Wills & Trust (Legally in Love Collection Book 3)

by Jennifer Griffith

  Dane looked at some notes and then said, “But Mr. Jarman changed his mind.”

  “Oh, yeah. He wanted to give that famous ball to anyone but LaBarge. He was looking for the right person. For a while he’d considered giving it to my grandson Oscar, after Harvey and Oscar bonded over the story Nurse Brooke told him. Brooke Chadwick. But when Little O— I mean Oscar— died, Mr. Jarman changed his mind. I helped him track down Brooke, like I said earlier.”

  Brooke could see where Dane was headed now, and her fingertips tingled with anticipation.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tyler.” He turned to the judge. “I think Mrs. Tyler’s testimony shows that Mr. LaBarge is guilty of the exact thing he falsely accused my client of— manipulation of an elderly person into changing a will.”

  At the table across from Brooke, Sarge LaBarge kept a blank face, but his neck had gone from pale to pink to red to purple: a volcano ready to blow.

  __________

  Much as he wanted to let his heart soar over how well Brooke handled the questioning on the stand, and how perfectly Mrs. Tyler’s testimony had established Brooke’s character as upright and honest, and over how much of a total smackdown LaBarge seemed to be getting in court so far, Dane knew they weren’t out of the woods.

  Not by a long shot.

  Besides outing LaBarge for the conniving thug he was, the very crux of this case remained: whether Jarman’s will was genuine or forged.

  If genuine, the ball was Brooke’s. She and Aunt Ruth would retain possession of the most valuable artifact in all of baseball history. They’d save heir investment in the museum, and Aunt Ruth’s retirement would be secure.

  And Dane would have won both Brooke’s case and all kinds of ammo when he demanded she give him a chance at her heart.

  If he couldn’t persuade the court of its validity, LaBarge got the ball— for who knew what purpose. Actually, that was a good question. A seriously good question. Who did know LaBarge’s intent?

  Dane’s eyes swept the courtroom. They landed on the one face he dreaded most. And he knew— finally— exactly what he would have to do.

  But just not yet. There was one other avenue, a complete and total long shot, but one he had to try first.

  “I’d like to call Balthazar Koen to the stand.” Dane’s voice bounced off the back wall of the courtroom, off the ceilings, off the floor, and came back and smacked him in the face. “Balthazar Koen,” he said again, a little louder, as if it would summon the saving witness, with whom Dane had never actually made concrete contact— only the voice mail to his New York City phone number.

  The bailiff cleared his throat and said even louder, “Balthazar Koen.”

  From the back of the courtroom a little man with a long gray beard and a yarmulke stood up. “Eh? Did you say Balthazar Koen?” Hard of hearing— but he was here! “That’s me.”

  Dane’s stomach did those loop-the-loops that trick pilots did in bi-planes. The ultimate gamble of all time had paid off!

  Up to the front hobbled Mr. Koen, wearing a Yankees t-shirt and leaning heavily on a As he passed Dane, he tugged on his sleeve and whispered, “Is there a chance I’ll see that ball after this is over?”

  “Sure thing,” Dane whispered in response before realizing there was no way the guy could have heard him. No matter, Koen got spry and practically hopped onto the witness stand.

  “Mr. Koen, please tell the court your credentials.” Dane invited him in the loudest voice he could muster, and it worked. Koen heard him fine, right after he adjusted something on his ear. Nice. “You have expertise in handwriting, yes?”

  Once Mr. Koen got started in his Bronx accent, he didn’t stop. His list of qualifications, experience, and skills started getting exhaustive after four full minutes, when he finally wound down. He’d even worked for the FBI.

  “Please take a look at these two pieces of handwriting, Mr. Koen,” Dane said, presenting him with both the will’s addendum and the scorecard from Naughton Lanes. “Would you say they were written by the same hand?”

  Mr. Koen took his time. Dane sent up about a prayer a second that this stranger wouldn’t blindside him, and that he hadn’t been sullied by LaBarge in the past couple of days.

  Nothing was certain, and Dane refused to let himself glance at Brooke. No way would he let her see his nerves, in case any had seeped through to the surface.

