“It might be in the journals,” Helen said softly, thinking out loud. She looked at me. “Harry kept a journal. Did you know that?”
After taking Helen to her car, I walked back to the courthouse. It was late. The courthouse was dark, but my magnetic pass card gave me twenty-four-hour access. I swiped the card, and the door unlocked.
Harry Meyer’s chambers was located one floor above mine. He was alive the last time I had been up there. I wasn’t sure what I’d find. The investigation was ongoing, and part of me expected to see police tape or at least a sign that directed people to stay out.
When I got to the door, there was nothing. I looked through the window, and the office appeared quiet. The shades were drawn. Everything was normal, as if its occupants merely went home for the day.
All judges were provided an additional master key that opened most of the doors within the courthouse. I took mine out, unlocked the door to Harry’s chambers, turned on the lights, and went inside.
The layout of Harry’s chambers was the same as mine: an outer area for the law clerk and whatever court reporter had been assigned to work with the judge on a particular day, plus the judge’s personal office in the back.
I was surprised at how normal it all looked and felt. Magazines and legal journals were stacked on a small table next to a chair for guests waiting to meet with the judge. A few files were still on his law clerk’s desk.
I walked back to Harry’s office, turning on the lights. This space was also frozen in time: photographs of Mary Pat hung on the walls; books, trinkets, and awards that Harry had collected over the years were on the shelves; a fresh notepad and pen were placed on the desk as if waiting expectantly for Harry’s return.
There wasn’t any indication that Harry had been murdered. The violent images of his death that haunted me every night when I tried to go to sleep or surprised me during the day contrasted sharply with the quiet of the room. I felt unease, and I began to have second thoughts. Surely Jarkowski would have already searched Harry’s chambers, and I began to feel foolish for being there.
I walked behind Harry’s desk and studied his bookshelf, finding nothing but California statutes and old case reporters. I turned and opened his desk drawers, and they were all empty. Their contents had been removed. If the journals had been there, they would have been among the first items placed into evidence.
Suddenly feeling tired, I stepped away from the desk and sat down on a leather couch on the far side of the room. I closed my eyes, put my hands behind my head, and leaned back. I thought about the journals. Harry was a private man. Like the photographs, he wouldn’t just have them sitting on a bookshelf for anyone to see. He’d be discreet.
If I were Harry, where would I keep them?
I knew they weren’t at his house, and I thought it would be unlikely that Harry would keep them out in the open. They were too personal. If they contained his private thoughts, he wouldn’t want them on his shelf. Keeping them in a desk drawer, although more discreet, also didn’t feel right.
I opened my eyes, sat up, and looked around the office again. My fingers drummed on a small side table. The table had a lamp and old wooden top—one of Harry’s boyhood toys. I fiddled with it while thinking about the journals. Then I spun it, and the blue and red painted lines blurred together until ultimately wobbling to a stop.
I did it again, but this time it was too hard. The top spun to the side, over the edge, and onto the floor. I got off the couch to pick it up, and, while on my knees, I really noticed the end table.
I remembered Harry talking about building it. He was fourteen years old, and he built the end table to earn his woodworking badge for scouts. Harry called it his Hardy Boys table. I ran my finger along the side, and I laughed when I felt the string.
I pulled the string, and the front wooden panel of the end table fell open.
Inside there were five of them. Each thick, leather-bound, and filled with Harry’s private thoughts, musings, and frustrations. If he was afraid, this was the place where he would write about it. If the kids in those photographs were important, this was likely where I’d learn why.
Thirty years of life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Augustus greeted me at the door when I got home that night. He’d been alone while Nikki had been at work and I had been out. He wasn’t a happy dog. As I turned on the lights, he ran to the back door, barked, and circled.
“I know.” I closed the front door and walked toward him. “I was out too late. Sorry about that, buddy.” I unlocked the back door and let Augustus into the yard. As he surveyed the fence, I carried the journals over to our rolltop desk and set them next to the computer.
I went to the kitchen, emptied some ice cubes into a cup, and poured myself a large glass of water. If I was going to be in any condition to work the next day, I needed to rehydrate. I drank half the glass, refilled it, and looked out the back window. Augustus seemed content, so I left him outside and went back to the desk.
At the moment, I was too tired to start reading the journals. I still needed to think through how I’d approach them and take proper notes. I was not, however, too tired to look at Harry’s will, even though I’d been procrastinating since getting it from Harry’s home office after his funeral. My conversation with Helen had made me curious. It seemed like Harry would have acknowledged her in some way, but I wasn’t sure how.
Harry’s tax returns and other important documents were in a cardboard box under the desk. I pulled it out and removed the folder containing Harry’s will.
No surprises. The main document was just as I had remembered. Harry had appointed me the executor of the estate. Proceeds from his life insurance policy and the sale of the house were put into a trust for Mary Pat, along with the majority of Harry’s other assets, like his retirement account, health savings account, and 401k.
I skimmed through it, then turned the page to the addendums.
