by Ron Schwab
“Do you have any idea how confusing all of this is?”
I squeezed her hand gently. “That’s what law wranglers like myself do, my dear friend. We try to create some order out of chaos.”
Emily was dubious. “I’m not interested in making a fuss. I did nothing to earn an inheritance. I’ve managed to make my own way without it, and I never had any expectation of such a windfall. It seems to me that I could best reduce the chaos by declining to be involved. What do you advise?”
“It seems to me, legal issues aside, the goal should be to carry out Ralph's intent. The problem, of course, is that his intent is a bit murky at the moment. I know that he was very emphatic about his wishes when I made out his will . . . he wanted you to inherit his estate. He knew I kept the will in my safe, and he never asked me to return it or destroy it. As to the holographic will, there has to be an explanation. First, we cannot be entirely certain it is his handwriting. My clerk, Will Heasty, is looking into that question and may have some thoughts when I get back to the office. I don’t think there’s any basis for setting the will aside on grounds of incompetency of the testator . . . as near as I know, Ralph was of sound mind. He had been nursing the whiskey bottle regularly the last year or so, according to town gossip, and I suppose he could have written the will when he was blind drunk . . . but I didn’t see any hint of that in the wording of the will or in the steadiness of the hand that wrote it.”
“It doesn’t appear to me there is much basis to contest this will even if I were inclined to do so.”
“Undue influence is another possible ground.”
“What does that mean?”
“The will could be set aside if there was evidence that he wrote the will involuntarily . . . under threat of blackmail, for instance. Or, perhaps, someone held a gun to his head, not just a remote possibility in light of the way Ralph met his maker.”
“But we have no proof.”
“Not yet, but much of the story remains untold. These things have a way of coming to light. And Will and I can do some digging of our own. Take my word for it. Ralph Wainwright did not want Celeste to end up with his estate, or Karl either, for that matter. If you walk away from this, one or the other finds the pot of gold.”
Emily’s eyes narrowed and she bit her lower lip softly as she pondered the situation. After a long silence she finally spoke. “If I should come into some money, I guess I don’t have to keep it all. I can use it for worthy causes. The suffrage movement is in great need of funds, and I have always wanted to help the Children’s Home.”
“You would have the right to call off the dogs at any time if you were not comfortable with the direction the case was going. If we learn the truth and it contradicts what I presently believe to be true, I would encourage you to back off.”
“It makes me feel very greedy somehow just to be thinking about this. How much time do I have to make a decision?”
“Not much. As the named executor, I’ve already directed Will to file a petition for probate. Another petition has been filed for probate of the holographic will. I anticipate that Judge Helvey will bring the petitions up for hearing simultaneously, but I don’t think he’ll want to commit to a decision until he sees what happens with the murder charges against Celeste. We could use time for investigation anyway, so I would try to get a continuance of the hearing and ask that I be appointed special administrator until some disposition is made of Celeste’s case.
“What’s a special administrator?”
“A person appointed by the court to manage estate assets until a will is actually admitted to probate. It’s a temporary job, so to speak. But the special administrator has most of the powers of an executor and has a responsibility to compile and file an asset inventory with the court. At the moment, no one has authority to manage and take charge of Ralph's financial holdings, and if you say ‘go’ I’m inclined to seek immediate appointment.”
“Can you be certain the judge will appoint you?”
“No, but we’d make a darn good try. Prince Albert will squeal like a pig and put forth his own entitlement. Reuben . . . Judge Helvey . . . tends to wither under fire and might appoint a third party. That would be my fall-back position.”
Emily smiled wryly and turned to me and brushed my cheek lightly with her fingertips. “You already have your battle plan don’t you?”
I shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “I can’t help myself. But you’re the commander-in-chief. You say ‘no’ and the war’s over.”
Emily stood up and paced the room for some minutes. Silences were never uncomfortable between us, and I waited patiently until she sat down beside me and clasped my hand in both of hers, her dark eyes fixed directly on mine. “The commander-in-chief says ‘yes.’”
