Fatal Trust

by Todd M Johnson

  A pause, followed by, “That’s not good thinkin’.”

  “I’ve done what the trust said. I deserve my share.”

  The caller made a clucking sound. “Well, you’d better hope so. ’Cause if the lawyer finds otherwise, you’re done. You know that, right?”

  “The trust rules apply to you and Ed, same as me.”

  “Aye, you’re right, Rory. The trust rules apply to all three of us. It’s just that neither Ed nor me has done a thing to be worried about. We’ll get our share.”

  “I’m entitled to my share too.”

  “Entitled. Okay. So you’re not interested in a deal. Well, I’m still going to offer one, and you’d be stupid not to take it. If you back away—admit you don’t qualify for the trust cash—I’ll still give ya three hundred thousand from my own share. A hundred to you, and a hundred for each of your kids. It’s a one-time deal, and it goes away once I meet with the lawyer.”

  “That’s not my share.” Rory gripped the phone like a knife. “And what’s this about you offering me a deal? I’m Jimmy Doyle’s son, not you.”

  “I wouldn’t go down that road, boyo. It’s me your dad put in charge of the trust; it’s me who’s executor of his estate. But I hear ya. I’m settin’ up a meetin’ with the lawyer later today.”

  Rory felt his heart pounding. “Good. Let’s get this done.”

  “Sure, Rory. Let’s get this done.”

  The line went dead. Rory reached over the bar and set the phone back on its cradle, his hand wet with sweat. He wiped it on his jeans.

  “You okay?” It was Larry, filling a mug from the tap.

  “Yeah. . . . Thanks for the phone.”

  Rory retrieved his jacket and headed toward the exit. As he passed one of the men he’d been eyeing for a cigarette, he realized the hunger for one was gone. At least for now.

  So it was really happening. A little more than a week and this would be over. The trust was finally getting passed out. The long wait was ending.

  It was about time. And when it was over—when he and his kids had what they deserved—then it really would be a whole new start. For all of them. He was sure of it.

  4

  MONDAY, JUNE 4

  11:12 A.M.

  WELLS & HOY LAW OFFICE

  DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS

  Ian put his Camry into park in the dark underground garage. From a distance, he saw the elevator sign that read Out of Order.

  Perfect start for the workday, he thought, renewing his defiant whistling as he grabbed his briefcase and walked to the stairwell for the slog to the fifth floor.

  Willy Dryer was slouched in front of the cedar door stenciled with Wells & Hoy Law Office. He looked up with relief as Ian approached. Afraid to go in and face Katie’s stare alone, are you? Ian thought. He gave the client a nod and led him through the door.

  Katie glanced up from behind the reception desk. Ian gave her a wide smile and a nod as they passed, headed for the library. He was confident Willy was avoiding her eyes entirely.

  Neither spoke until they were seated at the library table. Ian set his case on the floor, stretched, and looked across at Wet Willy, thinking how little the man had changed in the five years since walking into this office as Ian’s first criminal-law client out of law school. Amazing, he thought. A few lines beginning to rim his puppy-dog eyes maybe, but so little else had changed.

  “Now tell me, Willy,” Ian began, “why I get the pleasure of your company again this morning.”

  Willy ran a hand through a flopping mass of uncombed red hair. “Sorry, man. But I didn’t do it. I swear. They arrested me a couple of weeks ago, but I had not a thing to do with it. And they really put me through it. I barely made bail, man.”

  Ian nodded, surprised. “Why’d you wait so long to come in? And what exactly didn’t you do?”

  Willy shook his head again, his lips set firm. “I didn’t want to bother you with this one. See, there’s just nothing to it. ’Cause I didn’t break into that house on Madison in Columbia Heights. I heard some guy from the north side’s trying to fence the swag. They oughta be looking for him.”

  “You tell the police who the real thief is?”

  Willy looked like he’d been slapped. “What do you think, man?”

  No tears yet. From experience, Ian was ready to retrieve his legal assistant’s box of tissues—though Willy usually reserved the water for trial. Cloudbursts on the stand while describing a life of misery were part of Willy’s trademark. That and always insisting his case be tried and declining Ian’s advice not to testify.

