Wills & Trust (Legally in Love Collection Book 3)

by Jennifer Griffith

  “I know, your honor. I’ll make it quick. Quick like a bunny!”

  Quirt sat down beside them and flipped open the briefcase, pulling out a file labeled Brooke’s Time Sheets. Another was labeled Brooke’s Medical Records. Yet another was Brooke’s Transcripts. Her jaw went slack. What was all this?

  “Where did that come from?” she hissed, but the bailiff shushed her as the judge spoke with the stranger.

  “We’ve been here a few times before, you and I. This had better be your fastest argument yet. Does your parole officer know you’re down here today, Mr. Rockwell?”

  Mr. Rockwell!

  __________

  “Mr. Rockwell?” The ethics hearing officer addressed Dane.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re here to discuss the events of the night of April eleventh. I assume you’ve been made aware of the charges against you?”

  Just to be thorough, the judge recapped them, each accusation a needle in Dane’s brain. They sounded a lot worse when they were lined up like that.

  “How do you plead?”

  Guilty pleas went faster, Dane knew. With a guilty plea, the whole second act of the courtroom drama would drop out and cut to the sentencing; get it over with, and he could get back upstairs to help Brooke.

  But, yeah. That might be flawed reasoning.

  “Not guilty,” he said. Completely, a hundred percent innocent, not guilty.

  “Ms. Ingersoll.” The judge turned to Her Beigeness. “We’ll begin with you and your client.”

  Her client? Dane was supposed to know that woman sitting there? He’d never seen her before in his life.

  With a sneer, Ingersoll stood and pointed to the dowdy woman beside her. “On the night of April eleventh, my client was leaving Tweed Law after doing routine janitorial work at her husband’s office, when that man, Dane Rockwell, assaulted her close to midnight. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Jackson?”

  That was the nasty Ms. Jackson? That…mousy thing? Where were the open blouse and slingback sandals? Humph. They’d obviously gone with the drunken bravado.

  “Your client’s full name for the record?”

  “Galadriel Mae Jackson.”

  “Galadriel!” It exploded from Dane’s mouth.

  Nieve Ingersoll swooped on him. “Don’t tell me you didn’t even know her first name! This makes your guilt appear even more heinous.”

  Dane had been set up. This was so bad. He looked at the three people sitting there in judgment on him: a man and two women. Two. And the one in the center, the head judge, was also a woman.

  The deck was stacked against him.

  __________

  Brooke started biting her fingernail as the flashy Rockwell guy kept talking.

  “And then let me show yous what else, all right, Your Honor?” He pulled a keychain out of his pocket. “Do you want to see it with your own eyes, judge? I couldn’t take any pictures, but I do gots my Camaro parked downstairs. My cousin Eddie put some new rims on it that look like a peach, you know? You’d like them. It’s not exactly new, and it ain’t vintage status yet, but I gotta takes care of it, you know? It’s gonna be worth something someday. And it ain’t worth as much now that it got rammed into by Doug the Drug Dealer, which is why I’m here, as I’ve said multiple times …”

  This story took so many tangents. While this Vincent Rockwell had dragged the judge up practically every garden path in the whole Chesapeake and Tidewater region, her watch’s minute hand slid southward toward four thirty, and Brooke’s tension wound tighter and tighter.

  Ames had come in and sat next to Quirt, but no one was allowed to talk.

  What was Ames going to say? She’d been an idiot to make that deal with him without knowing what he’d testify to.

  All of this was a giant shot in the dark.

  Except for these files Quirt brought— they were gold. They even had a printed outline of what order to call witnesses in. Quirt was a genius! Or, wait—

  When the bailiff wasn’t looking, Brooke whispered under her breath to her brother. “Where’d you get this?”

  Peeking into the stack of files, Brooke didn’t heed Quirt’s answer, because she already knew. She flipped through page after page of all kinds of information Dane must have been collecting for the past week. Her mouth dropped open. Besides the copy of the will and the subpoenaed copy of the bowling alley scorecard from good old Cloyd, Dane had even listed witnesses— like Zinnia and Chevy from work— and some guy with a New York City address. Someone from New York to testify? Brooke didn’t know anyone in New York. Maybe it was someone from Grandpa Thunder’s old employment era there. Beside that name, however, Dane had penciled in a bunch of question marks, so maybe it wasn’t really a witness they could depend on.