  At last, the gentleman spoke. “While I would like to state decisively that they were written by the same hand, due to the scant use of actual letters on sample number two, which contains mostly numbers, I can only give a sixty-percent certainty.”

  Sixty percent! Sixty percent left forty percent chance it was a fraud.

  LaBarge would be all over this like a dog on a ham bone, growling and snarling.

  Unfortunately, after a few probing questions, unsuccessful attempts to get Koen to commit further, Dane had nothing else. Koen looked genuinely sorry to not be able to do more for him. This did credit to his honesty, especially since Dane had no idea what would motivate a guy to drive many hours— with no discussion of payment— down the coast to do a job sight unseen.

  LaBarge was practically slavering as he approached the witness stand in cross examination. His question was simple but powerful. “How do we know Jarman kept his own score?”

  “We don’t.” The handwriting expert said.

  He might have just sunk their case. Dane broke down and stole a glance at Brooke, who looked like her lungs had gone into collapse.

  But then she surprised him. Brooke reached beneath the table and took Dane’s hand. With no hesitation, he laced his fingers with hers. A perfect fit.

  “There’s got to be another handwriting sample somewhere.” She leaned in and whispered, looking desperately around the room. “Is asking for a short recess a thing?”

  Dane nodded. “You need a break?”

  “I need to talk to someone.”

  __________

  Brooke’s insides swirled like a ride at the county fair. After Dane requested and was granted a recess, Sarge LaBarge alternately shot daggers and haughty triumphant looks in Brooke’s general direction. Panic made her impervious to them, though, as she made a beeline toward Twyla Tyler.

  “I’m so grateful you stayed, Mrs. Tyler.” They hugged. “You were wonderful.”

  “I wish I could do anything else to help. I can’t even stand being in the same room with that LaBarge guy. He’s even worse than his lawn signs, polluting the lovely yards of my town.”

  “That’s just it, I’m afraid. I need something, anything, that might have Jarman’s signature on it. Anything he wrote.”

  “I don’t know, dear.” Mrs. Tyler bit her lip. “I haven’t seen anything substantial. Not a long letter, or anything.”

  Worry snaked up Brooke’s spine. She knew she might cry. The points LaBarge kept bringing up seemed so petty and pointless to Brooke, but how would the judge see them? Would it come down to a simple he-said she-said? And who would this judge believe? Brooke hadn’t forgotten the hint LaBarge dropped about being a close personal friend of Judge Vandalay, whether or not it seemed to be panning out today. All the truth in the world couldn’t outweigh a single lie when the judge had been bought and paid for through political favors or some other thing.

  LaBarge was so blackhearted. There had to be a way to illustrate that, beyond what Mrs. Tyler had just said. A second witness to seal that obvious-to-Brooke fact.

  Ames.

  But Dane had yet to call him to the stand.

  Brooke bit her lip until the inside bled a drop.

  __________

  Dane slid up beside Brooke, who’d gone back to pester Mrs. Tyler. If Twyla Tyler said she didn’t have anything of Harvey Jarman’s handwriting, there was no use trying to get blood from a turnip.

  He racked his brain. Where else could they find something on zero notice? A signature from the DMV? Some other government application?

  There wasn’t time. And Brooke looked like a million-pound
weight had dropped onto her soul.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” Mrs. Tyler said to Brooke, who looked like she might cry. “Unless— do you think this slip of paper would help?” Mrs. Tyler held out a little slip of blue paper. A glance at Brooke, and Dane saw her eyes light up— at last. “I keep it in my wallet as a way to remember a good friend. It’s not much.”

  Brooke brightened, and looked over at Dane with those big brown eyes, all dewy and hopeful. They shot arrows straight at his heart.

  Sucker. He was a total sucker for this woman.

  “What do you think, Dane?” Brooke held it out to him. Dane snatched it and in a second gave a muted whoop. He grabbed Mrs. Tyler around the waist and gave her cheek a big kiss.

  “This is it. This is gold!”

  Mrs. Tyler blushed and put a hand to her cheek after the kiss. But Dane turned his attention to Brooke— who had better kiss him when they won this trial. Because with this note they were on track. Completely.

