“What!” Brown snapped. “You called me down here to ask bullshit questions like that? I’m a busy man!”
“Sorry,” Hoggman mumbled, sensing he’d stepped across the line.
“I did my job,” Brown said. “Abigail Lannigan asked that Fairchild’s name be added to those accounts. It was her decision, hers and hers alone.”
“But, did she seem confused, under duress at the time?”
“No. She seemed quite happy – told me it was a relief to have somebody trustworthy taking care of things for her.”
“Did she know that Fairchild was going to use that money herself?”
“How would I know what she knew?” Brown glanced at his watch impatiently. “Is this going to take much longer?”
“I’m finished,” Hoggman moaned. “I’ll be in touch if there are any more questions.”
“I’m a busy man!” Brown repeated.
There were two more days of interrogatories. Hoggman called in several clerks from the supermarket, a man who owned the local dry cleaners, and the attendant who worked in an Exxon station close by. No one offered anything that was of use to Hoggman, so he moved on to three of Abigail Lannigan’s neighbors – the first two claimed they knew nothing of the relationship, except that from all outward appearances it seemed pleasant enough. The third was Mary Beth McGurke, a woman willing to say whatever Hoggman wanted to hear, for the pleasure of being in on some gossip.
“So,” he said, “you actually saw the Fairchild girl removing Miss Lannigan’s possessions from the house?”
“Oh, yes!” Mary Beth said, then she launched into a story detailing hundreds of different things she’d seen Destiny cart off – almost all of them pure fiction. “A six-foot tall coat rack, a three-tiered tea cart, some dishes, a soufflé pan…”
A soufflé pan? I wondered if Mary Beth was losing what scrap of common sense she might have once had. Why, I never even owned a soufflé pan – besides, anyone who knew Destiny would have realized she’d have no need of such a thing because she only made frozen dinners and chocolate chip cookies. The only truth about Mary Beth’s statement was the part about the overstuffed chair and, of course, my car.
By the time she ran out of things to lie about, Hoggman was puffed up as a frog and grinning ear to ear. “Well, I suppose,” he finally said, “I guess that wraps it up for me.”
That night Charles took Destiny to dinner. She wore a black crepe dress that molded itself to her body as if she’d been born in it, when in truth she’d clipped the tag from the sleeve just moments before slipping it over her head. The earrings she’d chosen were the color of emeralds and made her eyes appear greener than the make-believe stones. She’d hesitated in the middle of dressing, thinking that perhaps a person who usually wore jeans would appear foolish in such an outfit, but the hour was late and rushed as she was, she stayed with the dress. She was sliding her foot into a black silk sandal when the doorbell chimed.
“Whoa!” Charles said when she opened the door. “You look great!”
She smiled.
“Really great! Fabulous, in fact!”
He’d had in mind a little Italian restaurant just minutes from the house, but as it turned out they drove back to the downtown area and ate in TrumbullTowers, a restaurant which looked down on the city – a restaurant that had music and dancing and tables lit with the tiniest of candles. He’d planned on discussing the things he’d be asking about next week when it was his turn to question Elliott, but instead he wound his fingers through hers and stared like a schoolboy. After dinner they danced to waltzes, rumbas, fox trots, and even a tango that forced them to laugh at their own clumsiness. They danced until the music stopped, then long after the trumpet player had disappeared down the elevator, they remained in the center of the floor still swaying to the strains of something only they could hear.
On the way home, Charles mentioned that next week, he’d start deposing the plaintiff, but, try as she may, Destiny couldn’t imagine him belching in Elliott’s face.
It’s always been my belief that a no good lying snake will slither out into the open if you give it enough room – apparently that’s what Charles McCallum thought also, because when he started deposing Elliott he sounded so pleasant and polite you could start to wonder whose side he was actually on. “Are you comfortable?” he’d ask, “Do you want a glass of water? Soda, maybe?”
“I understand you were very close with your aunt,” Charles said in a sort of sympathetic way. “You saw her pretty often, didn’t you?”
“Not real often. That one,” Elliott pointed to Destiny, “wouldn’t let blood relatives near Aunt Abigail. She didn’t want to lose control of the old lady’s money.”
“When was the last time you tried to see your aunt?”
“About eight months ago.”
“What happened at that time?”
“That bitch attacked me. Jumped on me like a she-lion – sent me flying over the living room coffee table and damn near broke my back.”
“Oh, so you were inside Abigail Lannigan’s house when this happened?”
“I don’t know anybody who keeps their coffee table outside.”
“Miss Fairchild didn’t prevent you from entering the house?”
“No, but Aunt Abigail was dead by then.”
“On earlier visits, Miss Fairchild prevented you from entering?”
“Her? Shit, she couldn’t stop a dog from getting fleas. No, what she did was poison Aunt Abigail’s mind – turn her against her own blood relative. I shouldn’t have been begging for handouts, I was entitled to the money.”
At the far end of the table, Destiny, who’d been forewarned not to say a word, kept twitching and twiddling like a nervous tick. I wanted to whisper in her ear that she ought to relax a bit seeing how Charles McCallum seemed comfortably in control of things, but being dead has a number of disadvantages, not the least of which is the inability to speak your mind.