  Boy, Dane had dug deep. He’d given her his very best. She longed to give him the best of her, as well. Brooke’s heart soared. He may have left her hanging by not sitting at her side today, but he hadn’t hung her out to dry.

  What Quirt said next shocked her. “He’s downstairs in an ethics hearing fighting for his career. Say a little prayer for him. You owe him.”

  Ethics hearing. Now? This minute? She gaped at her watch. No wonder he wasn’t here. No wonder he hadn’t told her. He thought that by not showing up today he was letting her down. She reflected back on the multiple times she’d inadvertently pressured him. Saying things like I know I can count on you, and I’m so glad you’ll be there for me. What she’d been referring to was his loyalty and devotion. But with this looming over him, all he’d heard was unfulfillable promises.

  “Where is he?” she whispered to Quirt. “I’ll go to him.”

  “Not now. You can’t. It’s too late.”

  Quirt was right, of course, but Brooke’s heart both broke, even as it was still flying high from these epiphanies. Dane loved her. All his attentions had been sincere. They had to be. This wasn’t the effort of a guy who enjoyed an empty flirtation. This was real.

  She loved him for it, with everything she had.

  Worry for him lingering, she let her eyes stray back over to the multi-colored silk shirt of Vincent Rockwell.

  “Mr. Rockwell,” the judge drenched his name with exasperation. “What exactly is your point? You’re wasting the court’s time. Or is that your point?”

  Actually, the thought glimmered in Brooke’s mind, maybe it was.

  __________

  “Let’s keep order here, ladies and gentlemen. No more outbursts, Mr. Rockwell. You’ll have your say.” The judge accented her demand with a knock of her gavel.

  Ingersoll dragged everyone in the room through a falsified and sensationalized account of the events of that night, painting Dane with the blackest brush. Even the judges were visibly squirming during some portions.

  Dane alternated between rage and horror. Bearing false witness was one of the big ten commandments for a reason. He could see that now. Destruction lay in its wake. Yowza.

  And Dane had done nearly nothing to prepare to defend himself against this litany of lies.

  “Thank you, Ms. Ingersoll, for your extremely thorough recitation.” The center judge, the lead, cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. She looked a little like Brooke’s mom, Mallory Chadwick, used to look. Kind eyes, patient, open to listening. That would make it all the worse when she swung the ax at Dane’s neck. The compassionate executioner. “Anything else for now?”

  “No, ma’am. I think I made my client’s case very clear.” That she had. A thorough work of fiction, but clear indeed.

  The lead judge turned to Dane. “Before we get to your turn, Mr. Rockwell, I have a request, even though it may be unconventional coming from a judge. However, I believe there was a security video shot that night. We’d like to see it.”

  Dane pulled it out to hand to the bailiff, hating himself for not making time to watch it through, keeping himself so busy with Brooke’s case prep.

  Ms. Ingersoll shot to her feet. “That— uh, no. No, your honors. That needs t
o be suppressed, for the privacy of my client, for her sensitivity. Please.”

  “Have you seen it yourself, Ms. Ingersoll? To know how sensitive it is?”

  “Of course, yes.”

  “Other than those of us who will have to pass judgment, there’s no one in the room who hasn’t seen either the footage or was involved in the incident themselves. Trust me, our discretion is complete.”

  This shut down Ingersoll.

  Dane prayed nothing in the video feed had been doctored. If it had, this could end up moving beyond an ethics case to a criminal trial.

  __________

  The judge’s patience had waned visibly by four forty-five. “Mr. Rockwell, you have been going on for thirty minutes. No, more. What exactly would you like me to do for you today? Be clear or I’m going to find you in contempt.”

  “Judge. Come on. I really need you to listen to this.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rockwell, this is going to have to be continued another day.” She banged her gavel on the desk. “Please go see my clerks and schedule a regular time to see me. And, please, bring an abridged version of your statements next time.”