  Mrs. Tyler said, “But it’s just a one-liner. Thanks for lunch. Harvey. I never thought it could matter. He slid it inside a dish he returned one day after I first started bringing him lunch. It’s too short, right? No substance.”

  “It’s got all the substance we need.”

  __________

  Brooke watched, chewing three fingernails to the nub while the next several things happened.

  Dane entered Mrs. Tyler’s note into evidence. He was allowed to call her to the stand to testify where she got it. LaBarge, in turn, tried again to smear her.

  “What exactly does Thanks for lunch. Harvey. mean?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. Dane objected. The judge sustained it, with a warning to LaBarge.

  Then Dane was allowed to call Mr. Koen back to the stand. Brooke still wondered where this guy had come from— how he’d come to be a rescuer for her out of the blue. But she couldn’t ask now. Dane was questioning him as he examined the paper.

  “With comparison to the handwriting in the will, Mr. Koen,” Dane asked, “is it the same hand, in your expert opinion?”

  Mr. Koen took a long, hard look at the two pieces of paper, not hurrying in any way. Meanwhile, Brooke considered the length of time a person could go without oxygen before death— using herself as a test subject.

  At last, the spindly man said, “While it would take much longer to be a hundred percent certain, I believe there is a ninety-eight percent chance these two samples were completed by the same hand.”

  A gasp went up from LaBarge’s side of the room, followed by grumbled muttering.

  Then Koen said, “With that third sample, from the bowling score card, I can see three possible examples of his handwriting, and it ups my estimate to ninety-nine. But, of course, I can’t be a hundred percent certain. Not at this time.”

  LaBarge jumped to his feet the second he was given an opportunity to cross examine. “Will you please repeat your last statement, Mr. Koen?”

  “I cannot be a hundred percent certain at this time.”

  LaBarge turned on Brooke and then back to the judge with a sneer. “He cannot be a hundred percent certain. Let the record stand.” He narrowed his eyes and sent poison darts at Brooke.

  LaBarge was right— she knew it. Their case was not guaranteed. Nothing, as Koen said, was a hundred percent certain.

  __________

  Dane, despite this incredible victory, and Brooke’s brilliance at asking Twyla Tyler again for some handwriting, could not rest on any kind of success. If he’d learned anything in his year of courtroom experience at Tweed Law, it was that nothing was certain until the judge handed down a verdict.

  Dane had one last card to play: exposing LaBarge for the manipulating shyster he was. Without it, the lies about Brooke dangled in the air, uncontested, like gossip at that horrible beauty salon in Maddox— except these would be on the official record of the Maddox County Superior Court.

  He had to set the record straight.

  One huge, unanswered question plagued him. While the judge took another short recess, Dane leaned over and asked Brooke, “Why do you think LaBarge is even doing this? He hasn’t said one thing about the ball itself since opening statements.” It was more like he wanted to destroy Brooke Chadwick than get the Called Shot Ball.

  In response, Brooke just blinked at him, as if he were missing the obvious point. When she finally spoke, he understood.

  “Uh, that’s why Ames is here. To give the court— and us— that answer.”

  His insides flashed hot and cold. He’d gone back and forth all afternoon about it. At one point he’d decided definitely to put Crosby on the stand. But then he put him in reserve when Koen appeared— thinking maybe Crosby’s testimony wouldn’t be necessary.

  Well, that was self-delusion. Somebody had to prove what LaBarge really was.

  Dane laid a hand on Brooke’s knee, then got up from the table as if to take a recess of his own. It was getting near to six now when court would close down. This could be continued, and the agony would rack Brooke all night.

  They needed to wind this up. And fast.

  He approached the unwelcome face in the gallery.

  “Crosby? I’ve got a few questions for you.” Dane took aside the doctor, and said in his lowest voice. “Now’s your big chance to make restitution. You want that, I take it.”

  Crosby’s eyes hardened, but some kind of humility forced him to nod.

  “Good. Then there’s no time. Give me three bullet points I can use when I lead you through questioning.”

