growing very red.
“You arranged the sale of Jelly Beans to a Saudi billionaire, Abdullah bin Said, didn’t you? Why did you do that? Mrs. Van Vorst had intended for that piece to go to the Museum of Fine Arts, didn’t she?”
Weatherby bristled at that, and drew himself up in a defensive position. “Jelly Beans and other pieces of art were extremely valuable and I determined that Pine Point was not a secure location for them. In addition, the atmospheric conditions were not suitable for some of the older oils, especially the Corot and the Pissarro drawings.”
“You didn’t answer my question. What happened to the money from the sale to Mr. Bin Said?”
“I would have to check my records,” said Weatherby.
“Well, don’t bother. I have that information right here. The money, some two million dollars, went straight into your personal account.” Zuzick paced back and forth like a caged animal in the space below the judge’s bench. “The Allens turned to you with a problem, looking for legal advice, and instead of looking for solutions that were within the bounds of the law, you instructed and encouraged them to break the law. Isn’t that true?”
Weatherby glared at Zuzick, refusing to answer.
“Why can’t you say it?” demanded Zuzick, shoving a sheaf of papers into his hands. “It’s all here, in your confession.”
“I think we all know that confessions are not always accurate. Sometimes people are pressured to admit things. . . .”
“That’s not exactly true in your case,” said Zuzick. “You were not subjected to any sort of third degree, were you? The truth is that you volunteered this confession, you wrote it up and brought it to the prosecution on your own initiative. Nobody pressured you. So once again, I’m going to ask you, did you encourage and instruct your clients, the Allens, to break the law?”
“I did,” mumbled Weatherby, breaking down and pulling a large white handkerchief from his pocket and covering his face.
Judge Featherstone checked his watch and came to a decision. “We will adjourn for lunch. Court will resume at two o’clock.” A quick bang of the gavel and everyone jumped to their feet, the judge disappeared into his chambers, and everybody else began stretching and gathering up their things and rushing for the doors.
Outside, the air was hot and humid and still, beneath a white sky. The TV reporters began filming their reports, some of the women standing on little step stools in order to get a shot that included the courthouse. Other reporters and courtroom observers were streaming across the road to the nearby coffee shops and restaurants and Lucy realized that Deb was right, they would never get served in time to make the afternoon session. Her car was parked too far away for Pizza’n’More to be a practical alternative.
“I think you were smart to bring that food—what have you got?” asked Lucy.
“Nothing fancy. I just grabbed what was around,” said Deb, opening her enormous tote bag and giving Lucy a glimpse of a jar of peanut butter, half a loaf of bread, and a couple of bananas. They settled themselves on the grassy lawn in front of the courthouse, beneath the statue of a Civil War soldier, and made sandwiches.
“It’s muggy,” said Lucy, her mouth full of peanut butter and banana. “What did you think of Weatherby?”
“I think he’s a creep.” Deb twisted the cap off a bottle of iced tea and handed it to Lucy. “Sorry, it’s warm.”
“It’s delicious,” said Lucy, taking a long swallow. She was watching a bee fly from one little white clover flower to another, gathering pollen. “Maxine called them the Three Pigs,” she said. “Vicky, Henry, and Weatherby.”
Deb leaned back against a tree, her bottle of tea in her hand. “I know they were greedy and despicable, but, well, what difference does it make? They shifted some assets, they took some money, but it’s not like they robbed a bank or cheated on their taxes. It’s not my money, it’s nothing to do with me. The way I see it, it’s a whole lot of fuss about nothing. I’ll never see money like that. I’m lucky to clear four hundred dollars a week after taxes and health insurance. What do I care if some rich people screw another rich person? Screw ’em all, that’s what I say. Spread the wealth around.”
“I wonder if the jury will feel that way,” said Lucy, thinking it was quite possible. She wanted to see Vicky and Henry go to jail not only because of the way they mistreated VV, but because she was convinced they had murdered Van and Maxine. They weren’t on trial for murder, however, and they weren’t going to be because there wasn’t enough evidence to convict them. In her mind, this trial was simply a make-do affair, a substitute for the murder trial that should be taking place.
When court resumed in the afternoon, George Weatherby was again on the stand, reminded by Judge Featherstone that he was still under oath. He nodded, signifying that he understood. He seemed to have lost the bravado he’d exhibited earlier that day. Lucy thought he actually seemed to have shrunk somehow. He looked like a beaten man.
Zuzick resumed his questioning, which was designed to portray Weatherby as the architect and prime mover of the scheme to defraud VV, and to show that he was a crooked lawyer who led his clients astray with bad advice.
“It was your idea to transfer ownership of Pine Point to the Allens, wasn’t it?” he demanded.
“From a legal standpoint, it seemed advisable,” said Weatherby.
“Why was that? Why would you want to make Mrs. Van Vorst a squatter in her own home?”
A few people in the courtroom gasped, shocked at the idea.
“She was not a squatter,” protested Weatherby. “She had ownership for her lifetime, but the house was deeded to the Allens to a
void conflict with other family members who might have believed they had a claim to the property.” He cleared his throat. “There were also certain tax advantages.”
“But this was your idea, wasn’t it? You presented it to the Allens and convinced them to go along, right?”
“It didn’t take much convincing,” muttered Weatherby.
“No more questions,” said Zuzick, deciding to cut his losses. His strategy of discrediting Weatherby wasn’t succeeding; it was only making his own clients look bad, too.
Weatherby was finally free to leave the courtroom, which he did without delay. Lucy knew that he was not facing charges himself, but he had been disbarred and would no longer be able to practice as an attorney.
Aucoin’s next witness was Vicky Allen, but Judge Featherstone decided to postpone her testimony until the next morning in light of the stifling conditions in the packed courtroom. The aged air-conditioning system had failed, overwhelmed by the hot weather combined with the large number of people, and the temperature inside was over eighty degrees. Court was adjourned until the next day when, hopefully, the system would be up and running.
Lucy was in line next morning with her travel mug of coffee in hand at seven o’clock, and she wasn’t alone. She counted fifteen people ahead of her, and the line behind was already snaking down the hall. She had gotten up at five-thirty and packed a picnic in a soft plastic cooler, cutting up the remains of last night’s chicken dinner and making chicken salad. She’d also brought potato chips, fruit, and lemonade, all an improvement over yesterday’s peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Not that she wasn’t grateful for Deb’s foresight.