  But then who could argue with success? Willy had never been convicted, although the acquittals likely had less to do with the performances than late alibi witnesses they’d managed to find for each of the last two trials. Katie, who’d coined the nickname Wet Willy, insisted the client enjoyed testifying even more than the State enjoyed prosecuting him, someone who saw trials as just another chance to put on a show. “You’re such a sentimentalist,” Katie had scolded Ian when he tore up Wet Willy’s last bill a year before. “You just can’t turn away the first guy who showed up at your office door and called you ‘counselor.’”

  “Got an alibi this time?” Ian asked.

  “I surely do,” Willy said firmly. “But the police don’t believe her.”

  Ian nodded sympathetically, wondering how many hours of free work this representation would take.

  “Alright, Willy.” He pulled a yellow legal pad and a pen from his briefcase and slid them across the table. “You write down the details of what you didn’t do and how I can prove you didn’t do it and where I can reach you. I’ll also need your charging papers. You know the drill.”

  Willy nodded gratefully, winked, and smiled. “I surely do. You know I keep getting in trouble just to see you again, don’t you? You’re a good man. And hey, I’m gonna get you paid this time too. I am. I’ve started working. Get this: I’ve got an acting gig.”

  “Um-hm,” Ian said, not for a moment believing that representing Willy made him a good man. He was, however, certain he wouldn’t see a dime in attorney’s fees and only mildly surprised Willy had taken up acting. The bigger surprise was for easygoing Willy to be excited about a solid job of any kind. “I’ll be in my office when you’re done,” Ian finished.

  He headed into the hall toward his office. Katie looked up, peering over her glasses, the disapproving look making her appear older than her forty-six years.

  “Another day, another free client,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I thought you already did enough pro bono work at the homeless shelter.”

  “Sarcasm’s not on the menu,” Ian answered. “For at least a month.”

  “Like that’s gonna happen,” Katie said with an ironic shrug. “Now, don’t forget your birthday dinner tonight at your mom’s. Livia called to remind me again.”

  “Got it.”

  “Oh,” Katie added, “I’ve got the phone number and more information on the new case. Mr. Callahan gave me a few details when I called to tell him you’d contact him this morning.”

  Ian stopped to listen as Katie extended her notes to arm’s length. “Like I said before,” she said, squinting, “the man’s name is Sean Callahan. He lives in St. Paul on Summit Avenue. It’s got something to do with managing the distribution of assets in a family trust. Some investigation that’s needed, which he claims is urgent. I’ve set up a file on your desk.”

  An investigation? Ian shrugged as he took the notes from her hand. “Okay. What’s the rest of my week look like?”

  His legal assistant tilted her head in thought. “The Bradley sentencing next week, Friday. An evidentiary hearing in Schumacher a week from Thursday. Nothing much this week. Oh, and Talk Show called, says he’s got a referral. More good news, right?”

  Ian nodded. Harry “Talk Show” Christensen was turning into his most consistent criminal-referral source. “Sure. I’ll call him before I get ahold of this Callahan.”

  He strode to his
office as Katie called out, “Oh, I forgot. While you were in with Willy . . .”

  Ian had already slipped through his door.

  A pair of black high-heeled shoes were crossed on his desktop from the occupant of his desk chair. Short, blond hair was visible over a brief held in one hand.

  Surprised, Ian stopped for an instant before dropping into his client chair. “Brook Daniels!” he declared. “Did the U.S. Attorney’s Office heed my report on your legal skill and fire you?”

  Brook lowered the brief, groaning her disapproval. “Ian Wells, you have no credibility with the prosecutor’s office. In fact, if anybody at my office thought about you at all—which they don’t—it would be to ponder if you’re aspiring to be a hotshot criminal-defense lawyer or a pipe-smoking trusts-and-estates guy. Given that Katie said you’ll be representing Willy again, I suggest you stick to estate planning. But if I took a polygraph, I’d admit I’m really here to wish you a happy birthday.”