“In what way did Miss Fairchild poison your aunt’s thoughts?” Charles said.
“Ask her!” Elliott rolled his eyes and waggled a finger at Destiny again. “All I know is that when I asked Aunt Abigail for a drop of the money that rightfully should’ve been mine, she acted like I was trying to pick her pocket.”
“You asked Miss Lannigan for money?”
“I was forced to – financial reverses and such.”
“At that time, did she give you anything?”
“Not much to speak of. The old lady dolled out a measly five hundred bucks every now and again.”
“So, you asked for financial assistance on more than one occasion?”
“Yeah. But I never got more than five hundred bucks. Five hundred! I should’ve had it all! Me! A direct descendant of William Lannigan’s first born. My aunt didn’t deserve one cent of that money, she was the tail end of the line – female, at that!”
“Why would her being a woman affect the inheritance?”
“Are you kidding? I’d have every cent of the money if my grandma’s father hadn’t been hung up on having a son inherit the farm.”
“Then how did Abigail Lannigan get control of the estate?”
“From her twin brother! Him getting it, I could maybe understand. But her?”
“Are you then,” Charles said, “contesting Abigail Lannigan’s right to the estate she inherited from her brother?”
At that point, Mister Hoggman belched up the smell of pastrami and while people were fanning the odor from beneath their nose, he whispered something into Elliott’s ear.
Charles had to repeat the question, then Elliott, who likely as not had been instructed on the way to answer, said, “I don’t question Aunt Abigail’s right to the money, but now that she’s gone it ought to be passed on to a Lannigan descendent.”
“And you are the only descendent?”
“Yes,” Elliott answered.
“Of all those twelve children William Lannigan sired, you alone are the only surviving descendent?”
“Then I take it your grandmother and your mother maintained an ongoing relationship with William Lannigan Senior?”
“Not exactly. You know women, too busy to stay in touch. I was the one who called Will Lannigan.” Elliott said proudly, “The son, of course. Old man Lannigan was long dead by that time.”
“So after all those years of separation, you suddenly took the initiative and called Will Lannigan?” Charles gave the question the sound of confirming an admirable trait. “What could have prompted such action – a death? Family reunion?”
“Something I saw in the newspaper.”
“What was it?”
“A story about how some development company was gonna build a tract of houses in the valley on what used to be the Lannigan farm. Paid over a million dollars for the property. Part of that was rightfully mine.”
Hoggman erupted like a volcano, hollering how Charles was trying to make it seem that his client had done something unscrupulous, and belching in-between every fifth or sixth word. After the fourth belch, the stenographer requested a fifteen minute break saying that she had to go out for a breath of air.
When they returned to the deposition room, Charles stated that he had every right to question the complainant about his relationship with the Lannigan family and if Mister Hoggman disagreed, he’d seek a ruling from Judge Kensington. Hoggman fumed and fretted a few minutes longer but, knowing the Judge to be a man of short temper, he eventually sat down and allowed Charles to resume the questioning.
Almost immediately, Charles went on the attack and started asking questions that got Elliott squirming around in his seat like a man with hemorrhoids. “Wasn’t money,” he said, “the primary reason for your establishing contact with the Lannigan family?”
“I should’ve been in on it,” Elliott growled. “I’m blood.”
“Isn’t it true that you hardly ever visited Abigail Lannigan?”
“I knew she didn’t want me there!”
“Wasn’t that because you were always asking her for money?”
Elliott turned to Hoggman and asked, “Do I have to answer that?”
“No,” Hoggman answered. “Not unless you’re a mind-reader and knew what Abigail Lannigan was thinking!”
“Let me rephrase the question,” Charles said, “How many times did you ask her for money?”
Elliott hesitated a long time, like he was trying to recollect the accurate number, finally he said, “Not more than a half-dozen.”
“And you visited her house, what – ten times?”
“Maybe not that many.”
“Eight? Six, perhaps?”
“I can’t recall the exact number.”
“How many times did you visit in the year preceding her death?”
Elliott sat there looking like a man who’d lost his memory.
Charles waited a moment then said, “Let me help you, Mister Emerson, the answer is none. And the year prior to that? Once. When you wanted money.”
Hoggman, who by now was sweating like a politician on judgment day, smacked his hand against the table and said that Charles was answering his own questions. “My client doesn’t have to sit here and listen to your insinuations!” he shouted.
“Your client does have to answer my questions,” Charles snapped back, “and so far he has not been forthcoming as to the nature and depth of his involvement with the Lannigan family.”
“Maybe he honestly can’t remember,” Hoggman grumbled. Then he grudgingly told Elliott to answer to the best of his recollection.
The rest of the afternoon was pretty much a back and forth of questions about things Elliott claimed Destiny had stolen from my house – mostly things that never existed, silver this and that, jewelry, sculptures. Lord God, I thought, sculptures?
“How is it,” Charles asked, “that you can so accurately inventory your aunt’s belongings when you were at her house only a few times?”
“I just happen to have a very good memory,” Elliott answered.
“Good memory?” Charles repeated incredulously.
