by MJ Rodgers
As Whitney watched a very intense laser-blue light formed in the center of Adam’s eyes. “Yes, let’s talk about CroweCromwell, Dr. Miller,” he said. “I have a suggestion I think you might like.”
“…AND THAT IS the basis of Crowe-Cromwell’s debtor claim against the Patrice Feldon estate,” Carver said as he finished his long explanation to Commissioner Snowe that afternoon in her chambers. “As you can see from the documents that lie before you, every portion is substantiated. The Emery Pharmaceutical stock clearly belongs to us,”
As Whitney had listened again to Carver’s version of the theft of Crowe-Cromwell’s fertility drug, it had taken all her control to remain silent. And now that he had finished and Commissioner Snowe was looking over his documentation, Carver was staring at Whitney and Adam, his jaws open in an enormous predator’s smile that reminded her of a python getting ready to swallow its prey.
Commissioner Snowe put down the papers she had been reading. “Mr. Justice, this documentation appears very impressive. Do you have any initial reactions to CroweCromwell’s claim?”
“Only to demand that Mr. Carver withdraw it immediately.”
Carver snickered.
“What is all this about, Mr. Justice?” Snowe asked.
“This claim is fraudulent, Your Honor. It asserts that a fertility formula was stolen from Crowe-Cromwell. The truth is that the fertility formula was never stolen from the company by Patrice Feldon or anyone else, and Mr. Carver knows it.”
“What I know is that your career is about to come to an end, Justice,” Carver said. “Your Honor, Adam Justice married Patrice Feldon knowing full well what she had done. He was in on the whole thing.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Commissioner Snowe said. “Let’s stick to one accusation at a time. Now, Mr. Justice, you just made a statement that the theft of Crowe-Cromwell’s fertility formula never took place. Would you care to explain yourself?”
Adam slowly stood and faced the commissioner. “Nine years ago Mr. Carver was personally part of CroweCromwell’s conspiracy to keep a safe new fertility drug off the market by refusing to submit it to the FDA for approval. The reason for their refusal was to recoup their expenses and make a profit on an inferior drug, potentially harmful to women.”
“That’s a lie,” Carver said, coming to his feet. Whitney noted with satisfaction that his python smile had disappeared and the bluster in his voice didn’t hold near its normal pop-gun decibels. “You have no proof of any such thing!”
“But I do. The best proof there is. Your Honor, if you will give me a moment, I shall present it to you.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Justice,” Snowe said.
“This is preposterous,” Carver protested.
Whitney watched as Adam stepped over to the door leading to the hallway, opened it and beckoned. A moment later a short, bald man, beaming from ear to ear, stepped inside.
“Surprised to see me, Carver?” he asked.
Carver’s eyes bulged, then seemed to sink inside his head as his face blanched. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “No. It can’t be. You’re dead!”
“Your Honor,” Adam said, “this is Dr. Lydon Miller, the developer of the new fertility process. You’ve heard Mr. Carver speak of him and his discovery this afternoon. Now, Dr. Miller would like to set the record straight by telling you how Crowe-Cromwell did everything they could to keep his discovery from the women who needed it.”
“Is this allegation true?” Commissioner Snowe asked.
Whitney watched Carver swallowing over and over, as though something had gotten stuck in his throat. “It doesn’t matter if he did develop it. It belonged to Crowe-Cromwell. It was Crowe-Cromwell’s right to keep its discovery off the market.”
“Right, Mr. Carver?” Adam said. “The entire governing board of directors of Crowe-Cromwell are medical doctors, each of whom has taken the Hippocratic oath. And the basic tenet of that oath is, first and foremost, to do no harm. That board of directors deliberately put out an inferior fertility drug that they knew could do harm, and they suppressed a superior one.
“And that is what Dr. Miller explained to the press thirty minutes ago, when he gave them copies of the memo from Crowe-Cromwell’s board of directors telling him to squelch his discovery. It was at the same time that he handed them a copy of a memo you sent him, threatening his livelihood, his reputation and even his critically ill wife’s life-support systems, if he told anyone about his discovery.”