  Ian raised his eyebrows. “First, I don’t do estate work anymore—as a rule. Second, my birthday’s actually Friday. And third, I’m amazed you remembered.”

  “You bet I remembered,” Brook said. “I remember a lot of things—including stuff you probably wish you’d never told me. That scar on your elbow from the bike accident at Theodore Wirth Park. The crush you had on Sandy Kelso in high school. And that crazy dream you get every year around birthday time. Something about a rainy funeral with palm trees and a lot of strange characters.”

  Ian could hardly believe he’d actually told Brook about that—or the rest of it for that matter. Or that she’d remembered it all. “Yeah. My ‘ghost of birthdays past.’”

  She smiled. “Or a clear sign of encroaching mental illness. I’ve got enough on you to retire comfortably on the blackmail—if only you’d actually earn some money. Speaking of which, how’s the practice these days?”

  Ian shrugged to hide his discomfort at the question. “Not bad. I’ve taken on a few new clients lately. All felons. Coincidentally, all claim to have dated you, Brook.”

  “Ouch.” Brook grimaced, dropping her shoes to the floor. “Well, clearly you’re feeling better than you look. Most lawyers shave for the office, by the way.”

  Ian nodded, pleased with the deflection. “So, tell me how things are on the ragged edge at the U.S. Attorney’s Office since we had lunch last. What was it, a month ago?”

  Brook thought for a moment. “Six weeks. But busy, as usual. Our new chief prosecutor’s ambitious. Rumor has it he’s gunning to make a career mark by reopening a cold case based on evidence that surfaced late last week. He hasn’t involved me yet, but it’s only Monday, right? Anyway, enough about me. Let me take you out for dinner to celebrate your birthday. Six weeks is too long.”

  “Let’s do it,” he said. Then he asked casually, “How’s Zach?”

  The question hung in the air a long moment. “He’s fine,” she finally answered, surveying the room. “You sure didn’t change much when you took over your dad’s office, did you?”

  “I guess not, no.” Who was doing the deflecting now?

  She pointed at the large black combination safe in the corner near the window. “I was always impressed by that. Paperweight, or do you actually use it?”

  “Use it, a little. Dad used it more, to store his clients’ wills. I keep his remaining wills and a few of my own things in there now.”

  Brook’s eyes shifted to a blown-up photograph on the wall beside the office door. “I love that too. Glad you kept it up when you moved in.”

  Ian followed her gaze. The poster-sized photo showed Ian’s parents leaving a church dressed in their wedding clothes. His mother’s face shone. His father’s eyes were firm, though his lips bent upward in the nearest to a breakout smile Ian ever recalled in a photo. “The wall would look blank with anything else.”

  “Yeah,” Brook said. “Your mom looks so strong and independent. Even in that moment. Know what I mean?”

  Brook always saw to the heart of people, like his mom. “She is. Or was. She was only twenty-one when they married in 1987, but she’s always had a mind of her own. Mom told me at Dad’s funeral she came within an inch of keeping her maiden name when they married—Martha Brennan. Except it would have broken Dad’s heart.”

  Brook lingered on the photo a moment more before saying, “Well, since I have an actual job to get back to, let’s return to your birthday dinner. I’m buying. What day works?”

  “Thursday. J. D. Hoyt’s, six o’clock. But you don’t have to buy.”

  “Wow, aren’t we decisive today. J. D. Hoyt’s is fine. And I insist on buying.” Brook stood and came around his desk, pointing to the slim number of files stacked there. “You know, criminal-defense work can actually be profitable, if you take on clients who pay. Or I could swing a job offer at my office for a former classmate with some rumored skill in the courtroom.”

  “Thanks for the underwhelming compliment,” Ian said—then realized she was unexpectedly serious. “Thanks, Brook,” he added without the sarcasm. “But no. I’m doing okay.”

  She returned his look, then walked to the door, squeezing his shoulder as she passed. “See you Thursday, Hoyt’s at six. I’ll walk over from my office, and we can make our appearance together.”

  The door closed behind her.

  She still wore the same perfume. Light. Only detectable when she was very close. In law school he’d taken the time to learn its name, though he couldn’t recall it now.