11
Casey
THE YOUNG WOMAN stood silently in the entryway to the expansive dining area of The Castle, half hidden by a suit of armor that was posted like a menacing guard adjacent to the wide opening. The casual observer might have taken note of a coltish girl who appeared ten or more years younger than her thirty. Her long auburn hair gleamed like polished copper in the flickering glow of the gas-lighted room and cascaded loosely over her shoulders. A sprinkling of freckles swept across the bridge of her nose and faded into a flawless complexion that accentuated intense, green-flecked brown eyes. Without her pumps, she stood little more than five feet tall, but her slender frame and confident bearing gave an illusion of greater height, and the second look that inevitably came her way revealed a stunning woman whose serious demeanor invited no more than that extra look.
Her eyes were fixed on a man and woman who sat at a table in the far corner of the room against a background of shields and axes and other weapons that adorned the walls that carried out The Castle’s medieval theme. She had recognized Emily Stanton instantly, but it was Emily’s companion who warranted her studied gaze, and she was giving herself the edge of first appraisal.
He was a lean man, and from the long legs that were tucked uncomfortably under the dining table, she judged he was quite tall. His thick, sandy hair appeared to be salted with gray at the temples, and she guessed he could be a year or two on either side of forty. Emily uncharacteristically seemed to be carrying the brunt of the conversation, while her companion listened attentively with a rather grim look on his face. An old sourpuss, although a rather handsome one. Emily generally had interesting friends, and even from a distance she sensed a certain presence in the stranger that intrigued her.
The woman straightened her hair, stepped out of the shadows and moved briskly toward the couple. As she approached the table, Emily caught a glimpse of her, waved and smiled broadly and rose to meet her. The tall man stood also, and she caught a quizzical look on his face as the women hugged brief greetings. Emily turned to the man, who was quite tall as she had guessed, perhaps several inches over six feet.
Emily said, “Mr. Ian Locke, may I present Miss Casey McGlaun?”
Locke seemed momentarily bewildered at the mention of her name and shot a quick look at Emily, but recovered quickly and accepted Casey’s extended hand. “My pleasure, ma’am. I’ve heard very complimentary words about Casey McGlaun, and I generally . . . with a notable exception or two . . . consider Emily a reliable purveyor of truth.”
Locke’s steel-gray eyes fixed on Casey’s longer than mere politeness might dictate and she met his gaze unflinchingly. Faint traces of a smile formed on his lips, and in spite of his taciturn face, his eyes glinted with amusement. There was a private joke here that she was not privy to.
Emily interrupted the stare-down. “I’m starving. Let’s sit down and order.”
Locke seated the ladies and took his own chair. The women sat on each side of Locke so that the diners formed something of a triangle at the round table. All three ordered steaks with fried potatoes. Emily and Casey each had a glass of red wine, and Locke settled for a cup of black coffee. Their conversation was polite and mundane while they ate. Emily could not finish h
er steak and offered the healthy remains to her friends. Locke declined, so Casey shrugged and shifted the uneaten meat to her own plate, realizing this was not proper etiquette in polite society. She reminded herself that where she came from, one ate when the opportunity presented, because you never knew when the next meal might turn up. To hell with polite society. Locke passed on dessert, but Casey devoured a huge slice of apple pie. After dinner, the waiter brought coffee for the women. Casey sipped from her steaming cup before she set it down and announced abruptly, “The two of you are my guests this evening.”
“But I invited you and Ian as my guests,” Emily protested.
“I won a case yesterday . . . a paying one, believe it or not. Douglas County District Court. My client was so thrilled, she paid me my twenty dollar fee on the spot.”
Locke leaned forward, obviously interested. “A jury trial?”
“No, it was a bench trial before Judge Wallman.”
“I know Wallman. He’s a good judge . . . controls his courtroom and very fair.”