Hoggman suggested they break for the day. Then as soon as Destiny and Charles walked out the door, he stuck his nose into Elliott’s face and started yelling that such a remark was downright stupid. Elliott didn’t answer back, but he had this evil eye look, and I was hoping he’d sink his teeth into Hoggman’s neck. Not much about a situation like this can make a soul happy, but seeing those two go at each other came real close.
It was easy to see that Charles was smitten with Destiny – the way he’d watch her every little movement, brush back a strand of hair from her face, smile when there was nothing to smile at – I may have become a sorry-faced old spinster, but I sure do remember how it feels to have a man look at you that way. When the two of them left the building, Charles suggested he walk Destiny to her car. He seemed to be trying to stay on the lawyerly side of himself, talking about how the deposition had gone and what-all he was planning for the next session, but before they’d gone three blocks, he had his arm snuggled around her shoulder. “Maybe we should discuss this further,” he said, “are you free for dinner?”
“Uh-huh,” she nodded and smiled as if that invitation was the very thing she’d been waiting for. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
They walked fourteen blocks to an Italian restaurant that was so dimly lit, I’d have needed a seeing-eye dog to get to the table. It wasn’t real hard to figure out that they didn’t have a whole lot of working on their minds. He ordered a bottle of red wine right away, but they didn’t get around to deciding on food until nine o’clock at night.
After dinner they got onto the subject of Elliott’s deposition. “We should insist on a jury trial,” Charles said, “he’s not a credible witness, comes across as shady at best. I can show the only contact he’s had with the Lannigan family was for the purpose of obtaining money. Right off, that makes him seem dislikable.”
“He is dislikable,” Destiny replied. “But he’s right about Miss Abigail not wanting him around. She used to say he was a greedy man with about as much Lannigan blood as her big toe and the less she saw of him, the better.”
Charles laughed, “Repeat that on the stand.” He poured the last few drops of wine into Destiny’s glass, then took hold of her hand. “It’s not going to be all that difficult to discredit Elliott,” he said, “but we’re light on evidence to establish you as the legitimate heir. Our character witnesses are solid and we’ve got enough to prove the validity of your relationship but the lack of an actual will is going to hurt us.”
“But Miss Abigail wrote –”
“Honey,” Charles sighed, “that piece of paper is chicken scratch.”
Destiny looked at him and smiled; she focused in on the word honey and ignored the rest of his statement, which to her mind were only leftover words.
The following morning Charles resumed his deposition of Elliott by asking to see the documentation establishing that he was indeed a Lannigan descendent. Hoggman had come prepared and offered up the birth certificates of both Elliott and his mother. The lineage of Margaret Louise, his grandmother, was established with a baptism certificate issued by the ChestnutRidgeMethodistChurch and a copy of the handwritten entry in the Lannigan family bible. Hoggman spread the documents across the table and smiled. “Satisfied?” he said, his fat lips curled like overcooked sausages.
Charles asked to see the actual bible, which Hoggman agreed to produce the following day. Shortly after, he said he was finished with Elliott and called for a fifteen minute break.
For the remainder of the day Hoggman paraded in a string of character witnesses, all of who had little or nothing to do with the case. They attested to the fact that Elliott did indeed bank at their bank, or shop at their store, and was a fine upstanding person.
“How long have you known Mister Emerson?”
Charles asked the banker who seemed the most credible of the lineup.
The man answered, “Three, maybe four months.”
“In that short time, you’ve determined him to be an upstanding citizen?”
“I’ve had no reason to think otherwise.”
Charles shook his head wearily and dismissed the witness.
On the third and last day of depositions, Hoggman produced the Lannigan bible. Charles spread it open and methodically copied down each and every entry.
“Do I need to make note of those names?” the stenographer asked.
“Uh-uh,” Hoggman said, “he’s just wasting time.”
The final witness was Elliott’s mother, a woman nearing ninety and so hard of hearing that Charles had to bellow to make himself heard. “Do you believe that either you or your son are entitled to a portion of the Lannigan estate?” he shouted.
“Hell, no,” the woman shouted back. “Were it up to me, I’d tell that miserly old skinflint to stick his money where the sun don’t shine! He wasn’t no kind of grandpa, never so much as laid eyes on my face. Rot in hell with your money, old man – that’s what I’d tell him.”
“Are you aware that your son Elliott is filing a suit against Abigail Lannigan’s estate? He claims to be the rightful heir.”
“Abigail? I don’t know no Abigail.”
“She was the last of William Lannigan Senior’s children.”
“Oh. Well, if she got anything out of that miserable bastard, I’d say she deserves to hang on to it.”
“Unfortunately,” Charles said, “Abigail Lannigan is deceased.”
“Well then,” the woman sighed, “she don’t have no use for the money and I suppose Elliott’s as good as any to get it,”
The depositions ended at three-thirty and Judge Kensington was advised that both sides were ready to schedule a trial date.
In the months prior to the start of the trial, Charles saw Destiny two or three times a week. He’d call and say he had this or that to discuss, but more often than not they’d end up going out to the movies or some cozy little restaurant and never mention word one about the case.
The Twelfth Child Page 24