“Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good. And be quick about it. We are adjourned.” The Honorable Judge Harold G. Cooper slammed his gavel and walked out.
* * *
“Is she dead? Or isn’t she?”
“Yes, Your Honor, she is dead,” Burr said.
“That’s why we’re here. Because she’s dead. And because this is a probate court.” The judge paused. “Because we deal with dead people here. In probate court.” The judge paused again. “Among other things.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Judge Bill Weeks peered over his reading glasses, which put his chin almost on top of the worn-out desk in his courtroom. He was a short man who could barely see over his desk even when he was sitting up straight. He sat on the leather cushion from the chair in his office and that helped. Weeks had a bald, round head that was almost as big as the rest of him. He had black, bushy eyebrows that looked like squirrel tails, a pushed-in nose, a large mouth with bright white teeth framed by ruby red lips. All in all it looked like his face had been painted on an ivory-colored bowling ball, which was why he was known as Bowling Ball Bill, behind his back, of course. That and the awe that the local lawyers had because not only had he managed to graduate from law school, he had also been elected probate judge in Leelanau County, over and over again. At sixty-nine, he showed no signs of slowing down. Or speeding up. Or becoming the slightest bit competent.
Judge Weeks smiled. “Counsel, now that we are in agreement that poor Helen Lockwood is, in fact, deceased, please present the death certificate and I will open her estate for probate.”
“Your Honor, we don’t have a death certificate.”
“Don’t waste my time, young man. Come back when you have it.” He banged his gavel. “Case dismissed.” If the Federal District Court in Grand Rapids was near the top of the legal pecking order, the Leelanau County Probate Court was surely near the bottom, from the courtroom to the furniture and, most importantly, to the judge.
“Your Honor,” Burr said, “the very reason we are here is to ask you to issue a death certificate.”
“I’ll do no such thing. If Helen Lockwood is dead, the medical examiner will issue a death certificate. If he hasn’t issued a death certificate, then she’s not dead, and I will not be the one to declare her so. I am a powerful man, but not that powerful.” Bowling Ball Bill took off his glasses and waved them toward the heavens. “Only God has that power. Now, shoo.”
“Respectfully, Your Honor, you have more power than perhaps you think you have.”
“I said shoo.” The round-headed judge paused again. “I do?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Indeed, you do,” Burr said.
This clearly piqued Judge Weeks’ interest. Burr had made a career of flattering judges. When it suited his purpose. Most of the time he argued, fought, persuaded, cajoled and did whatever he had to do to get what he wanted from whomever was in his way, but he flattered when he needed to.
Even so, he could not quite fathom how he found himself in the Leelanau County Probate Court. He had been head of the litigation department at Fisher and Allen in Detroit. Two hundred lawyers strong and Burr one of the finest litigators in the city. But he had been a knight of commerce. He saved rich companies on behalf of his rich clients. But he had given it up or lost it all, depending on the day, over a younger woman who happened to work for his rich client. He thought he loved her. Maybe he had, but it cost him his practice not to mention his wife.
And here he was in the Leelanau Probate Court arguing about whether Helen Lockwood was dead. Or not.
“Continue, Mr. Lafayette. About my power.”
Burr approached the bench. “Your Honor, as I pointed out in my brief, Helen Lockwood has been missing for over a year. She disappeared without a trace. Not a soul has seen her.”
“Is that so?”
Burr looked down at his shoes, the same cordovan loafers he had worn in Judge Cooper’s courtroom. They still needed polishing.
The old fool hasn’t read my brief, and he must be the only person in Leelanau County who didn’t know that Helen Lockwood had disappeared.
Burr looked up at the judge. “Your Honor, the settled law in Michigan provides that if a person has not been seen for one year, the probate court may declare the person dead and issue a death certificate.”
“I see,” said Judge Weeks, who didn’t. He opened the file in front of him, which Burr assumed was his unread brief. He shuffled through it. Then looked at down at Burr.