In most states, including California, there was the ability to designate certain items for family members and friends through a personal addendum. A person could designate a painting over the fireplace to their granddaughter, for instance, because it depicted a lake where the granddaughter learned how to swim. The addendum was intended to be flexible, less formal, and easily changed. Although pictures, furniture, and jewelry were the most common items distributed through such a document, California law didn’t restrict the size and nature of what could be given.
I took a sip of water and began to read the two-page addendum. Harry had several money market accounts, and he gave one to the American Association of Juvenile Court Judges. Another he distributed equally to his church, First United Methodist, and the Oakland Nature Conservancy.
The estimated value of these two accounts was not specified, but it wouldn’t be hard to figure out. He had listed in the document the name of the financial institutions, account numbers, and even the contact information. I was also confident that the websites, usernames, and passwords were written on the manila folder I had found.
I saw my name as the beneficiary of the third and final money market account. Harry had occasionally hinted at a little something for me and Nikki. This was usually when I’d been complaining about student loan debt and our inability to buy a house. Like the other two bequests, Harry had listed the name of the institution, account number, and contact information.
A mix of emotions filled me after I saw my name in his will. Part of me was excited about the possibility of making some small progress toward paying off our debt and, perhaps, taking a little vacation up the coast with Nikki. Then I felt guilty. It just didn’t feel right.
I’d trade anything to have Harry back. The ability to make a few extra payments to Fannie Mae came nowhere near filling the void.
I turned the page and read the final provision. I had expected it to give something to Helen, but it didn’t. The last designation was a standard designation. It simply directed the executor of the estate to give any and all unw
anted personal items and furniture to charity. Underneath, there was a signature block. The blanks were filled in with Harry’s illegible, looping handwriting, followed by his signature.
I noted the date.
Harry’s personal addendum to his last will and testament was signed two weeks before his murder. I wondered if there had been another one. It seemed likely. Perhaps a previous version included a final gift to Helen, but I’d never know.
Augustus barked to come back inside. I got up from the desk and went to the back door, thinking about how and when I was going to break the news to Helen. I wasn’t sure whether she was expecting something or whether she merely wanted to be remembered. Beyond the romantic, she and Harry had worked closely together for decades. It seemed like she just wanted acknowledgment.
I opened the door, and Augustus trotted back inside, content and ready for bed. I looked at my watch. It was late, but I wasn’t tired anymore.
I went back to the desk and pulled out Harry’s manila folder, the one with the websites and passwords. I flipped to the first page of Harry’s personal addendum to his will, the page that listed the three money market accounts.
I read the provision related to me, then looked for the corresponding information on the manila folder. The money market account was held at Pacifica Financial Canyon Bank. I went to PFC’s website and typed in the login name and password.
Since the website didn’t recognize my computer, a security question popped up. It asked for the place where Harry was born. I looked down at the folder. In the corner, Harry had written Questions. Beneath it, he had written Klaus, which was his mother’s maiden name. Then he had written Simpson Street, which was the street where he had grown up. Last, he had written Sacramento. I knew that was the place where Harry was born, and I typed in the answer to the security question.
The screen changed to the bank’s customer account page. Harry’s name was in the upper right corner, along with the last five digits of the account number. Beneath it was a graph, charting the account balance and return on investment over the past ten years, then a list of the five most recent account transactions and the balance.
I read it twice, sure I had misread the number the first time. Then I read it again and realized it was for real. Harry’s money market account had a balance of just over $6 million, and now, according to his will, that account was mine.
I leaned back in my chair. Then I looked around to see if somebody was watching me, but I was alone. Not even Augustus cared about what I was doing.
I stared at the screen. I read it again, stunned. This couldn’t be right. Harry Meyer wasn’t from a rich family. His grandparents were Irish immigrants. His dad worked for the state government as a midlevel accountant. His mom stayed home. And Harry himself was a good lawyer but from a different era.
He and my dad had a general practice on Tenth Street next to a dry cleaner. They took whatever walked in the door. In his day, there wasn’t specialization. There weren’t seven-figure class-action settlements, and lawyers didn’t charge $600 per hour. He made a decent living, but not much more. Then Harry became a judge, and he was comfortable but never rich.
I reached into the cardboard box and pulled out Harry’s most recent tax return. I looked at the first page, and I knew right away that none of the money deposited into the PFC money market account had been declared. His income was too low. His taxes only reflected his judicial salary.
I flipped through the remaining pages. There was nothing in his tax return addendums and attachments that indicated that Harry had a lucrative side business, rental properties, or investment income. I put his tax return back in the box, then turned to the computer.
The account page was still up. I clicked on the transaction history. Every month showed electronic deposits ranging from $10,000 to $60,000. There were also periodic withdrawals, but the amounts taken out were relatively small.
I clicked on each one to get further detail, but nothing useful came up. I saw only a routing number for the deposits—no name, source, or reason given for the electronic fund transfers. And apparently the bank had issued cashier’s checks for withdrawals. Names for the checks’ recipients weren’t available online.