“It was a simple case . . . breach of contract. My client is a seamstress with several employees working in her home. The owner of a mercantile store had agreed to buy a large quantity of shirts at a set price from my client, but after she produced the shirts, he reneged. As a matter of fact, he found a wholesaler who could provide inferior merchandise more cheaply. I was blessed with a smart client. She had obtained a signed letter from the defendant confirming the order before she began production. I took the case with the understanding there would be no fee if I lost, but I was to be paid twice my usual fee if I won . . . double or nothing you might say. Not a glamorous case, but very satisfying.”
“Do you handle many criminal cases?” Locke asked.
“That’s about all I do. I represent mostly women in civil matters . . . not necessarily by choice . . . and a good number of criminals of both sexes who cannot afford the fees of the more prominent male lawyers,” she said matter-of-factly.
“How long have you been practicing?”
“A little more than three years. I graduated from Denver University, then moved to Omaha at Emily’s urging, passed the bar exam and put out my shingle here.”
“She’s been very successful,” Emily interjected. “Casey’s building a serious reputation among the criminal bar.”
“Omaha is a good place to start a practice,” Locke said. “There aren’t near enough lawyers here to meet the demand, and there’s a growing moneyed clientele for the right lawyers to tap. There’s plenty of work in our small towns, but not enough money. One of my former partners warned me when I decided to leave Omaha that he’d never known a country lawyer who got rich practicing law. He said if you encounter a wealthy country lawyer, find out what his sideline is and that’s where you find the source of his prosperity. Of course, a rich wife can’t hurt any.” Locke smiled wryly. “Unfortunately, I have neither profitable sideline nor wealthy wife.”
“And the money’s not important to you?”
“Oh, I like a dollar as well as the next man, but I want to earn it on my own terms. The lower overhead in a place like Borderview gives me a bit more leeway in choosing the work I do, and I get great satisfaction out of representing clients I know personally, and, for the most part, like. I’m a capitalist, and I face the reality of earning a living, but I no longer forget to nurture the spirit, so to speak. Where I live and what I do with my time on this earth is important to me. Other people own less of me in Borderview than they did when I practiced in Omaha.”
Casey studied Locke’s face intently. “You might make an interesting subject.”
“Subject?”
Emily intervened. “Casey’s very taken with psychology.”
“The science is in its infancy now, but I read everything I can find about it. We know so little about the human mind. But someday we’re going to know a lot. I wrote some articles about a German psychiatrist, Sigmund Freud . . . fascinating man. A little crazy himself, though, I think. Understanding why people do what they do can be invaluable to a lawyer . . . or anyone, for that matter.”
Locke was silent, and Casey could feel his appraising gaze. Oddly, he did not make her feel self-conscious. There was something about him that loosened her tongue.
Emily let the silence linger, and sipped at her coffee before speaking. “Casey and I met when we were both writing for the McClure syndicate out of Denver. Sidney McClure sent Casey all over the country on writing assignments nobody else wanted to handle. When there was rioting in a mining camp at Cripple Creek, Colorado a few years back, the troublemakers threatened to lynch any newspaperman who showed up. McClure sent a newspaperwoman instead. Casey filed regular reports under her byline, but nobody in the camp ever guessed that ‘Casey’ was a woman.”
“How did you keep from being found out?” Locke asked.
Casey flushed slightly and smiled sheepishly. “I camped with the prostitutes. The women didn’t ask any questions as long as I didn’t compete for their business, and the men assumed that a woman wouldn’t have any other purpose there. My living arrangements inspired another series of articles.”
“How did you end up in law school?”
“I enjoyed the action more than the writing, and during my newspaper days, I noticed that wherever there was a controversy, lawyers always seemed to end up in the middle of it. My father was a Cavalry sergeant, and I was raised on army posts in Texas and Arizona. I even survived several attacks by Coyotero Apaches when dad was posted at Fort Apache. It must be the army in my blood. That’s why I became a lawyer. I like to be in the thick of the fight. I suppose that’s why I thrive on trial practice. I would never make an office lawyer.”