  __________

  Judge Vandalay returned. To Dane she asked, “Do you have any more witnesses?”

  Brooke pressed his hand under the table, and Dane soaked up the warmth of it. A silent bellow of derision ripped through him, but Dane answered, “Yes, your honor. Ames Crosby.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Statute of Limitations

  All the oxygen sucked out of Brooke’s lungs, like someone had opened a jet plane window at thirty thousand feet. She’d wanted this, but it didn’t change how risky it was.

  What would Ames say?

  But if Brooke had misgivings about Ames’s presence on the stand, the look on LaBarge’s face proved he was a thousand times more horrified. Huh. Brooke would have actually probably liked to play cards with LaBarge because that guy did not have a poker face. Except something told her odds were high he’d cheat.

  “This might be unusual, your honor,” Dane began, “but I’m going to ask the witness an open-ended question. I hope the court will allow it.”

  The judge considered a moment. “As long as it stays relevant to the case.”

  Dane v. Ames. She never dreamed she’d see them pitted against each other— so vis-à-vis. The contrast between them played out on the stage before her very eyes, but she only had eyes for Dane.

  Dane walked with the lazy gait of the supremely confident, but was certainly calculating every step. His ever-present calm and casual exterior was a façade. Not in a bad way and not as a phony, because this guy was authentic; but in a way that masked from those whose opinions he didn’t value or those who hadn’t won his trust the deeper, more thoughtful and insightful side of himself.

  Maybe he’d had to in order to survive as a Rockwell, and now he’d channeled the skill into other purposes, like convincing a judge or a jury he had it all figured out.

  Please have it all figured out.

  After preliminary questions of name, age, and occupation, Dane sent his opening volley.

  “Dr. Crosby,” Dane asked, “would you please tell the court about your relationship with the LaBarge family?”

  Oh. Brooke hadn’t expected Dane to get so personal. Ames shifted uncomfortably, and Brooke’s mind shifted— Ames could embarrass her by dragging her history with LaBarge into the open. LaBarge had been persecuting her specifically for years now. She couldn’t fathom why. It wasn’t like his daughter Charli needed beauty pageant scholarships to attend college. She was brilliant and could get acade
mic scholarships, plus her daddy was richer than a pharaoh. There’d been no need to bribe judges at pageants. Or to steal Ames from her. Or to try to squash their family’s heritage of love of baseball by lying to get the ball from Jarman— and then from her. Over the years he had actively sought ways to completely crush Brooke, like a used cigarette.

  And Ames held the power to expose all of that humiliation.

  “I was married to Faro LaBarge’s daughter, Charli, until a few weeks ago. I lived with them at LaBarge Mansion for nearly a year.”

  “So, I take it you knew LaBarge well.”

  “Quite well, I would say.”

  “And while you were married, and therefore legally a part of the LaBarge family …”

  Ah, the empty air just narrowed to relevance. Good show, Dane. Brooke continued to bate her breath. Next she expected him to ask the obvious, What kind of a jerk is Sarge LaBarge at home? Or, How does he treat his family?

  But Dane didn’t.

  “Tell me, Dr. Crosby, during your time married to Charli LaBarge, did the extended family enjoy sports?”

  Brooke leaned forward in her seat when the next answers unfurled.

  “Yes, baseball.”

  “It seems everyone likes baseball. You were a baseball player yourself, I hear.” Dane didn’t let Ames expound on that, but instead he asked, “Would you say Mr. LaBarge had a favorite team?”

  Ames snorted. “I’d say he was obsessed.”

  “With which team?”

  “The Chicago Cubs.”

  “The baseball team.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you used the word obsessed. Please explain for the court what you mean by that.”

  “By obsession I mean the man had season tickets to the home games at in Chicago Wrigley Field. He flew there from Virginia for every game— didn’t miss one, even though Chicago is fifteen hundred miles from here. By obsession I mean he went to the away games almost as often. By obsession I mean he has an entire wing of the LaBarge Mansion dedicated to fan paraphernalia for the Chicago Cubs. By obsession I mean he hardly had another topic of discussion at any family gathering.”