“You bastard—”
“And speaking of papers, Dykstra told me to tell you he won’t be needing that envelope you promised him an hour before press time. He said his producer is very happy with the new story he’s found.”
“I’ll get you for this, Justice.”
“No, I’m getting you, Carver. I’m filing a billion-dollar, class-action lawsuit against Crowe-Cromwell on behalf of all the women who were deliberately given your inferior drug with its dangerous side effects, while a superior one existed. And when I win that lawsuit—and I will win it—Crowe-Cromwell will be bankrupt and you’ll be lucky to get a job cleaning out johns. Now, you have ten seconds to withdraw your spurious debtor’s claim and get out of here before I call the news reporters and let them know where they can find you.”
Adam flipped out his cell phone and began to count aloud. “Nine…eight…seven…” Carver grabbed for the paperwork lying on Commissioner Snowe’s desk, scooped it into his arms and literally ran out of her office.
As Adam flipped his cell phone closed, Whitney sent him a look of wonder. It seemed that Adam Justice could roar, after all.
“That was an…interesting face-off,” Commissioner Snowe said, a faint smile on her lips. “Or possibly I should say ‘massacre.’ Dr. Miller, may I impose upon you to step outside now and give your complete statement to a court reporter? My clerk will arrange for one to accompany you to a quiet place.”
Miller’s round face beamed. “Yes, Your Honor.”
He stepped over to the door. Before he opened it to let himself out, he turned to face Adam. “Thank you, Mr. Justice. You don’t know what you’ve done for me.”
As Whitney watched Adam’s face, her heart leapt with joy at the real smile that circled his lips and came to rest in his eyes.
“It couldn’t have been any more than what you’ve done for me today, Dr. Miller,” he said.
“I look forward to reading the transcript of his statement,” Commissioner Snowe said after Miller had left. “Well, now that Mr. Carver has officially withdrawn his debtor’s claim, I can get to the next matter dealing with the Feldon estate.”
“The next matter?” Whitney repeated, surprised.
Snowe buzzed her clerk. “Bring him in,” she said into the intercom.
A moment later the door opened, and a slight-built, thirtyish man with a full head of light brown hair and a serious look in his similarly colored eyes strode into the office.
“Ms. West, Mr. Justice, I’d like to introduce Mr. Fabrice Feldon,” Snowe said. “Mr. Feldon wants to know if he is our Patrice Feldon’s brother. He’s brought copies of his sister’s birth certificate, his own and that of his parents, in hopes that we can tell him.”
Snowe paused to hand copies of the aforesaid items to both Adam and Whitney, while Fabrice Feldon took a seat on the sofa. Whitney immediately flipped to the California birth certificate with the name Patrice Dulcinea Feldon and the birth date of August 2, 1964. She looked up at Fabrice Feldon with new interest.
“You’ll forgive me, Ms. West, for not sending Mr. Feldon directly to you on this matter,” Snowe said. “But as you have kept me so well informed as to the lack of bona fide blood relations to the deceased, and in light of the proofs Mr. Feldon brought with him, I decided to hear his story. Now I want you to hear it.
“Please begin,” Snowe said, turning to Feldon.
Fabrice nodded and leaned forward. “I was born in the U.S., as was my sister. We moved to my mother’s home-which is Paris—when I was two and my sister
but a few months old.”
Whitney noted the pleasant sound of a soft French accent in his voice.
“When I was fourteen, my family came to visit Washington State, where my father was born. We took a bus to the bedand-breakfast inn where we would stay.”
“An airport bus?” Whitney asked.
“Yes. It made many stops to let off passengers. My father talked with enthusiasm about his childhood. A pleasant man and his wife joined our conversation. She was holding her small baby. It was my sister’s birthday and she chatted profusely—as was her way, with the bus driver’s daughter. We were the only ones remaining on the bus when the terrible accident happened.”
“Accident?” Whitney repeated encouragingly when Fabrice paused.
Fabrice gestured with his hands. “The bus ran into the back of a large truck carrying many long, heavy pipes. The pipes came crashing through the windshield like a thunderous mountain.”
