Fatal Trust

by Todd M Johnson

  When finished, the photographer’s eyes were scratchy and dry from concentration. He’d written down nine keystrokes in all, visible on his notepad in the dim light cast by the streetlight outside.

  7SeCrEts!, it read.

  He peered back at the legal assistant in the window, still busy at her desk. Secrets? What were they? When she first started at the law office, a young eighteen-year-old with no experience, had she carried a torch for her boss, Connor Wells, just out of law school and only seven years older? Or maybe for his partner, Dennis Hoy? Or something more unexpected? Maybe she’d spent the years at the law office skimming away a few dollars each Tuesday night when she did the books.

  Maybe all those notions were true.

  The thought that any of the possibilities might be true made Katie Grainger much more interesting to the photographer.

  He grabbed his phone from the windowsill to check the time. It was getting late. The custodian would be reaching this floor at around eleven, a little over an hour from now.

  For the next hour, the photographer carefully reviewed the digital frames two more times. All three reviews yielded the same conclusion.

  Another glance out the window told him she was finally packing up to leave. The photographer shifted the telephoto lens to focus on the adjacent window, the law office’s small library. Ian Wells was seated there, typing on his laptop. Whatever he was doing, the lawyer looked tired.

  Fifteen minutes later, the camera and lens were packed and the room carefully wiped down. Probably unnecessary, but smart. The photographer liked smart. He left the empty office, pulling the door tightly shut to hide the damage to its broken lock. The cellphone went into a nearby trash bin, one that would soon be emptied.

  The door to his elevator started to close at the same moment the adjoining elevator door opened. The wheels of a creaking cart were followed by a view of the custodian’s back—just as the photographer’s elevator fully closed and the car lurched its way toward the street level below.

  10

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 6

  EARLY MORNING

  A callused hand held tight to Ian’s fingers. He was being led down a path toward a house. He was hot and thirsty, unsettled and afraid. Wherever he was, he didn’t want to be there.

  Then the path was gone, replaced by salmon-colored tile beneath his feet and twin fans swirling from a ceiling overhead. His shoes clopped down a hallway into a bright room with a grand piano, the space filled with adults with glasses in their hands and more fans whirling overhead and open patio doors facing a swimming pool. The hand that still held him slid away, and he was alone.

  He passed through a door to stand beside the pool, where he knelt and leaned into the chlorine smell and the cool ripples of its surface. He wanted to swim but had no suit. He cupped the water in his hand, swirling it about like a whirlpool.

  “Who are you?” a gravelly voice called out. Ian didn’t like the voice, so he didn’t answer.

  “Who are you?” the voice asked again. This time Ian looked up at a face darkened by the bright sky behind it.

  “Ian Wells,” he answered.

  The face still obscured, the man put his fists on his hips.

  “Who are you with?” he commanded.

  Ian was too afraid now to answer. After a moment, the man shaded his eyes with a hand, scanned the pool area, and moved away from the poolside.

  Ian stayed, frozen in place, watching the man’s retreat with fear pinching at his stomach.

  ———

  “Wake up. WAKE UP!”

  Ian raised an annoyed eyelid. Katie was staring down at him, a hand on his shoulder. “Wake up, Ian,” she said again.

  “I’m awake,” he muttered thickly, leaning back in a chair pressed close to the office library table. A stack of files he’d worked on the night before still sat on its surface. His laptop was open at his elbow. His mouth was dry, his jaw stiff. “I got everything on my calendar cleared for the new case around three. What time is it anyway?”

  “Eight-fifteen in the morning, hon,” Katie replied. “But there’s a problem.” She stabbed one of the folders on the table with a finger. Ian looked at it groggily. It was the new file they’d opened for Willy Dryer.

  “Wet Willy,” she hurried on. “They’re trying to pull his bail. They took him into custody last night. I just got the call.”

  Not today. Not Willy. He had to get on the trust case—the one that actually paid. A memory of the meeting with Dennis slipped back into his consciousness.