“And I’m not cut out to be a trial lawyer,” Locke said. “I’m more peacemaker than warrior.”
“But you have fought. Emily said you were at Gettysburg . . . that you were a major. Cavalry?”
“Infantry. A brevet major. A kid promoted on the battlefield because everybody up the chain of command was dead or dying.” He spoke very softly and his face turned grim. She had obviously touched a raw spot.
Casey noted that Emily deftly came to the rescue. “Ian, you might be interested to know that Casey’s only the second woman admitted to the bar in Nebraska . . . and the first woman law school graduate. Ada Bittenbinder was the first admitted, but she read the law under her husband’s tutelage and was admitted by examination.”
Locke commented, “Ada’s made a reputation for herself. She’s the attorney for the National Women’s Christian Temperance Union. And she’s one of only a few women admitted to practice before the United States Supreme Court. Not many male lawyers can claim that distinction.”
“And,” Emily added, “now she’s talking about being a candidate for Nebraska Supreme Court Judge. Of course, she won’t be able to vote for herself. And neither will two of us at this table.”
“I wouldn’t vote for her anyway,” Casey declared. “I don’t want anybody telling me I can’t have a shot of whiskey if I want it . . . man or woman. She’ll be singing hymns from the bench.”
Locke abruptly changed the subject. “Casey, have you ever tried a murder case?”
The tone of Locke’s voice told Casey that the question was not a casual one.
“Yes.”
“Could you tell me about one or two?”
This definitely was not an idle question. “Well, one case involved a Negro who was charged with murder after cutting off the private parts of a white man who had raped his wife. The man bled to death. The rape itself was nearly public. The man had dragged the woman into a livery stable and raped her in a horse stall while his drunken friends watched. A stable boy ran to summon the husband, and when he arrived, his rage was uncontrollable. He rendered justice right then and there. I spoke with some of the witnesses’ wives about the importance of their husbands’ testimony. The witnesses spoke the truth. The jury acquitted.”
Locke said nothing and nodded for Casey to continue.
“The charges in the other case should never have been filed. Clearly self-defense. It took place at Rosa’s, a bawdy house not far from the stockyards. A rancher, who had just sold his herd, decided to pay Rosa’s a visit before heading back to the Sandhills. He took a notion to beat one of the prostitutes to a bloody pulp. She got free long enough to retrieve a Derringer she kept in a chamber pot and placed a bullet neatly between his eyes. It was an election year, and the Douglas County prosecutor was leading a crusade to rid Omaha of whores, so my client made a good target. I did a pretty fair job of keeping the good church folk off the jury, and we got an acquittal. The prosecutor, incidentally, lost the election after Rosa furnished The Omaha Bee with evidence that he had been one of her establishment’s regular customers.”
Locke said, “I have a murder case that might interest you.”
“Yes, Ian,” Emily jumped in with enthusiasm. “Casey would be perfect.”
Casey’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“Just hear us out,” Emily said. “Then you can make up your mind.”
Over the next hour, Locke and Emily related the tangled story of Ralph Wainwright’s murder. When they were finished, Emily looked at Casey expectantly. Locke was poker-faced. They had thrown her the bait and she knew she was hooked.
“I’m perplexed,” Casey said. “It seems to me that the two of you have some interest in the conviction of Celeste Wainwright. She couldn’t inherit under the holographic will then.”
“But that wouldn’t necessarily revive the earlier will,” Locke said. The courts would likely rule that the estate would be distributed under the laws of intestacy, which would give the estate to Karl. Emily and I have agreed that the issues involving the wills should be determined on the merits. I want no involvement in the criminal aspects of the case. If criminal decisions become relevant, we will just let the chips fall where they may. If you take Celeste’s case, I would not expect to discuss it further with you. We would need to maintain an impenetrable wall between our two cases.”