I stopped.
Whatever was going on, it was certainly unethical and likely illegal. Given the timing and a complete lack of any explanation, it also looked like I was involved. If there was a scheme, it appeared as though I was in deep. Maybe Harry wasn’t as concerned about his legacy as I thought. Maybe he wanted me to become a judge simply to continue whatever scheme he’d orchestrated, or maybe he hadn’t orchestrated any scheme. Besides the money, I didn’t have any proof of that.
I looked over at the stack of journals piled on the corner of the desk. Maybe they contained the answer.
Harry, what the hell were you up to?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
In the morning, I should have waited a few hours for Nikki to get home from her overnight shift. Then I should have told her everything. I should have shown her the will, as well as the journals, and revealed our new millionaire status.
But I didn’t.
I got out of bed, showered, shaved, and got ready for the day. I wasn’t, however, going straight to work. I grabbed two of Harry’s journals, which I’d read if I had time after the morning hearings. Then I took a copy of the will, and I put everything in my briefcase.
Checking my watch, I figured that I had just enough time to drive to the PFC branch office on Foothill Boulevard.
When I arrived, the bank had just opened—no lines. Smiling, I walked up to the counter with my paperwork and explained that I was the executor of Harry Meyer’s estate. I told the clerk I had questions about some specific transactions.
According to the name tag, her name was Barb and she’d worked at PFC for three years. “That’s something my manager can help you with,” she said. “Let me get your name and account number. Then have a seat over there.” Barb pointed to a small alcove with a row of wooden chairs, a table filled with magazines, and a large fish tank.
I checked my watch again, wondering how long I’d have to wait. I was due in court in an hour.
Ten minutes later, the manager came out to see me. He was friendly and eager to help. Either he was highly caffeinated or had looked up the account and seen Harry’s balance.
“Mr. Thompson.” He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you. Judge Meyer was an excellent customer, and I’d be happy to help you with any questions related to his account.”
He led me back to his small office, where he sat behind his desk and pointed to the seat across from him. “So what can I do for you?”
“Well”—I sat—“I was reviewing the account information last night, and it appears that Harry withdrew money by asking for the bank to issue a cashier’s check.”
The manager typed some information into his computer and soon confirmed what I was saying. “You’re correct.”
“I couldn’t tell online who the cashier’s check was issued to,” I said. “Like who got that money?”
“Let’s take a look.” He fiddled with the computer’s mouse. “Well”—he raised his eyebrow—“looks like he issued all of those checks to himself.”
“Himself?”
The manager nodded. “That’s correct.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.” He looked at his computer screen again, confirming that the recipients of all the checks were the same. “Perhaps he was cashing them someplace else or depositing them into a different account at a different bank.” He turned his attention back to me. “It’s unusual, but it’s his money.” Like a good banker, he knew it wasn’t his job to be curious. “Do you need any other information?”
“Yes,” I said. “It looks like he gets large electronic deposits each month from the same person or place, and I was wondering who was sending Harry the money.”
Since I hadn’t asked him to close the account, the manager was still eager to please. �
��I can find that out for you.” He seemed to type and click forever. “OK,” he eventually said. “Looks like the deposits are being made by something called Red Rock ABC-5555 LLC.” He wrote the name down on a sheet of paper. “Some sort of company.”
He handed me the piece of paper. “I hope that’s helpful.”
“It is,” I said. “Thank you.”
I was undeniably late, by any definition of the term. Even though I wanted to research Red Rock ABC-5555, whatever that was, and see if it was mentioned in Harry’s journals, people were waiting. I texted Karen as I stepped into the elevator on the ground floor, and she was there when the doors slid open on the third floor. She greeted me and led me through a side door, and then down the narrow hallway behind the courtrooms. Karen had my robe hanging on a coatrack, ready.
“Thank you.” I zipped up my robe and took a deep breath, orienting myself. “What am I looking at?”
Karen handed me a ten-page printout of the morning’s cases. “Twenty lines,” she said. “Including the Tanya Neal and Peter Thill case.”
I rolled my eyes. “Wonderful.”
“And that reporter you love is sitting in the back. Benji Metina has been waiting all morning. She wants to talk with you when you’re done.”
“Any other good news?”
“Nope,” she said. “Just those two things.”
“Is everybody in the courtroom?”
She nodded. “I figured you’d want to call Tanya Neal and Peter Thill first.”
“Correct,” I said. “Let’s get them done and out of here. And if there’s a lull in the calendar, can you order me a sandwich for lunch?”
“A Reuben?”
I smiled. “You know me.”
Everyone stood as I entered. I gestured for them to sit down and took my seat. The tables in the courtroom were less crowded than last time, because the two eldest children, Neisha and Kayla, were still on the run. The younger ones, Bobby and Damien, were there, as well as the lawyers, social worker, and guardian ad litem. Peter Thill sat at the very end, next to Bob Finley. They each stood, one after the other, and stated their names for the record.
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