Fabrice paused again, whether from trying to blot out the appalling memory of what he had seen or to collect his thoughts, Whitney couldn’t tell. The room was very quiet.
“I was knocked unconscious,” he continued. “When I awoke, 1 could feel nothing, see nothing. I did not know where I was. Then I heard my sister moaning and moving beside me and I reached out for her. Pain swept through me. Then everything went dark.
“I awoke next in hospital with many broken bones. They told me my family had perished in the accident, and only I and the woman with the small baby had survived. Everyone else had been killed instantly by the devastating invasion of metal pipes into the bus. I told them about hearing my sister moan beside me. They told me I must have been hallucinating.
“My mother’s sister brought me home to Paris when I was well enough to leave hospital. My home is still Paris, but I travel here frequently on business. It was a week ago that I read about this mysterious woman, Patrice Feldon. I asked my aunt to send me the birth documents you have before you. I would like to know if she was my sister.”
“You don’t believe the people in the hospital who told you your sister died?” Whitney asked.
“I can only tell you I did not imagine her moan.”
“You said you couldn’t see,” Whitney said. “How did you know it was your sister’s moan?”
“My father had bought her a long red silk scarf for her birthday, and my mother had sprinkled some of her perfume on it. I smelled that perfume as she lay beside me.”
Whitney met Adam’s gaze across Commissioner Snowe’s desk. She knew they were thinking the same thing. Linda Carmichael had spoken of Patrice wearing a red scarf when she’d found her bruised and bloodied. Had Patrice gotten off the wrecked bus and wandered off in a daze?
“Where did this accident take place?” Whitney asked.
“It was north of Green Lake, near where my father was born.”
“Your Honor, do you have a map of the city?” Adam asked.
Snowe retrieved one out of her desk drawer and handed it to him. Adam opened it and laid it in front of Fabrice.
“Mr. Feldon, can you point out an approximate location of the accident on this map?”
Fabrice studied the map for several quiet moments before placing his index finger down. “Somewhere in this area.”
Whitney knew the area where Fabrice was pointing. Not ten blocks away was where the Rubins lived.
“Do you have a picture of your sister?” Whitney asked.
Fabrice’s hand slipped into his pocket and retrieved his wallet. He took out an old picture and laid it on Commissioner Snowe’s desk.
“This was taken by my aunt just before we left for America.”
Both Adam and Whitney immediately crowded around to see the picture.
“Was the woman my sister?” Fabrice Feldon asked.
Chapter Sixteen
Adam sat back in his chair. “Mr. Feldon, your sister was not the Patrice Feldon who you have recently read about.”
“You are certain of this?”
“Her facial features, her dark hair and eyes—nothing is the same.”
“Then who was it I heard moaning beside me?”
“Perhaps the hospital authorities were right, Mr. Feldon,” Commissioner Snowe said. “Perhaps it was your grief you were hearing.”
“And then again, maybe it wasn’t,” Whitney said.
Adam could hear the rising excitement in her voice. “What is it, Whitney?”
Whitney turned to him. “Remember A.J.’s report on the accident? She said the newspapers reported three injured.”
“Fabrice, Beatrice D’Amico and her baby, Danny,” Adam confirmed.
“And five killed.”
“The bus driver was one, Thomas D’Amico made two, Mrs. and Mr. Feldon made three and four, and Fabrice’s sister made five,” Adam said.
“What happened to the bus driver’s daughter?”
Adam nodded in understanding as he turned back to Fabrice. “Mr. Feldon, might your friendly sister have told the bus driver’s daughter her full name and the fact it was her birthday?”
“Yes. That would be like her.”
“Might she also have let the other girl try on her new scarf?” Whitney asked.
“This would be like her, also. I understand what you are saying. You believe it was the bus driver’s daughter who I heard moaning beside me?”
“Yes. And while you were passed out, I believe she got off the wrecked bus and wandered off,” Adam said.
“It had to have happened that way,” Whitney said. “Linda Carmichael said that when she asked Patrice what she was doing in front of the store window, she kept repeating, ‘I wasn’t supposed to be there.’ The reason it didn’t make sense to Linda was because Patrice didn’t mean the store window. She meant she wasn’t supposed to be riding in the bus with her father!”
