The Dead Hand
Page 12
“Ah. Got it.”
“Top of page eleven. I’ve read through the prior ten pages several times, looking for some reference to Marsha or to anything about his having sex with Norma.”
“And?”
I shook my head. “Nada.”
“When did he die?”
“April fifth. Almost a month after Irving told Norma about Adam and Marsha.”
Jacki nodded. “Okay.” She gestured toward the printout. “And?”
“Re-read those last two pages. See what you think.”
Jacki and I had gathered in our conference room at the end of the day to review the text messages and discuss strategies for the upcoming trial in Danielle Knight’s Rule-Against-Perpetuities claim against Marsha Knight.
The last text exchange before March tenth was on March third and started with Adam:
Hey, Sis, ideas for Erin’s b-day present?
Hmm…she loves The Little Mermaid. An Ariel toy? Maybe a bath toy. Target has them.
Great. Thanks. When’s the party start on Saturday?
2 pm.
See you then.
Bye, Bro.
The next exchange was on March 14th and started with Shannon:
Hey. u ok?
Yeah. Why?
Haven’t heard from u.
I’m fine.
Busy?
Yeah. Lot of shit going down.
Good shit?
With clients, yeah.
What about the rest?
So-so. Boss is super bitchy.
At you?
Yeah, probably others, too. She’s been in a bad mood.
Maybe she’s on the rag. Hang in there, Bro.
Thanks, Sis.
Love ya.
Back at ya.
There were a couple short exchanges the following week. On March 21st, Adam sent his sister a text telling her to check out a video on YouTube with a link to the video, which was a funny John Stewart piece on Sarah Palin from The Daily Show, to which Shannon replied: “OMG!! LOL!! Thanks, Bro!” The other, on March 27th, was an exchange regarding dinner that night at Shannon’s house, with Adam checking on the time and seeing whether he could bring anything. The answer:
6pm. Just bring yourself. Unless you have a significant other?? (Hint, hint.)
To which Adam replied:
Sigh. My only significant other these days is a six-pack of Bud Light, which I’ll bring.
And then the final exchange, on the afternoon of Sunday, April 4:
Hubby snagged an extra ticket to the Blues game tonight! Against Blackhawks! You free?
Damn! Early day tomorrow. Have to pass. Thank Bobby for me.
How early??
7 am. “Team-building exercise.”
What’s that?
Norma’s thing. Few times a year. Whatever.
Everyone in the office?
Sometimes, sometime not.
Who tomorrow?
Don’t know.
Where and what?
Castlewood. A hike, I think.
7 am. Wow. Drink lots of coffee.
She’s bringing Starbucks. And donuts. Only bright side.
Enjoy.
Maybe.
Love ya.
Same. Enjoy the game, Sis.
When Jacki looked up, I said, “Well?”
“Coffee and donuts, eh?”
I nodded.
“Did she really bring them?”
“I called Izzy. He checked the autopsy report. The stomach contents were examined but not saved, probably because no one suspected any drug cause. The medical examiner described the contents as consisting of partially digested pastry or bread. So yes, she must have brought coffee and donuts.”
“And put the GBH in the coffee?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“And we’ll never prove it.”
“I know.”
“Not that it’s actually relevant to Marsha’s lawsuit.”
“But very relevant to Adam’s sister.”
“Good Lord.” Jacki shook her head. “That is a creepy crew. You’ve got Adam Fox, who’s cheating on Norma Cross by sleeping with his own client, Marsha Knight. You’ve got Marsha’s soon-to-be ex-husband, Jerry, who figures out that Adam is fucking Marsha and tells his lawyer. You’ve got his lawyer, Slimeball, who sees an opportunity to blackmail Adam into approving a property settlement that violates the Rule Against Perpetuities so that Jerry—or his widow—will be able to invalidate the deed whenever the time seems right. And then, just to twist the knife a little more, Slimeball tells Adam’s boss, who’s so pissed when she learns about Adam’s cheating that she decides to kill him.” Jackie leaned back in her chair. “Not one hero in that crew.”
“But there is a client.”
“True. And we’re her lawyers.”
“Marsha also happens to be the most innocent member of that crew. And—” I smiled. “—there just may be a way to kill all those other birds with our one stone.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“How?”
“Not to mix our metaphors, but before we pick up that litigation stone, we need to plant a seed.”
“Where?”
“With Norma’s lawyer.”
“She has a lawyer?”
“She does now. She apparently notified her malpractice carrier. I assume the carrier retained him.”
“Who’s her lawyer?”
I smiled. “That’s the good news.”
“Oh?”
“Larry Blatz.”
Jacki raised her eyebrows. “That obnoxious blowhard. He’s now in the case? That’s supposed to be good news?”
“I’m hoping. He’s coming over tomorrow to talk with us about the case.”
“His idea?”
I winked. “So he thinks.”
Jacki frowned. “What’s the plan?”