  “How do we know that?” Ian grumbled.

  “Judge Miller’s clerk was in my Pilates class last winter, and when she saw you hadn’t checked in for the hearing, she gave me a call.”

  “Checked in? When’s the hearing?”

  “This morning. Like in fifteen minutes. Apparently, Willy only told them you were his counsel this morning.”

  A painful adrenaline rush hit him as Ian came more awake. Why would Willy wait until this morning? Since when was Willy shy about disturbing his attorney?

  “Is it a cattle call?”

  “Yep,” Katie said. “Starting at eight-thirty. Ten different motions lined up to be heard before eleven.”

  “Call the court and say I’ve been delayed. See if they’ll move us to the back of the line. Tell them I’ll be ten minutes late.”

  “Favors aren’t Judge Miller’s style, hon, you know that. But I’ll see what I can do. I’ll grab your coat.”

  Katie rushed toward the front desk like a practiced firefighter. Ian shook his head hard, driving the last shredded images of the dream away. He stumbled to the restroom to splash cold water on his face. He cupped his hands to blink more moisture into his eyes.

  As he rubbed dry with a paper towel, Ian saw the lines and dark rings in the mirror looking back. He felt—and looked—like he’d hardly slept. Vague impressions of his sleeping visions came back: a pool and an angry man mostly. And an obscure sense that last night’s dream was somehow related to his birthday one.

  A pang of guilt surfaced. He hadn’t gone home last night. Which meant he hadn’t checked in on his mom since late Monday. And tonight he had the meeting with Rory Doyle that the new client had arranged.

  Ian shook his head as he trotted to his office to grab a pen and pad of paper. There on the desktop was the James Doyle Trust document, just as he’d left it the night before. Out in the open where Katie could see it.

  He gathered it up and knelt before the corner safe, rapidly spinning in the combination for the lock.

  He’d just stood up again when Katie rushed through the door, his briefcase in one hand and suit coat from the library in the other.

  “The clerk said she’d try to put you lower on the list. I told her you had a flat tire this morning. We really owe her.”

  Ian nodded. “Take her to lunch on the firm credit card. What kind of flat?”

  “A nail.”

  Ian grabbed his briefcase. “Listen, Katie. I obviously didn’t get back home last night like I’d planned, and I’m going to be late again tonight. Any way you could break away early and stop by my mom’s? Make sure she’s okay?”

  “Of course. Now get over there and kick some poor prosecutor around the courtroom.”

  He rushed out the office door.

  8:43 A.M.

  HENNEPIN COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS

  Ian opened the door and slipped quietly into a full courtroom, trying not to attract attention.

  “That may be true, Your Honor,” a voice intoned from counsel table, “but it shouldn’t make any difference under the law of the case.”

  Ian slid onto the closest bench before looking up.

  Glaring down at a fresh-faced lawyer, the judge clutched a pen in her teeth. She took it out. “Shouldn’t matter? That’s the best you’ve got?”

  The young lawyer grew stiff. “I mean, because of your prior rulings, which meant that—”

  “Now you’re going to tell me you u
nderstand what my prior rulings meant—better than I do?”

  “No, Your Honor. I mean, yes, Your Honor. Only that . . .”

  Judge Miller held up both hands. “Don’t bother, Counselor. We’re done. I’ll take it under advisement. Next.”

  Judge Miller set the file aside. Her clerk was already pulling the next matter up on her computer screen. The young lawyer, still staring blankly at the judge, was already forgotten.

  “Call the next case.” Judge Miller waved at her clerk.

  “Stranton v. Pierson Electric,” the clerk called out instantly.

  “No, no, no. Dryer. Willy Dryer. I just saw his lawyer, our esteemed Mr. Wells, sneak into the courtroom. I don’t know how his case fell down the ladder,” the judge added with a wayward glance at her calendar clerk. “I thought I had him earlier. But he’s here now. Have the bailiff bring in his client.”