“Your Honor, the legislature codified the common law which favors the living over the dead and the need to get on with the business of living.”
“Of course, it does.” The judge nodded knowingly. “And what business of living would that be?”
“Your Honor, the deceased…”
“I didn’t say she was dead yet.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Burr pulled down the cuffs of his charcoal suit, still his favorite suit and slightly threadbare.
“Helen Lockwood, the missing person, is – was – a principal in Port Oneida Orchards. The Park Service is trying to condemn the farm. I represent the family in federal court in Grand Rapids and I…”
“Would you please get to the point?”
Save me from fools.
“Your Honor, it has become impossible to represent my client with Mrs. Lockwood’s status in limbo. We need a death certificate in order to proceed.”
“Young man, you seem to have made it this far without me.”
“Your Honor, the law makes provision for just this sort of eventuality.”
“Just who is it that you represent, Mr. Lafayette?”
“Today I am here on behalf of Helen Lockwood’s husband, Thomas Lockwood.”
“Is that him?” Judge Weeks pointed to the lean, fiftyish man sitting at the plaintiff’s table. Burr walked back to his client. Tommy Lockwood had jet black hair, a tan face, lined from a lifetime spent outside. He had soft, black eyes and a smile that made you want to give him all your money.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And what do you want, young man?”
“I want my wife back. I hate the thought that she might be dead.”
“And how is her being dead going to help?”
“Your Honor,” Burr said, “the affairs of the farm are impossible to manage with Mrs. Lockwood’s status unresolved.”
“Mr. Lafayette, while I am sympathetic to the problems faced by a lawyer in a thousand-dollar suit, I don’t give a hoot about what happens in the Federal District Court for the Western District of Michigan.”
If only I could still afford thousand-dollar suits.
“Your Honor…”
Weeks pointed a stubby arm at Burr, chubby palm out. “Mrs. Lockwood is either dead or she isn’t. Which is it?” The judge folded his hands on the desk in front of him.
Burr looked to his right, where his opponent would normally be sitting. Today, though, he had no opposition. Except Judge Bill Weeks, who was supposed to go right along with what Burr wanted.
“Which is it, Mr. Lafayette?” Judge Weeks said again.
Burr looked down at his shoes again. He put his hands in his pants pockets and pulled up the cuffs of his slacks. His socks matched.
That’s something.
Without Eve here to check on him, he was never quite sure what was going to happen with his socks. “We’re right back where we started. This old fool hasn’t heard a word I’ve said,” he said to his shoes.
“What did you say?”
Burr took his hands out of his pockets and looked up at the judge. “Your Honor, I said, please don’t make a decision until you’ve heard the proofs.”
“The proofs?” The judge laughed. “You actually have something to support your case?”
Bur
r walked back to his table and rummaged through his files, his back to the judge.
This would have been a good time to have Jacob here.
“Turn around and look at me, young man,” the judge said. “Your backside is not particularly compelling. Although, so far, it makes more sense than your front side.” The judge laughed.
Burr ignored Weeks. He looked up at Helen’s two sisters sitting in the back row. He had told them they didn’t need to come today, but he was glad to see them. It was looking like he could use all the help he could get. He nodded at them and turned around to face the cranky judge whose word was law at least as far as the Leelanau Probate Court was concerned.
“May it please the court, Your Honor,” he said in his most supplicating voice, a voice he used only when he didn’t think anything else would work. Like now. “Your Honor, the petitioner would like to present its proofs.”
Judge Weeks shook his fingers at him, like he was shooing a cat off the dining room table.
Burr took that as a yes. “Your Honor, we submit four files. The missing-person report filed by the petitioner on June 12th of last year, the report of the Coast Guard search, the Leland County Sheriff’s report and the petition of Thomas F. Lockwood, Mrs. Lockwood’s husband, asking that Mrs. Lockwood be declared deceased.”
“You mean dead.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Surely Weeks knows what ‘deceased’ means.