I leaned back in my chair. “When I was a first-year associate at Abbott & Windsor in Chicago, I worked on one case with this elderly partner named Maxwell Patrick. His nickname was Mad Max, and he’d earned it. He was as wily and unconventional as any trial lawyer I’ve ever known. He gave me this piece of advice: When your client’s case is going nowhere, when it’s stuck in some litigation logjam, look around for a hand grenade. There’s always one lying around and no one else sees it. Grab it, pull the pin, toss it into the middle of the lawsuit, and in the chaos after it explodes be ready to grab any advantage you see.”
Jacki was grinning. “So our hand grenade is Larry Blatz?”
“That’s my hope.”
“And we’re going to pull the pin tomorrow?”
I smiled. “We’re sure going to try.”
Chapter Thirty
Larry Blatz’s three most distinctive qualities were his laugh, his self-confidence, and his enormous head. His laugh was as loud and rhythmic and obnoxious as a braying donkey, complete with the squeaking gasp between each roar. His self-confidence was all the more remarkable given his mediocre legal talent. And that head of his, topped with an unruly clump of brown hair, was massive enough to give any prospective wife pause at the prospect of birthing one of his children. So massive, in fact, that last summer, when Benny and I were having a Happy Hour drink at an outdoor café in the Soulard neighborhood, Larry drove by in his Mini Cooper convertible, slowing to beep his horn and wave at me as he passed. “Holy shit,” Benny had said. “Was that Mr. Potato Head?”
All three of Larry’s qualities were on full display in my office that afternoon, although he seemed a tad intimidated by Jacki, especially at the outset of the meeting. She stood as he entered the conference room. Towering over Larry, she gave him a handshake that made his smile edge toward a grimace.
> But he quickly recovered his swagger.
“Ladies,” he said, chuckling as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, “you claim malpractice?” A donkey bray, head thrown back. “All you have accomplished is royally pissing off my client, and believe me, ladies, that is one gal you don’t want to royally piss off.”
“Actually, Larry,” I said, “that’s good advice for you to follow in your dealings with Ms. Cross.”
“Oh, Rachel, puh-leaze. Norma and I get along famously. She wants an attack dog, and that’s my specialty.” He bared his teeth. “Grrr!!”
Another donkey bray.
“Larry,” I said, “have you read the property deed?”
“Of course I have.”
“Do you understand the plaintiff’s claim? How she seeks to invalidate that deed?”
“Rachel, I’ve read the pleadings. It’s that spooky old Rule Against Perpetuities. Oooh. Be still my heart. You’ll be sad to hear that I found a case that says the damn rule is so complicated that a lawyer can’t be sued for malpractice for violating it.”
“That’s not Missouri law.”
“True, but it’s a helluva starting point, eh?”
“And a helluva ending point for you and your client,” Jacki said.
Larry frowned. “What makes you say that?”
“As you should have already discovered,” Jacki said, “Adam Fox knew that the deed violated the Rule Against Perpetuities before he had his client sign it.”
Larry’s eyes widened. “Actually knew?”
Jacki nodded.
“What do you base that on?”
“His own words.”
“His own words? Where?”
“Here.” I slid across the table a copy of that transcript of the last telephone conversation between Adam Fox and Irving Sliman.
Larry picked it up and read through it. He looked up at me. “I’m not seeing it.”
“It’s right before your eyes,” I said. “You see where Adam says his concern is easy to resolve. He says to make the deed a trust. And then he cites a specific section of Chapter 456 of the Missouri Revised Statutes.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know what that section does?”
“Not yet.”
“It provides a simple way to avoid the Rule Against Perpetuities in Missouri. All you need to do is set up a trust for the property and give the trustee the power to sell the property any time, including beyond the time period that would void the grant under the Rule Against Perpetuities. The section of the statute opens, and I quote, The Rule Against Perpetuities shall not apply to a trust, et cetera. Look what Adam says. He cites that section of the statute and then says it solves the issue.”
“You get it, Larry?” Jacki asked. “Adam understood that the only issue that needed to be solved was the Rule Against Perpetuities. He understood the problem with the deed, and he had the solution.”
Larry stared down at the transcript, now totally befuddled. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand what?” I said.
He gestured at the transcript. “Why didn’t Sliman go along?”
“Maybe, just maybe, he wanted his client to have the ability to void that property deed at some later date.”
“But…” Larry paused, trying to make sense out of it. “But if Adam knew there was that flaw in the deed, why did he… why did agree to it?”
“Read Danielle Knight’s deposition,” I said. “You’ll see that her husband discovered during the divorce proceedings that Adam Fox was sleeping with Marsha Knight.”
“Really? As in banging him?”
I nodded.
“My God.” A donkey bray.
“You don’t get it, do you?” I said.
Larry glanced between Jacki and me. “Get what?”
“If Jerry Knight told his wife, Danielle, that his ex-wife has been having an affair with her divorce lawyer, then guess who else knew that Marsha was sleeping with her lawyer?”
Larry frowned. “Danielle?”
“Yes. And who else?”
Larry frowned. “Is this some sort of trick question?”
I sighed. “Larry, think about it. You’re the husband. You’re going through a messy divorce. You and your lawyer are trying to find some edge, some leverage point. You discover that your soon-to-be ex-wife is having an affair with her divorce lawyer. Who would be the first person you would tell?”