  Why had Brook hesitated at his question about Zach?

  He shook his head. What did it matter? They were confirmed friends now. Anything more was a ship that sailed years ago.

  Rising, he took back his desk chair, still warm after Brook’s departure. After her comment about the files, he performed a quick, defensive inventory. His active ones, stacked in the left corner, compared poorly to the bills stacked in the right corner—including ones Katie had been hounding him for weeks to review and prioritize.

  Not the greatest balance. But he wouldn’t let it get him down with two potential new clients a phone call away.

  He picked up the note from Harry Christensen and punched in his number.

  “Talk Show here,” Harry answered the phone in his booming voice. “That you, Wells?”

  “It’s me,” Ian said. “How’s the radio show going?”

  “Surely you know,” the lawyer’s voice boomed again. “You listen every Saturday noon, right? Don’t tell me you’re the only lawyer or prospective client in the Twin Cities who misses my weekly gems of legal advice.”

  “Never miss it,” Ian lied dutifully.

  “Good. In that case, I’ve got a referral for you. Actually it’s representing a victim who wants her hand held through an assault case. Boyfriend problem.”

  Ian slid over a notepad and pen. “Ready,” he said.

  Harry described the client briefly, ending with “This wise young lady says she listens to my show every week. I told her if she was really that good of a listener, she’d have already known I take the third week of June off every year for a fishing trip—which happens to be the very week she needs the help. After that, she asked me about other criminal lawyers I’d recommend, and when I mentioned you—first on the list, of course—she said she’d go with that. So, you want it?”

  Ian knew Harry wasn’t kidding. He’d gone so far as to mention his name on the radio program more than once, something he was grateful for. “Sure. Give me the number.”

  He did so. “She left me a cash retainer,” the attorney added, “and asked if I’d get it to you. I’ll messenger it over.”

  Ian thanked Harry and hung up. Then he picked up Katie’s note and punched in the number for Sean Callahan.

  “Mr. Callahan?” Ian asked when the line connected.

  “Yeah,” replied a voice flirting with an Irish accent.

  “Mr. Callahan, this is Ian Wells. I’m the lawyer you called on Saturday with a family-trust question.”

  “
Uh-huh. It’s a critical matter.”

  There it was. Critical. “In the interest of full disclosure, Mr. Callahan, I limit my handling of complex trust matters. I have a partner, though, with more experience in that area. He’s retiring soon, but could probably still help you.”

  “I said critical, not complicated. And I’m not interested in your partner. Also, I want to speak in person. At my home. Tonight.”

  Ian’s shoulders stiffened at the tone. “Well, I don’t usually travel to a client’s home, unless you can’t travel. And I have a family dinner engagement tonight—”

  “Mr. Wells,” Callahan interrupted, “this is a very significant matter. You’ll find it’s extremely good pay for limited work. And time sensitive. I have a ten-thousand-dollar retainer prepared to hand you.”

  Ian went silent. Did he say ten thousand . . . ?

  His pride evaporated. “I can make it, but no earlier than nine.” He quickly calculated when his mother would need to retire to bed. “If that works, give me your address.”

  Seconds later, Ian hung up the phone.

  Ten thousand dollars. That was a big boost, and for estate work no less. He’d done little of that the past few years, even though wisdom—no, common sense—said he really should switch back to estate planning full time. Use the skills he’d been forced to learn right out of law school, winding down his dad’s practice after the heart attack. Steady, predictable work. Steady, predictable pay. More than his criminal-defense practice, that was for sure.

  He shook his head. Even the thought of doing trusts-and-estates work full time nearly resurrected his depression.

  There was a knock on the door. Willy opened it and peeked in, his eyes wide. “Counselor,” he said, “I got it all down here.”

  Moments later, he’d read Willy’s scribbled notes. It was a defensible charge, much like the ones Willy had brought to him before. No eyewitnesses. Two people claimed Willy admitted to the crime, but an alibi witness placed him near a playhouse in the Warehouse District, miles away.

  Ian glanced up at his client, who looked positively excited. Tears were nearly bursting out of him.