  The bailiff showed the man who had to be Dane’s Uncle Vinnie out of the room.

  Now, all eyes were on the judge. “We’re ready to move ahead with the case of Faro LaBarge v. Brooke Chadwick.”

  “Faro!” Olivia said under her breath. “Isn’t Sergeant enough? He has to be a pharaoh, too?”

  Brooke couldn’t react with the same joviality. Her toes and fingers had gone numb. Her legs and hands would be next.

  “Come forward, please.” The judge beckoned to Brooke, and she rose to approach the table where the lawyers should sit. Quirt stood, too. He’d be right beside her. Or at least sitting behind her, backing her up. It comforted her— a little.

  Olivia, Aunt Ruth, Ames, Mrs. Tyler— thank goodness she had come— and everyone else stayed put while Brooke and her pinched feet trudged toward her doom.

  “This is a ridiculous question, I know,” Judge Vandalay said while pouring herself a glass of water, “considering the extreme delay to the schedule today, but is everyone necessary for this hearing present?” The judge popped open a bottle of Tylenol and shook out a couple of tablets. “Miss Chadwick. You’re here. How about your counsel?”

  Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  Quirt piped up. “I’m not her lawyer, but I’d like to give counsel.”

  “Oh, that’s nice, but if you’re not her lawyer, sir, you’ll please restrain yourself from commenting, and you’ll need to sit in the gallery.” The judge turned to LaBarge. “Mr. LaBarge, you’re slated to self-represent, as usual?”

  As usual? So the judge truly did know her opponent? Was that fair? Was there bias? Should she ask for a change of judge? Brooke didn’t know.

  She didn’t have any answers. She needed Dane, and he wasn’t here. Which reminded her— she sent a prayer up in his behalf. Lord, let Dane rise above. It wasn’t a well-crafted prayer, but it was from her heart and all she could concoct at the time.

  And then she sent one up for herself. Lord, let me see.

  __________

  “Can everyone see?” Did they want to? It wasn’t pretty. A gulp shoved down Dane’s creeping fear, and he stared alongside everyone else as the video from that night was projected onto the wall. If it was the same grainy mess Ullman Tweed had described to Dane, it wouldn’t be enough to exonerate him. It’d be like a surveillance video from a thousand feet away: blurred faces, indistinguishable intentions.

  “Fast forward to the correct time, Sanders,” the male judge said to the IT assistant. “We don’t have time to watch lawyers walk back and forth or type on computers for hours.”

  Nothing truer had ever been said. Dane’s eyes shot to the clock. Four minutes to five. Unless his Uncle Vinny was a miracle worker, chances were high that Brooke’s hearing was over. Whether Quirt would be able to decipher the piles of notes Dane had amassed, Dane had no idea. Likely they looked like a stack of gibberish.

  I abandoned her.

  Sanders the IT guy pressed play. Lo and behold, the feed wasn’t either grainy or black and white. No, it was full color and close up.

  Rumors of Ullman Tweed’s paranoia and subsequent security measures had not been exaggerated. Wow. There was even audio.

  This could be very good for Dane— or very bad, depending on whether these judges were watching the accurate version or a feed that had been tampered with.

  A gurgle sounded from beside Ingersoll, and Nasty Ms. Jackson’s hand flew to her throat.

  Not doctored, thank the heavens above. There it was in full color— Ms. Jackson’s arrival, her come-on, his rebuff, her insistence, and his flight.

  Obvious. But would the judges see it that way?

  Ms. Ingersoll’s face had gone from beige to flaming red. Anger burned in her eyes, and she jumped to her feet. “This is an outrage. That tape has been altered. My client is never going to stand for—”

  The head judge banged a gavel, silencing Ingersoll.

  “There’s nothing more for us to decide. Mr. Rockwell, we’re sorry to have wasted your time.” She looked at the judges on either side of her, and they nodded assent. “Case dismissed.”

  Relief washed Dane clean. He surged to his feet and jogged from the room toward the staircase to the main floor. Over the sound of his footfalls, he heard the head judge saying, “Just a minute, Ms. Jackson. There’s another matter pending— that of your false accusations. This is the fourth time we’ve seen you here, and …”

  The door shut, and Dane slammed all of it behind him as he ran at top speed toward the main courtroom upstairs.