Adam nodded. “It explains why the bus company had no record of her being there, and consequently no one ever knew she was missing.”
He turned back to Fabrice. “What did the bus driver’s daughter look like?” he asked.
Fabrice shook his head. “All I remember is she had very pretty hair—long and curly and golden.”
“That’s enough,” Adam said, leaning back in his chair.
“SO, MR. JUSTICE, Ms. West,” Commissioner Snowe said after Fabrice Feldon had left. “We no longer even know the real name of the woman who has left this estate in our hands for disposition. And since you tell me the police couldn’t identify the bus driver twenty years ago, because he carried a stolen ID, I very much doubt that we are ever going to be able to.”
“Whoever the woman was who called herself Patrice Dulcinea Feldon,” Whitney said, “it looks to me like she wished to forget the name she was born with and the family she was born into—probably with good reason. Maybe we should, too.”
“Yes, I’m coming to that conclusion myself, Ms. West,” Commissioner Snowe agreed. “As I see it, we’ve made the good-faith effort to find out who this woman was. Now let’s make the good-faith effort to send her money where she wanted it to go.”
“You’re ruling in favor of the beneficiaries?” Adam asked.
“Your investigation has established why the Rubins and the Carmichaels were selected as recipients. Mr. Feldon’s information about the bus accident explains the inclusion of Danny and his mother. I’m satisfied these bequests were made of the deceased’s own free will and reflect her wishes.”
“And my motion for a closed courtroom?” Whitney asked.
“It’s too late, Ms. West. This matter has received too much attention.”
“Your Honor,” Whitney sad, “we don’t know how many more Joes and Ginas and Melanies are out there. We owe those children a chance to be helped by the Rubins. If the records aren’t sealed in this case, the Rubins will be exposed and shut down. Please. For the children.”
“Ms. West, I am most distressed by these inevitable consequences, believe me. But, sealing the records after all this publicity will only attract more publici
ty to the case.”
“It wouldn’t if the press didn’t hear about the probate having been settled and the records sealed,” Whitney said.
Snowe looked at Whitney intently. “Are you suggesting we attempt to sneak this probate through?”
“Now’s the time, Your Honor. The press has just been fed a very juicy story. They’ll be focusing their prurient interests on Crowe-Cromwell’s misdeeds for the next few weeks. None of them will be expecting a thirty-million dollar estate to have been settled so quickly.”
Snowe’s pale lips drew back into a small smile. “Ms. West, has anyone ever told you that you possess all the makings of a criminal mind?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Snowe laughed, and for the first time Whitney saw some color splashing prettily beneath her pale cheeks.
“Mr. Justice, I’m about to succumb to a very strong impulse to accept Ms. West’s unorthodox proposal. Is there no legal or ethical admonition you can offer to save me?”
Whitney looked over to see Adam smiling at her so fully that it squeezed her heart dry. “Your Honor, when it comes to saving oneself from succumbing to strong impulses regarding Ms. West, I am the last lawyer—or man—you should ever consult.”
“ADAM, I CAN’T BELIEVE it’s over. The Rubins and D’Amicos and Carmichaels are going to get the money, and it’s all going to be done quietly, thanks to Commissioner Snowe,” Whitney said as he drove her through the security gates to his home that evening.
“I’m so glad to discover,” Whitney continued, “that Snowe’s genuinely nice, as well as smart, under her staid exterior. Rather reminds me of someone else I’ve gotten to know recently.”
She flashed him a mischievous smile, and he found himself smiling back.
It felt so good to smile again. She had done that for him. And so much more.
“Will Dr. Miller be safe from Crowe-Cromwell reprisals?” Whitney asked.
“Crowe-Cromwell would gain nothing by physically harming him now. He’s gone public with the worst, turned over all the evidence, placed his sworn depositions on file. Besides, the spotlight is so focused on Dr. Miller and the company, that were anything to happen to him, they would be immediately suspected and they must know that. They’re in enough trouble without adding a murder charge to the list.”