“Let me see those.” Burr handed him the files. The judge made a show of studying them, but Burr didn’t think he was actually reading. The judge put the files in a neat pile in front of him. “So, what exactly happened?”
“Your Honor, Helen Lockwood was last seen leaving Leland Harbor on the morning of June 9th. She piloted her boat, Achilles, a forty-foot cabin cruiser, to the anchorage at South Manitou. There was a storm that day and into the night. For the next two days there were reports of a boat matching Achilles off Sleeping Bear.”
“Achilles?”
“Achilles was the name of Mrs. Lockwood’s boat, Your Honor.”
“Funny name for a boat.” Weeks shooed at Burr again.
Burr gritted his teeth. “On the third day, a commercial fisherman near Manitou Shoals pulled up alongside Achilles. He said the boat was adrift.”
“Adrift?”
“Drifting in Lake Michigan. The engines were off.”
The judge leaned toward Burr. “And?”
“There was no one aboard. The key was in the ignition, but the engines were off. The gas tanks were half full.” Burr paused. “There was no sign of Mrs. Lockwood.”
“Anything suspicious?”
“Your Honor, I’m not sure if this is suspicious, but there was a half-empty bottle of Tanqueray rolling back and forth across the cockpit.”
“That’s expensive gin.”
Burr gritted his teeth again. “Your Honor, the Coast Guard and the sheriff both concluded that Mrs. Lockwood fell overboard and drowned.”
“Where’s her body?”
“It hasn’t been found.”
“Maybe she ran away.”
“Your Honor, her purse was on board. Her car was where she left it.”
“What kind of car?”
“A Mercedes.”
“What model?”
“A 150 convertible, Your Honor.”
“She was pretty well fixed for blades,” the judge said.
Burr was tired of the round little judge and his obsession with the wealth of Helen Lockwood. “Your Honor, Mrs. Lockwood’s bank accounts have been untouched since she went missing. There have been no financial transactions and no one has seen her.” Burr looked back at the two sisters, over at Tommy and then at the judge. “Your Honor, in light of the disappearance of Helen Lockwood for over twelve months, and in compliance with the state statutes, we respectfully request that you declare Mrs. Helen Lockwood deceased.”
Judge Weeks fumbled around with his gavel. ”As much as I don’t like you, you are convincing.” He picked up his gavel. “I grant the petitioner’s motion and declare Helen Lockwood to be deceased…”
“Your Honor,” said a voice from the back of the courtroom.
Weeks stopped his gavel in midair. It slipped out of his hand and landed at Burr’s feet.
“For the love of Mike, who said that?”
“I did, Your Honor.” This from one of Helen’s sisters in the back of the courtroom.
“Don’t you know better than to interrupt a judge?” Weeks looked around for his gavel. Burr bent over, picked it up and set it in front of the judge.
“I lost my grip.”
“I should say so.” Burr turned around. “In more ways than one.”
“I heard that,” Judge Weeks said. He picked up his gavel and pointed at the two women, one standing, one sitting. “And who might you be?”
One of the sisters stood. “My name is Lauren Littlefield and this is Karen Hansen. Helen is our sister.”
“Was,” Burr said.
“Be quiet,” Weeks said to Burr. “Until this gavel comes down, Helen Lockwood still ‘is’.” He looked at Lauren. “What would you like to say, Mrs. Littlefield?”
Lauren Littlefield smoothed a wrinkle in her dress, a black knit knee-length cotton dress with a scooped neck, three-quarter length sleeves and a thin black belt. An altogether appropriate dress for a visit to a probate court. She had on two-inch black heels. If Helen Lockwood was tall, her sister was not. Five-four in heels and too round for Burr’s taste. But curvy in a pleasant way. She had mousey brown hair pulled back in a bun that didn’t do much for her, but she had a pretty face, green eyes, a small nose with full lips. She didn’t wear any makeup.
“Your Honor, my sister and I don’t believe our sister is dead.”