  Ian rose, feeling the stares of a roomful of attorneys jealously waiting their turn. He passed through the wooden gates of the bar, brushing by the slaughtered lamb retreating from the bench, and took a chair—with a quick glance to the other counsel table to his left.

  The prosecutor at the adjacent table was Samuel Marston. Lanky, dour-faced, and older than Ian by twenty years, Marston had been the unsuccessful prosecuting attorney on both of Willy’s past charges. He was proud and arrogant. Ian suspected that, twice stung, he’d asked for Willy’s case this time.

  A side door swung open, and the uniformed bailiff emerged leading Willy, who was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs.

  “I heard a rumor you had car trouble, Mr. Wells,” the judge said as the bailiff brought Dryer to Ian’s side and removed the cuffs.

  He got a lucky draw with this one, Ian thought as he rose to respond. Judge Miller had always liked him. Probably because he’d tried half a dozen cases before her and never made the mistake of coming unprepared. Though Ian also knew that, like him or not, she wouldn’t hesitate to boil him in oil if he messed up. Mostly he’d learned that a judge’s affection got you a respectful voice and patience when you had “car trouble”—and little more.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Ian answered as the bailiff seated Willy beside him. “It started with a nail—”

  Judge Miller held up a hand. “Got it. Mr. Marston, I understand you want to withdraw Mr. Dryer’s bail. Tell us why.”

  The prosecutor’s eyes turned to Ian, broadcasting complete disbelief in the flat-tire story. “Because, Your Honor, we received a tip that Mr. Dryer was planning a trip to California in violation of the terms of his bail. I have a statement here, if I may approach.”

  The judge nodded. Marston walked the paper up to the judge, dropping a copy on Ian’s table as he returned.

  Refusing to be annoyed by the prosecutor’s swagger, Ian quickly skimmed the statement.

  “So what say you, Mr. Wells?” the judge called out.

  “Well, Your Honor,” Ian began slowly, “as I read it, this statement claims to be from someone who is in Mr. Dryer’s acting company. Doesn’t say whether they’re a friend or an enemy or give any foundation for why they should be believed.”

  Ian felt a tug on his coat. Willy had scribbled a note on a pad on the table. Ask me about California and the guy who did the statement, it read.

  Never ask a question to which you don’t know the answer: Trial 101. And Ian had no clue what Willy was about to say.

  But Willy was nodding his head in strong encouragement. Well, it was his trip back to jail if he got it wrong.

  “Could I inquire of my client, Judge?” Ian asked. “Maybe we can clear this up.”

  “Swear him in,” the judge said to her clerk.

  Catching Willy’s gaze as he finished the oath, Ian shook his head slightly and touched his eye as though scratching an itch, mouthing the words Don’t cry. Willy nodded.

  Ian launched his exam. “You’re part of an acting group, Mr. Dryer?”

  “Yep,” Willy said with pride. “My first one.”

  “We’re not talking the Guthrie here, are we, Mr. Dryer?”

  Willy grinned. “No, sir. Not ready for the big lights yet. It’s Pandora’s Playhouse in northeast. It’s a new playhouse for guys . . . people just starting out. And for folks who’re getting past trouble in their lives. Doesn’t pay much, but it’s a start.”

  “What’s the name of your play?”

  “Macbeth.”

  “Who do you play?”

  “Macbeth.”

  Ian paused—surprised Willy could handle such a demanding role, but mostly hoping Willy knew what he was doing as they got to the key questions.

  “Do you know anybody in California, Mr. Dryer?”

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  “This statement says you told this witness you were going to drive to California. Were you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “I do, but it wouldn’t make it to the Dakotas, let alone California.”

  Ian lifted the statement and read it again. “And do you know the person who gave this statement . . . Mr. Kyle Potts?”

  Dryer nodded. “I surely do.”

  “He’s in your acting troupe?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The guy who didn’t get Macbeth.”

  Snickers went through the gallery crowd. The judge smiled, but then raised a hand to bring the laughter to a halt.