  He had a hearing to attend.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Complex Litigation

  Every muscle in Brooke’s body quivered, uncertainty had turning her into a bowl of Jell-O. Sitting here solo at the defendant’s table— this couldn’t be happening to her. Not even Quirt had been allowed to sit beside her, since she was self-representing.

  Wait. Olivia was a Court TV addict. She could help, pass her notes of when to object and when to cross-examine. Cross-examine was a thing, right? Over her shoulder Brooke shot a help me glance to the gallery.

  Facing forward, however, she took another look through the stack of things Dane had funneled to her via Quirt. This…this wasn’t bad stuff. This could be helpful. In fact, this was the full body of her case.

  Dane hadn’t deserted her. Just the opposite, in fact. Even though he had his own neck to get out of a noose, he’d watched out for hers first.

  Dane Rockwell was nothing like Ames Crosby.

  The first thing in the stack was a list of questions for the first witness. As fast as she could, Brooke tried to digest their content so she’d sound coherent in questioning. Her stomach lurched. This was going to be hard. The hardest thing she’d ever done.

  Even with Dane’s extensive preparation, Brooke didn’t know if she could do it.

  The judge, though, granted Brooke a reprieve. “We’ll start with the plaintiff. Mr. LaBarge?”

  Was that a twinkle in Vandalay’s eye when she said LaBarge’s name? Fear and confusion made Brooke’s heart stutter.

  “Your honor, I’ll begin with the basics. This woman,” LaBarge pointed at Brooke, “pretends to be the rightful owner of something that belongs to me.”

  He went on to describe the history of his connection to the ball— a deep and abiding friendship with Jarman; generations of shared experience; a verbal contract; even the previous version of the will.

  Fiction, if Twyla Tyler’s account was to be believed. Hadn’t she told Brooke and Dane that Jarman never intended to give LaBarge the ball, that he’d been looking for a way out of the will he’d been pressured to sign?

  “Enter: Brooke Chadwick, a gold-digger who preys on the elderly in her side occupation as a home health nurse. She finds her victims’ most valuable asset, coerces a change in their wills, or else— as in this
case— forges a holographic addendum, naming herself as benefactor.” Sarge LaBarge’s tale spun on and on, but it had gone from harmless fiction to slanderous poison.

  Gold-digger? Forger? Heartless predator? Brooke kept her face as calm as she could, but inside, a storm whipped up, and her leg bounced.

  “There’s a pattern of behavior we can document.” He lifted a sheaf of papers and set it on a table. “As plaintiff I present names and addresses of her various victims, and dates of service. Eleven witnesses will testify that, as their relative’s caregiver, Miss Chadwick bilked the now-deceased patients out of a total of nearly a million dollars, beginning four years ago when she launched her side business of robbing the elderly.”

  The words nearly electrocuted her, the shock so great her leg even stopped bouncing. This couldn’t be happening. She was being fed to the sharks.

  Ames’s prediction had nailed it— this was a character assassination. She glanced back at Ames, but he was looking straight ahead, grim-faced. And tired.

  “From the moment she started working as Mr. Jarman’s caregiver, she started scheming how to get his prized possession, the Called Shot Ball.”

  Still the man went on, dragging Brooke through slander’s mud.

  “Some might speculate she only wanted it to prop up her aunt’s failed business venture. Generous? Sure. But know too that Chadwick invested a tremendous amount of cash in the business herself and stood to gain or lose a fortune— a fortune she got when someone else died and she benefited.”

  Uh, her parents had died and she’d received a portion of their life insurance. Which she’d used to help her aunt. What was he doing? Brooke’s breathing sped as her shock at LaBarge’s lies morphed into ire.

  Ooh, as soon as she got her turn to speak she had rebuttals for all of this.

  Except…she didn’t know procedure. Would she just call herself to the witness stand and tell her side? Was that how it worked? She felt hobbled by her ignorance. She could really botch this, embarrassing herself and messing up everything for Aunt Ruth in the process.