“Why ever not?”
Burr gritted his teeth for a third time.
“She’s missing, not dead. We know she’s going to turn up.”
“Your Honor,” Burr said, “all of the family, Mr. Lockwood and Helen’s two sisters, agreed that it would be best to have Helen declared dead. I ask that you rule on my motion.”
Weeks ignored him. “What about you young lady?” The judge pointed at the sitting sister.
She stood. How the three of them could be sisters was beyond Burr. Karen Hansen was medium height and rail thin. Burr had never seen her eat. She had wild black hair that covered her shoulders. A long nose with thin lips and a strong jaw that made her look like she knew what she wanted.
It was Karen Hansen’s turn to smooth her equally black dress. “Your Honor, we don’t want Helen to be dead.”
Judge Bill Weeks smiled at her. “I’m sure you don’t. But no one has seen hide nor hair of her for a year. She must be dead.”
“She’s not dead,” Lauren said.
“What could have happened?” the judge said.
The two sisters didn’t say anything.
“Your Honor,” Burr said. “This is upsetting for all of us, but we must move on. This is what the family decided they wanted to do.”
“It doesn’t seem that way to me.” Then to the two sisters, “What could have happened?”
“I don’t know, but that doesn’t mean she’s dead,” Lauren said.
“Maybe she fell overboard?” the judge said.
“Helen spent her whole life around boats. She would never fall overboard or drown,” Karen said.
Lauren nodded.
“Maybe she ran away,” the judge said. “What do you think, young man?”
“Helen would never run away. She loved the orchards too much,” Tommy said.
“Well then, where is she for God’s sake?”
“I don’t know.” Tommy bit his lip. “I think she must have fallen overboard and drowned.”
“Your Honor,” Burr said, “this is an upsetting
time, but the wheels of justice must grind forward.”
“Mr. Lafayette, I’m not sure that’s what your clients want.”
“They want you to issue a death certificate. We can keep looking for Helen, but we simply must move on.” Burr said. “This is what they all want, Your Honor.”
“No, it’s not,” Karen said.
Bowling Ball Bill rubbed his bald head.
Burr leaned down to Tommy. “What is going on?”
Tommy shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Come back when you’ve made up your minds.”
“Your Honor, this has nothing to do with making up our minds. This has to do with the facts.“
Judge Weeks crashed his gavel. “We are adjourned.”
CHAPTER THREE
Burr, Tommy and the two unhappy sisters sat in the breakfast room at Morningside, the farmhouse at Port Oneida Orchards. Burr thought only those with too much money had the luxury of naming their houses. Until Helen had disappeared, this was every lawyer’s dream, rich clients with a big problem. The Erickson family fit the bill. But it wasn’t such a dream now. Helen had run the business end of the orchards, and she was the one Burr had dealt with. She knew what she wanted. She made up her mind, and she didn’t back down. She would never, ever agree to sell the orchards to the government.
Tommy was a different story. He was certainly smart enough, but his heart was in the cherries, not the lawsuit. Karen, the middle sister, was quiet. She wanted to sell the orchards. Lauren, the youngest, didn’t, and between the three of them, they couldn’t make up their minds about anything. Their performance in probate court had just proven the point.
After the disaster in court, the four of them had taken M-204 west across the Leelanau Peninsula from Suttons Bay to the family orchards on Port Oneida Road. It was just past noon and the sun, almost directly overhead, lit the trees with clear, bright light. They had driven through the cedar swamps, across the narrows at the village of Lake Leelanau that separated North and South Lake Leelanau, then into the orchards, cornfields and woodlots. At M-22, they had turned south and drove along the bluff above Lake Michigan, sparkling hundreds of feet below them, then onto Port Oneida Road and the orchards. The cherry trees drooped with the bright, lipstick-red fruit, the branches bent over with their weight. The blacktop driveway, in better shape than the road, wound through the fruit trees, past a gazebo and up to the farmhouse.
Bear Bones Page 2