  Ian continued with more confidence. “When’s the play open?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “If you’re put back in jail, who would take over your role as Macbeth?”

  “My understudy.”

  “Mr. Potts?”

  Willy grinned again. “Yes, sir. Mr. Potts.”

  Ian dropped the paper on the table and looked to the bench. “Judge, this statement, with no foundation or corroborating evidence, isn’t enough to put Mr. Dryer back in jail. The fact is, Mr. Dryer has never been convicted of a crime in his life”—the prosecutor began to rise, so Ian accelerated his argument—“despite Mr. Marston’s best efforts in two trials I had the pleasure to attend.” Marston stood impatiently, leaning over his table. “And we all know we don’t keep people in jail awaiting trial on charges like those against Mr. Dryer without a record.” Marston raised his hand to get the judge’s attention. “Although I’m sure Mr. Marston will argue that three burglary charges is enough smoke to fear Mr. Dryer is a flight risk, I’d respond that if a talented prosecutor can’t convict Mr. Dryer twice in a row, that’s got to mean he really is an innocent man.”

  Ian sat down as Judge Miller shook her head and smiled.

  “Your Honor,” Marston began immediately.

  The judge raised an index finger. “Unless you’re planning on disagreeing with Mr. Wells’s assessment of your skills as a prosecutor, Mr. Marston, I think we’re done here. Bailiff, take Mr. Dryer down and process him out.”

  Ian knew Judge Miller better than to show his joy at the victory as he left the courtroom, followed by Marston. Once in the hall, the prosecutor caught Ian’s gaze with narrow, frosty eyes.

  “Don’t expect a repeat of the last two trials,” he muttered.

  Ian looked him over. “Why? You have proof this time you’d like to share?”

  Marston glared back. “Three burglary charges in five years and no convictions isn’t a record that’s going to stand on my watch.”

  “Unless he’s got an identical twin, there’s a reason you didn’t convict,” Ian shot back. “Willy had solid alibis both cases.”

  “Yeah, alibis that only ‘appeared’ at the last minute,” the prosecutor snapped. “How convenient.” Without waiting for a reply, he made his way in a near stomp down the hall.

  Marston was the worst, Ian thought, watching him go. Not a sore loser. A self-righteous one.

  Ian caught the elevator to the second floor and took a seat by the courthouse’s indoor fountain. The area was crowded with a mix of suited lawyers, county employees in white shirts
with badges hanging from their necks, and worried clients.

  Willy had done better than he would have expected. Ian considered waiting for him to be released, but decided against it. He had to get launched on the trust work and had already lost half a morning to his “special client.” He had a good idea on how to get started with the trust investigation.

  He thought for a moment more before pulling his phone out of his briefcase and calling Katie.

  “How’d it go?” she answered. He gave her a quick description, ending with the confrontation with Marston.

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” she laughed.

  “Yeah, well, it was mostly Willy’s doing. Listen, since I’m halfway there, I’m going over to the federal courthouse to see Brook. Talk about the trust. In the meantime, start criminal background checks on a Rory Doyle, Edward McMartin, and Sean Callahan. I left McMartin’s and Callahan’s tax returns on my desk so you can get their socials and full names. I’ll get you what you need on Rory Doyle tonight.”

  “Okay,” Katie said. “What level?”

  “National. No, Interpol too. Don’t worry about the cost.”

  “Okay,” Katie said again, sounding surprised. “And I won’t expect you until after lunch. By the way, where is the trust? I wanted to put it in the new file I set up.”

  “I’ll get it to you when I get back,” Ian said, wondering how long he could delay Katie from seeing it.

  Silence followed. “Alright,” Katie finally said. “But I thought I’d leave early this afternoon and head over to check on your mom like you asked.”

  U.S. ATTORNEY’S OFFICE,

  FEDERAL COURTHOUSE

  DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS

  The federal courthouse was just a two-block walk from the Hennepin County Courthouse. Brook’s office was located on the fourth floor. Ian made his way to the reception desk, where he was waved through.