Larry grinned. “Aha! I bet I know the answer to that one. Your lawyer. That’s who you’d tell, right?”
I snuck a peek at Jacki, who rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Correct, Larry,” I said.
“So the old Slimeball knew, eh?”
“So it would seem.”
“Now wait.” Larry frowned. “Do you think he might have tried to use that information?”
“Read the transcript again Larry. And when you get to Adam Fox’s reference to Rule 4-1.8, let me give you a hint. You have a pen?”
Larry pulled one out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
“Write this down,” I said. “The Missouri Supreme Court Rules of Professional Conduct. Read them when you get back to your office. And when you’re done, go back and read the rest of this transcript.”
Larry scribbled down those citations and then looked up. “Okay. And then?”
I smiled. “And then you just might see a different pathway to defending the malpractice claim.”
He nodded. A hesitant, puzzled nod—an unusual response from a man I’d never known to feel hesitant or puzzled. He must have sensed that himself, for his hesitant, puzzled nod slowly morphed into a chuckle and then, alas, a donkey bray as he got to his feet.
“Thank you, ladies. You’ve given me some good ammo. To quote the great late Jack Buck, ‘We will see you tomorrow.’” He bowed toward me, and then toward Jacki. “Take care.”
And then he left. A few seconds later, I heard him leave our offices.
“Jack Buck?” Jacki said.
I shrugged. “Whatever.”
“What a bozo. But he’s our grenade, eh?”
“Let’s hope so.”
“And we just pulled the pin?”
I smiled. “As Mad Max told me, cover your ears but keep your eyes peeled.”
Section 4
“If you dig a pit for someone else,
you’ll fall in it yourself.”
—Yiddish proverb
St. Louis Lawyer Weekly (November 2)
Motion to Invalidate Mulligan
Bloodline Trust Set for Hearing
Before Circuit Judge Bauer
“We will reclaim the family legacy,” declares Attorney Strauss
During his lifetime, Bert Mulligan gained acclaim as founder and CEO of The Mulligan Group. Two years after his death, he risks humiliation in a probate action disputing his status as the biological father of Carson Mulligan, born to Bert’s second wife, Cyndi, eleven months after his death.
Under Mulligan’s will, little Carson—as Mulligan’s daughter—is sole heir to his stock in The Mulligan Group, purportedly valued at more than $100 million. But challenging her status as biological daughter is Bert Mulligan’s biological son, the 53-year-old Bert Grimsley (né Mulligan), born during his father’s first marriage.
“In science we trust,” proclaimed Grimsley’s trial attorney, Milton Strauss, referring to his theme for the hearing, scheduled to begin Monday morning before St. Louis County Circuit Judge Robert Bauer. “We may never know the identity of Carson’s real father, but we will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bert Mulligan is not her father. Ironically, we seek to uphold the integrity of the bloodline bequest, and in the process honor Bert Mulligan’s true intent.”
Carson Mulligan’s lawyer, Rachel Gold, d
eclined comment on the case or her opposing counsel’s boast.
(continued on page 19)
Chapter Thirty-one
Milton Strauss went first, and, as I expected, kept it short and simple. His case began with the introduction into evidence of several uncontested documents, including Bert Mulligan’s death certificate, his Last Will and Testament, and Carson Mulligan’s birth certificate. Next was his reading into the record Cyndi Mulligan’s interrogatory answers as to when she obtained the sperm deposits from Procreative Cryogenics and when she gave birth to Carson Mulligan. He followed that with a reading from the deposition testimony of George Luntz of Procreative Cryogenics concerning the lack of any records of sperm deposits under Bert Mulligan’s Social Security number. He staged that reading as a dramatic recreation of the deposition, with a female paralegal named Suzie Bell reading my questions and a young male associate named John Something-or-other reading George Luntz’s answers. Although it was hardly Shakespeare in the Park—Suzie’s rendition made me sound like a gleeful nursery school teacher, and John lost his place three times, once actually reciting the next question instead of the preceding answer—the judge got the point. Indeed, he glanced over at me with a frown and then jotted something in his notebook.
Batting clean-up in the plaintiff’s presentation was the plaintiff himself, Bert Grimsley. He strode to the witness stand, raised his right hand, nodded as the court reporter administered the oath, announced “I do” in a booming voice when she finished, nodded at the judge, took his seat, turned toward Strauss, who was standing at the podium, and put on what I assumed was his version of a game face.
Benny leaned close and whispered, “What a fucking douchebag.”
“Shush.”
Strauss glanced down at his legal pad, cleared his throat, and looked up at Grimsley. “Please state your name for the record.”
“Bertam Richard Grimsley.”
“Is that how your name appears on your birth certificate?”
“No. I changed it a few years ago.”
“What was your original name?”
“Bertram Richard Mulligan, Junior.”
“Where did the Grimsley come from?”
“It is the maiden name of my beloved mother. I was honored to preserve it.” He looked out in the courtroom, smiled at his mother, and turned back to his lawyer.